The sky is illuminated by the sun peeking out from the horizon of skyscrapers at his back, having cleared the buildings and reducing his pace to a steady walk, Don is concentrating on not letting his feet drag and trip on the uneven concrete road. It's funny, considering all the rules that don't really apply anymore, that he decided to take the highway quite religiously. It's not like he has no sense of direction, he knows exactly where to go, but there's something about the pavement that grounds him.
The initial shock of finding Dogmeat in a worrisome state fueled him for as long as it could. He'd broken into a sprint that slowed into a jog somewhere between Diamond City and Park Street. He didn't so much as glance in the direction of the City, too focused on staying on the move, his subconscious drilling an old lesson back into his head that he learned from his time as a rookie in what everyone called 'Camp War'.
A man in motion stays in motion, a man at rest stays at rest.
Newton's first law, a little revised of course.
Don knows that if he were to stop, he could stop for a good long while, sink into a good ole' fashioned crash, but if he kept moving, he'd get where he needed to go, without a doubt.
Slowly, steadily, and... eventually.
Yes, he's impaired, he's well aware of that funnily enough, but nevertheless he has a job to do and no time to spare. Getting to Sanctuary was already on his list of To-Do's before Dogmeat showed up, the pooch only put some fire under his ass. Thankfully he slowed down to match Don's pace, as he's nowhere near his peek fitness days anymore, nor is he in any state to expect that of himself.
Turns out, Dogmeat is a pretty smart little pup. Instead of leading him through the main roads, fast and direct, like Don expected, he winded through the narrow passages and alleyways much like Don's first go around. Though, his shortcut wasn't exactly designed for 'people sized' adventure, so Don found himself having to squeeze past barriers and at one point slide on his belly under a low wood fence. So he's covered in dried blood and viscera and now pretty much everything else.
With the dangers of the city out of the way, the open road would not doubt prove to have its own set, but thankfully he could only expect animals and pests this far out of the city, which were a lot more predictable than half crazy people and their half melted familiars.
The road ahead is overgrown with the sharp leaves of ferns, moss and tiny saplings growing from between the cracks in the pavement, lifted and destroyed by an army of tree roots peering out like black slimy tentacles, as if waiting to lash out and whip the air. Don steers clear just in case, deciding not to step on anything unfamiliar. A handful of times he loses the road to the angle of the sun and shadows of the trees, the overgrowth spilling through like a broken dam, and the discolouration made it practically vanish at points. He eventually finds his way back onto the half buried concrete path by keeping an eye on the position of the sun and mapping the distance he travels.
Don can feel his body growing more weary with each passing hour, his reserves are coming up dry, his back-up stores of energy already used during his first trip to Diamond City, his trip to Park Street, and trying to recover from his near fatal beat down at the hands of a bear turned pre-war mob boss. Admittedly, it was a much better idea when it was cool and humid in the shade of downtown, when he wasn't hungry and in pain, when his body didn't ache from his toes to his top-knot. He finds himself reeling with irritation and resentment at the thought of having to deal with Corvega before he could give himself time to properly recover.
No yet, he assures himself in a half-joking tone, we'll burn that bridge when we get to it old girl.
It's about noon-o'clock when Don reaches Concord, sticking to the outskirts under the cover of the brush just in case it became occupied in the last day or so, can never be too careful, especially given that he hasn't run into any trouble as of yet. Maybe it's too early for anything to be out, maybe they all wait for the cover of night like him, and maybe it's too hot to skulk around looking for unsuspecting victims. It's quiet, and with a light breeze coming in from the town center, it also smells awful. He recalls for a moment the carnage of what feels like days ago but was probably only yesterday, having to fight his way through the museum with vigor he wishes he had once more, meeting Preston and his group, riding in a half-broken suit of T-45 Power Armor, and of course taking down a Deathclaw with a mini-gun as it chased him into the building and was halfway up onto the third floor balcony before it finally died.
Good times.
Probably the last time he'll ever set foot in Concord though, given that the only janitorial service is the local wildlife come to feast on the remains of raiders. It gives him more than a few reasons to avoid the main drag.
Not long after Don clears the town's outskirts, he's winding up the road at an incline and spots the Red Rocket gas station. Finally, after countless hours of self deliberation on the way, he decides to stop on the border of the old asphalt, next to a tall overgrown bush strangling the life out of old rusty railing that indicated the driving lane.
Dogmeat sits at his side looking up at his chosen companion expectantly, no longer intent on leading him forward but now instead loyally following. Perhaps he senses something in him that he recognizes from the world he lives in, but for the moment, Don doesn't do much than breathe.
It feels like he's standing on the precipice of battle, blind, unaware of the dangers, but familiar, nostalgic. It's something he wasn't expecting to become friendly with once again, not really, but like many of those hard earned instincts, perhaps even genetically ingrained from his long since past ancestors, they're sitting cozy in the back of his mind, waiting for their use once more, waiting to come back out like blinders and tunnel vision. He'd felt it in Concord, he'd felt it in Diamond City, in the Commons, in Park Street, and in Vault 114.
The impending sense of near death, of survival, of fighting, of killing, of shutting himself off to focus on one thing, it came to him again, after all those months of recovery. It never left; it never shut off, it settled like a sickness in his body, like cancer. Don's knees buckle, his hand grips the sharp vines and hot metal of the railing as he leans over and heaves into the brush, emptying his stomach of nothing more than stomach acid.
When Don can find the strength, his throat burning, his nose and eyes running, he doesn't think much about rubbing his arm over his face to clear the fluids, and leaves a pretty heavy smear of dirt behind that rains flakes across his chest. He knows full well that approaching Sanctuary from the bridge is suicide, more suicidal than taking it on by himself, anyhow, so after a moment of self-deliberation, he opts to go around.
For the moment, however, he sits on his feet, panting, bracing himself on his thighs and thinking how nice it would be to stop for a few more minutes, to close his eyes and rest, he wants nothing more in that moment than to just relax. When his eyes flutter shut, that's when Dogmeat nudges at him, pawing and raking his claws down the side of Don's arm and he winces back with a hiss.
A man in motion, he reminds himself through the sharp sting, focusing on that for as long as it takes to convince himself, keep moving.
The trees give him the cover he needs to get around to the south and cross the end of the lake to approach from the north-east, in the process, it gives him a perfectly reasonable and convenient excuse to soak himself to his midsection, cooling his body and shocking a small burst of energy that reawakens most of his senses. He decides not to think about the possible effects of the radiation present in the water, even as he hears to ominous crackling of his Pip-Boy the moment it skims the surface.
Once on the bank, slipping his boots in the mud and coating his hands and knees in the thick, slimy, substance, he creeps up the steep grassy incline, through the trees and towards the back of one of the demolished Sanctuary homes. Pressing his back to the concrete foundation rusted and off-colour from its previously white and pristine appearance, he waits until he hears the light patter of approaching footprints in the light coating of fallen leaves. Dogmeat appears from around the corner of a grouping of overgrown hedges and joins Don at his side. The pooch had decided to chart his own course, hopefully he did so covertly.
Around the hedges on the east end, the two make a break for the cover of a wall from one of the few homes still somewhat intact, Don doesn't exactly recall, in that moment, who had lived here during his stay in Sanctuary. It was an elderly couple that much he knew for certain, but like many of the old residents, he didn't know them well.
Don listens for any sign of activity, any distant voices, but all he can hear is the breeze howling through the old houses, leaves scattering across the broken pavement, birds singing in the trees surrounding them, the lake gently lapping against the bank and the sound of it breaking off into a neatly flowing river that surrounded the south and west end of the island.
Keeping low, he creeps forward and peeks into the holes of the wall at his side, checking for any camp sites, bedding, food scraps, movement of any kind, but see's nothing of interest, which is odd considering this place was on the verge of a massive clean-up and settlement moments before he left yesterday. He decides to do the same recon with the house across the way, near the end of the Cul-De-Sac, and once more it's empty and void of life. Just as he moves to do the next, the house he recalls being the creaky remains of Carolyn's home, he spots a shape on the road just a few feet from the sidewalk on the other side.
Instinctively, he reaches out and presses a hand against Dogmeat's soft collar as the pooch lets out a soft whimper.
Considering his findings thus far, Don considers the possibility that the worst may have happened. Not just because it's quiet, but because of the clues marked in every square inch of this place, the potential for a thriving community left abandoned and void, as if no one had ever come along before Preston and his group. It's too good to be true, and that's exactly where Don had made his first mistake.
Keeping his head down, he crosses the road to approach the shape, his path shaded by the tall branches of a nearby oak tree, and the smell hits him almost immediately, exacerbated by the hot sun, and thoroughly enjoyed by small black insects like bloated fruit flies amassing towards a mess of pooling brown gore seeping out onto the pavement from a large gaping exit wound on the side of the body's skull. Long black hair tangles in thick tendrils like ink, dry and crusted on the outside, but still moist and noxious near the core of the injury.
Marcy Long lays face down in the road, body twisted and limbs bent awkwardly in her final moments, her skull buckled and half-missing, relocated, he assumes, to the thick matted collar of Dogmeat's fur. Her body is otherwise untouched in comparison and Don feels himself sombre with the question in his mind as to why. It's nothing more than a kill, a clean, simple kill, causal, and meaningless.
Like hunting for sport, without the dignity of disposing of the body, just leaving it out to...
...decompose in the sun.
Suddenly, Don feels a wet nose thrust into the crook of his arm as it braces on his knee. It startles him, he blinks back from somewhere else, some familiar but uncharted territory, and he reaches up to rub Dogmeat's snout and give him a light scratch as the pooch whimpers with something like sympathy, or sorrow.
"Sorry, pal," Don sighs.
Dogmeat pulls his head back, gives it a light shake, and then gently tugs at the sleeve of his suit.
"What?" He inquires.
Dogmeat gives him a light and thankfully stealthy boof as a response, and then turns to trot in the direction of the yellow house at the peak of the hill, the one he and Carolyn had stayed in their first night on the surface. Don, after looking around instinctually to make sure the coast is clear, follows after him.
Once inside, he notices that the small campsite he'd made up previously is gone, and there looks to be some residual signs of clean up. An old wingback chair is in the corner, the rest of the furniture is upright, and some candles had been burned possibly last night.
Dogmeat doesn't wait for him to follow and makes a beeline for the hall and disappears into one of the rooms. Don takes his time, walking slowly to note each of the standard signs of life. In what would be the dining area, the table is sitting against the wall and some old bedding is lying underneath, enough room for two probably. Both couches are bare, but indented, one topped with a folded shirt as a makeshift pillow, the other, a jacket. This must be where they had all slept last night, or, attempted to. The small fire pit made of rocks and clay tiles he'd put together is still sitting in the space between the front door and the archway to the kitchen, looking a little more used than the last time he saw it, there's even a small kettle sitting on one of the rocks, blackened from the fire.
Don walks down the hall, glancing into the bathroom to see a few articles of clothing and a bin half-filled with muddy water, before turning to look inside the room where Dogmeat had disappeared, he freezes at the precipice of the doorway, feeling his blood run suddenly cold, though his damp Vault-suit had already been sucking the heat from him the second he stepped out of direct sunlight.
The room, possibly once a bedroom, is far from empty.
On the other side of an upturned dresser, three bodies sit upright against the two furthest walls, their hands cocked awkwardly above their heads, attached to some exposed piping in the skeleton of the wall by rope, one by a pair of handcuffs.
Preston, Sturges, and Jun Long all sit motionless and in direct line with the afternoon sun, showcasing their various stages of grievance, bruises, and hastily wrapped injuries. Dogmeat sits in the middle of the crowd, looking up at Don expectantly, wagging his tail, and then leans over to lap gently at Sturges' filthy face.
The mechanic rouses almost immediately, jerking his head to the side, rolling his shoulders and shooing the pooch away with his elbow the best he can considering the limitations, he's the only one in handcuffs, and from the sore and bloody look of his one bare wrist, it looks like he's been like this a while.
"Alright... git on now," He slurs, shifting his body and visibly wincing, before he blinks into the sun and glances over in Don's direction, all at once his body seizes and he flinches back against the wall with a hard jerk, "Jesus H-!"
His sharp and startled yelp is immediately cut off by Don practically leaping towards him in a bout of panic, hands outstretched, clasping a hand over his mouth desperately, "Hey! Shhhh! It's me!"
When Sturges stops struggling and actually takes a good look at him, recollection and recognition suddenly floods over his face like a deep sigh of relief. Don pulls his hand away a little more assured that he isn't going to start screaming his head off.
"Goddamn," He huffs good-humouredly, "Scared the hell out of me..."
"Yeah, sorry about that," Dons heart is pounding and his hands are shaky as he leans up to test the strength of his confines, the piping is still pretty solid, more than likely welded into the framework of the houses foundation, the handcuffs, however, look like they wouldn't survive a well placed smack with his crowbar, good news on that front, but...
Who the hell did this...?
"Sooo..." Don leans back, "This is what happens when the General leaves the kids alone for a few days, huh?"
Sturges smirks lightly at that, "Maybe you haven't noticed, but a decent string of bad luck seems to have followed this particular little group of ours straight from Quincy."
"Yeahhh, that's probably why Preston was selling the leadership role at a discount."
When the mechanic chuckles, it's stopped short by a grimace and a wince of pain, he bends his right leg up to shift himself on his hind, and that's when Don notices the bullet wound. It's sitting just above his left knee, untreated, and still bleeding, leaving a three inch puddle on the floor beside him.
Sturges blinks slowly, appearing pretty ashen behind that tan of his, "I don't suppose this means you're here to rescue us?"
Don reaches up and grabs his face, opening his half lidded eyes to see the dramatic redness in them, and then checks his pulse to find it rapid and uneven, "Well I'd certainly like to, but first I need intel if you don't mind, how many am I dealing with here?"
"Jus' one," Sturges frowns, not seeming to mind the semi-invasive inspection of his condition, "One mean bugger, that's for damn sure... dropped in out of nowhere and took us one by one when it got dark. I didn't hear nothin' until he was on me."
"Did you see anything?"
"Yeah, I saw enough alright... I saw Marcy makin' a run for it. She was bleedin' from the head. We hadn't seen her, y'know, after you'd left. Jun figured she'd gone off to cool down. The pooch of yours was at her side, biting her shirt to pull her off the road, she smacked him on the nose, to shoo him away... Then that bastard came right out of one of them houses like a goddamn phantom and shot her right off her feet, didn't even hesitate."
Don nods thoughtfully, trying to keep himself level, but he can't help the outrage from boiling in his gut. He watches as Sturges sighs heavily, and turns his head to face the other two at his side. Jun is curled against the wall in the furthest corner, shoulders limp, appearing almost lifeless aside from his hands twitching every few seconds. The scrawny man looks relatively unhurt, physically, at least. Preston, on the other hand...
"Preston was out first," Sturges says with a voice considerably gentler, "Probably a concussion... haven't been able to get a straight answer out of 'im since he woke up... same with Jun, but, hell, he watched Marcy go down, didn't put up a fight after that, just kind of... shut down."
Don steps over him to kneel in front of the minuteman, he's without most of his uniform, wearing dark pants and an off-white t-shirt, there's a trail of blood running down the side of his face and soaking into the collar, coming from a pretty nasty hit to his temple. With his head against the wall, Sturges stares at Preston with an unreadable expression as Don continues checking him for injuries. He isn't awake, and doesn't seem at all roused by movement.
"What about Mama Murphy?" Don asks.
Sturges shakes his head, "Gone, far as I know. I haven't seen her, heard her, anything... I figured he either shot her down too, or, locked her up somewhere else. I tried to get out and... maybe find some help close by, but that scumbag shot me for even tryin' and lemme tell ya, he didn't even do the basic goddamn courtesy of patching me up afterward. I don't think he hit anything vital but... I'm feelin' awful dizzy, Gen'ral."
Don realizes he's tense, holding his fingers to Preston's faint pulse, staring at the wound on his head, pulled back into memories he doesn't want to relive, hearing the sounds that stopped him from sleeping, seeing images that he had nightmares about, feeling the nausea in his gut, the sensation of despondency sitting wrong in his chest.
"So," He exhales, "Where is this lucky son of a bitch?"
Sturges blinks at him for a moment, a little startled by his tone, "Well... he hasn't been around since before dawn, took off at some point last night. Figured he didn't keep us alive for nothin' though, he'll probably be back."
Don closes his eyes for a moment, takes a breath, and then steps back from Preston, "On a scale of one to ten, how coherent are you right now?"
"I'd say, given the situation, I'm sittin' at about a six or seven..."
"Okay good, because I need you to hear me and listen very closely," Don speaks pointedly.
For a moment, Sturges just stares up at him hesitantly, "Okay...?"
"I was never here, alright?"
His brow then furrows, "I don't follow."
"He can't know that anyone was here," Don explains, "He needs to believe he's still in charge of this situation, his guard needs to be down. He needs to be confident that no one knows you're all alive, or that anyone is coming to rescue you."
Sturges' face opens up into a surprised kind of understanding as Don speaks, and he nods along with him.
"You're helpless," Don states.
Sturges shakes his head, "Totally helpless."
"You're hopelss."
"God help us."
"And you've completely given up," Don gives a thumbs-up, "Easy-peasy."
"Alright, I'm pickin' up what you're puttin' down," Sturges agrees, "And I'm hopin' you don't take off for good the second your gone."
Don pats his shoulder, "Good man."
Dogmeat, sitting between Preston and Sturges looks at Don with concern, his ears back in uncertainty as he watches him leave the three settlers behind. The pooch wants to follow but hesitates, instead looking out of the window as the vault dweller crosses the road in an alert crouch and disappears behind a grouping of high unkempt shrubbery next to a collapsed house.
After a moment, he settles down onto his front paws, and rests his head atop Preston's calf as it lays extended before him. The minuteman is still unresponsive, and Sturges sighs heavily as he turns to look at the dog sympathetically.
"You're a damn good puppy, you know that?"
The sudden wagging of his tail is a strong affirmation.
Through the overgrown wooded area surrounding Sanctuary, Don glides silently down the slope towards the narrow river, his movements are quick and agile as not to excessively disturb the brush and create noise. At the bank of the brook, he gently lowers himself down the two foot drop into the water, submerging to the knees, already damp from crossing the lake. On the opposite end, he glances up to the sky, checks the position of the sun, glances at the time on his Pip-Boy, and then heads neatly North-West.
Ten minutes later, he breaks the tree-line and walks out into a small clearing buried in fallen leaves; he recalls the diameter being quite a bit wider the last time he was here, but that was, of course, two centuries ago. Thankfully, what he's looking for is close to the very center, and the entrance should be...
Don turns to his right and approaches the East end of the clearing, walking slow as he approaches, his footfalls landing purposefully heavier until it suddenly echoes with a dull thud. He stops, tests the sound a few times more, and then kneels on the ground.
His hands dig deep into the layers of leaves, his fingers pressing into mulch and dirt until they push hard against a solid wooden frame. Feeling his way around, Don finds the edge, digs a little deeper, and grips it hard with an uneasy exhale. The moment of truth, so it would seem.
The hatch doesn't come up easy, the two inches of soil sitting on top is heavy and it's sealed up by roots and grass that cling and rip with a sound similar to a tearing canvas sheet. After a moment, it's free and opens a full ninety degrees before a small rusty chain is pulled taunt. Don stares down into what is revealed, a three by three foot hole, square, deep, and pitch black.
Holding the door above his head as he lowers himself in, his foot catches on the rung of a metal ladder and he begins to descend, allowing the hatch to close and encapsulate him in total darkness. He relies on his senses and muscle memory to reach the bottom, and once his feet hit the ground he activates the light on his Pip-Boy.
A cavern is revealed before him in Vault-Tec's trademark green; familiar and thankfully unchanged by the passage of time save for a few new tree roots growing in from the firm clay walls. At the end is a metal wall, only ten foot in height and smooth aside from the indentation of a door, and featureless except for a singular keypad. He approaches hastily and immediately presses the center key which activates the keypad light and unlocks the door.
The generator is still working, Don notes hopefully.
The door opens outwards to reveal a small closet-like room with another door at the end. The floor transitions into tile and a large drain sits slightly concave in the center of it. On either side of him are two pieces of an archway that is supposed to act as a decontamination shower if the need arose, but in this particular instance, Don decides to opt out.
On the next door is a similar keypad, but instead of only a singular button, it has the full number span. From memory, he types in the twelve digit combination, and then waits with baited breath for it to go through. After a second or two, the keypad blinks green in confirmation and a small audible click can be heard from inside the door itself, loosening the lock from its airtight seal, and Don presses a hand to the door as it slowly opens inwards.
A blast of warm air hits him, a relief from the distinct chill of the cavern and an assurance that it's still fully functional. The smell is something inviting, familiar, and for a moment he's transported back to the front door of his home two-hundred-some years ago. As the fluorescent lights begin to blink overhead to light the path in front of him, Don turns the Pip-Boy light back off and steps foot into his bunker.
After a short trek through a three foot hallway, the path before him opens up into a hundred and fifty square foot room; he comes to a stop at the precipice as he gazes into the familiar setup, a warm trickling sensation spilling across his chest as he smiles. In front of him, against the left wall, is a kitchenette with the essentials, stovetop, oven, double sink, fridge, a table with chairs that sits between it and the cozy living area on the right. On the furthest wall are two closed doors, the left of which leads into a small maintenance room for the air purifier, heater, AC, water purifier and tanks, the other leads into the small nuclear family bunk room. Don stands in the middle of it all as filthy and haggard as a dog caught in a storm, his feet leaving tracks on the floor, mud flaking as he shifts and moves his arms. Suddenly he's standing amongst pristine relics of Pre-War, and all he can focus on is the accents not of his own preparation, but of his wife's. The room practically glows with her presence.
Nora insisted, oh did she ever, that this little piece of insurance be like a slice of home in and of itself.
Area rugs, she'd said, you want to spend the mandatory shelter period in a little metal box with nothing but your guns and your pre-packaged military food, that's just fine, but I want rugs, two at least, one in the living room and one in the bunk room.
Not only did she keep going after that, but she continued like the apocalypse where the next day and they needed to move in as soon as possible, adding in the colourful accents of red and gold in the rugs, but also couch cushions, throw blankets, pictures on the walls, mirrors to 'open the space' and a bunch of other stuff he hadn't really thought about to include but had certainly added personality and atmosphere.
We might never see this place again, He'd told her, once we finish and I lock it up, it'll probably sit like this forever.
I know you're invested in this doomsday theory, or else you wouldn't have bothered with the loan, or the secrecy or lying to our friends faces about why we moved, she had countered, besides, even if nothing happens and we never do see it, our kids and grandkids might.
Kids... Don hadn't responded aloud, but instead relented, stood aside, and let her have her way, Kids and Grandkids, huh?
To be honest, Don wasn't totally sure he'd see it again, it was only a year or so before construction on the Vault started that he locked it up, they hardly ever spoke about it after that, especially not to anyone they knew. It bled out of their minds when Don went on his next tour and Nora had the mundane everyday on her personal forecast. It wasn't until after the Anchorage War had finally ended and Don was able to go home permanently in the first week of February that the topic was breached again, because despite Alaska being liberated, tensions were still climbing, and the news piled more and more grim reminders in between soda commercials.
Nora had dropped the paper next to his coffee that morning, showing him an Ad for Vault 111 as it sat rolled up along with some coupons under the elastic band. He knew that it had started being built not long after he was on his tour. He didn't have to tell her not to worry, because she was smart, damned smart, she knew they started these Vaults for a reason, and to have it finished not a month after Anchorage?
The look in her eyes spoke volumes.
Vault 111 wasn't meant to be permanent, it was going to shield them from the blast wave, save them from the radiation, and keep them cozy until it was time to head topside once more. After that, Don knew a contingency was in order, and that's where the bunker came in. So they'd sign up to avoid suspicion, live long enough to figure out what kind of world would be left behind, and then they would survive, just like they've always had.
Don feels his throat begin to close with the winding sorrow; quickly he turns from the memory like avoiding the eyes of a stranger, and walks towards the south wall where another metal door sits closed. The keypad is smaller, and requires a code of only four digits before it swoops open and reveals a small but tightly packed armoury.
Once he hit topside for the first time, he had considered heading straight here with Carolyn at his side, but he wanted to determine what they were up against, evaluate his options, not wanting to risk his contingency if the environment had become perfectly safe and habitable while they were on ice.
If he'd known, he wouldn't have hesitated, he would've been prepared for the raiders, she wouldn't have been taken, and this would have all been avoided...
But now isn't the time for regrets, as much as he'd like to wallow in quite a few, because he still has this one chance to use his arsenal for the greater good, as good or great a weapon can be in the grand scheme of things anyway.
The room is smaller than the living area by a little more than half, but there's far more in this room than the rest of the bunker combined, and it's still very untouched. There are two work benches, one on the right wall, the other tucked behind a storage shelf separating it from the cabinet and lockers. Boxes of MRE's, ammunition, first aid, weapon maintenance tools, and armour maintenance supplies. Essentially, in the post-apocalyptic world, finding this place would be akin to winning the damn lottery, which was his intention, and the reason he had it so well hidden.
Along the back wall is a weapon display rack that he's relieved to see, a collection of the basics, nothing too fancy, but easily modifiable. A long distance rifle with a scope, an SMG, a shotgun, a semi-automatic rifle, four handguns-
...two handguns?
Don approaches the rack, noticing the missing firearms, and he finds himself suddenly cautious. He'd double checked, tripled checked everything before he locked up, everything was where it was supposed to be, he would have noticed any missing pieces. So, either he overlooked something, or someone else got in... but how? The only people who even knew about this place were Nora and himself, and they were the only ones who knew the code. Even if by some miracle someone happened to stumble upon it, figure out the code and get inside...
Why just take two pistols? Why not take something with more firepower? Why not take some food and first aid? Why not raid the place entirely?
Don feels unease settle in his gut, and he turns to check large metal locker in the corner of the room next to a cabinet. He'd locked away some equipment for easy access, light armour, ammo, and first aid, in the event that he needed to get to it quickly, emergency use exclusively.
However, as he opens the door, its hinges screeching in protest, it reveals nothing but the clean shadowy interior... completely empty.
Its then that his heart begins to pound, rationality aside, he turns on his heel and exits the armoury with speed, skirting around the living room furniture to access the bunk room, the overhead lights flicker, and before they can fully automate, Don's eyes glue to the bottom left bunk. The blankets are askew, indented, there's a roll of gauze sitting on the bedside dresser next to an MRE wrapper and its associated trash, an empty Stimpack needle cartridge, and a dirty balled up hand towel.
It's not recent; it's difficult to speculate the exact time frame, but...
If she knew...
If she knew she wasn't going to make it in the Vault in time...
SCH-KLACK
The tense and thoughtful silence is broken by the sudden and very audible cocking of a shotgun barrel directly behind him, almost exactly within in the doorway to the bunk room, and Don feels his reaction time stumble, because, surely, if anyone had been in here other than him, he would have known immediately, he would have felt it, a sudden change in the atmosphere, a sixth sense, a tiny indication that he was trained to detect on its miniscule levels.
Wouldn't he?
Generally, in a moment such as this, his reaction time would be overtaken by offensive retaliation, but this time it's closer to paralyzing fear, because being snuck up on wasn't something that happened to him, either is injuries are seriously effecting his senses or he was too distracted by the possibility that...
"Hands up," The voice behind him is thick, gruff, but almost distinctly feminine, "Slow, no sudden moves."
The fear suddenly sizzles out, not drowned, but overtaken by a totally different sensation. His hands rise into the air, slowly, and all the while he's making himself completely vulnerable, Don is grinning wildly.
"Up," The voice orders, to which Don calmly obeys, lifting himself smoothly to his feet, and he flinches as the figure reaches out and yanks the satchel from around his shoulder, relieving him of that, his crowbar, and then his pistol.
Finally, the tip of the barrel taps hard against the outside of his shoulder, a wordless order to turn around, and Dons chest is close to bursting as he faces his captor.
She's wearing old, patchy leather armour, most of it in some state of disrepair or impromptu mending, a dull scarf that must have been red at some point is pulled over her shoulders and hanging loosely around her collarbone, faded dark grey jeans wrapped in duct tape and stitched together haphazardly disappear at the knees behind shin guards and heavy combat boots. The leather strapped over her chest is identical, opposed to wear and tear, to the set that was hanging in the armoury locker, and he recognizes a shirt of his laying underneath it, faded plaid, light, and cut off at the elbows to make room for her matching arm braces and fingerless black gloves. The tips of her fingers sit exposed and appear marred, red, as thought once painfully burnt.
The moment he turns to look at her, staring down the barrel of a shotgun he doesn't recognize, her aim drops almost immediately, and she lets go of the barrel rest to dig a thumb in the underside of her opaque goggles, pulling them up to reveal her eyes.
They stare at Don without blinking, both a deep startling red with milky-white iris', and with the same hand barely moving, she pulls down the hem of her faded balaclava to reveal skin in the same state as her hands, melted like burnt flesh, her nose replaced by two black holes and a sharp seam of exposed bone.
Startled by the sight of her, his mouth hanging open, he tries to match her features with the ones in his memories, but the contrast is so overwhelming that he reserves himself, and with a tentative murmur, says, "...Nora?"
The woman stares at him without a change in expression, and for a moment Don considers that he might be wrong, until she lets out a deep and airy sigh, drops her arms, and leans back with a cock in her hip, "Fuck..."
Don grins again, and starts to laugh, in delight or in total mortification, he can't really tell, but it's coming out in shrill hysterical cackles, "NORA-!"
The woman, frowning at the sounds he's emitting, twists her shotgun around with practised speed and precision, and shoves the hard wooden butt right into his stomach the moment he steps towards her with outstretched arms in a fit of glee. Don buckles forward, crumpling to his knees again as the sharp reminder of his beating starts to cloud his vision.
Don wheezes through coughs, taking a moment to blink through the impulse to pass out before he pulls himself as straight as he can to look back up at her to make sure he isn't hallucinating, he manages to recognizing the shape of her face this time despite the horrific appearance, noticing the long black locks of hair falling from a loose and patchy bun, her livid expression spans over her like a familiar topical map.
It's her. Somehow, it's really her.
The sudden realization comes flooding in, through his elated relief, and his smile suddenly drops. He feels the grief hit him, the emotions he'd stuffed away for a safer time, when he thought it was her at the foot of the gate, when he was trying to process what had happened to her, but it's not true, because she's here, she's alive, and she's been...
"I'm sorry," His voice has no strength, and it's not because he's winded, "I'm so sorry..."
A literally growl rises from her throat, and somehow he recognizes that too, "You fucking idiot."
"I didn't know," Don smiles a little, "Nor, I had no idea-"
"How?" She demands.
Don opens his mouth to speak, but she interrupts him.
"Fuck you," She snaps, "You look like you fell in Guai shit."
Don, stricken and taken aback, chuckles, "Nice to see you too."
"Shut up!" She snarls, "Do you know how long it took me to hide this?!"
"What are you talking about?"
"The entrance of the bunker, you asshole!" She gestures wildly to the door, "I spent weeks trying to get the grass to grow just right and you come bumbling along like a lost Brahmin and tear it all up!"
"Wh-?" Don sputters, "That's what you're concerned about right now?!"
"Yeah, you broke into my bunker!"
"Your bunker..."
"My husband died," She states, "So I got everything he left behind."
"I am your husband!"
"How am I supposed to know that?" She pulls up the barrel of her shotgun again, and Don tenses as she aims it right between his eyes, "For all I know, you could be some kind of imposter. A spy. A Synth."
"A what?"
"You know exactly what I'm talking about!"
"I really don't!"
She exhales with a growl and drops her aim, "Okay," She huffs, "Fine then, I'm going to ask you something only the real Don would know."
Don can't help a creeping smile from stretching across his face, "Seriously? Are we doing this? Like, actually doing this?"
"You can never really tell anymore," Her eyes narrow suspiciously, "They can look like anyone, from anywhere. I saw those bastards there, who knows what they took... resources, information, DNA? They got good at memories from what I know, so that explains how you got in here."
Don chortles in fear, "Am I having a stroke? What the fuck are you talking about?"
"I'm asking the questions here!" She snaps, and then raises her aim, "Answer them right and I won't blow your head off."
"Okay, okay!" Don raises his hands, "Take it easy, babe."
"Don't call me that."
"You're the boss."
Panting, aiming with the intent to fire, her eyes narrowed and studying, her voice drops an octave and she murmurs in almost a whisper, "What's my real name?"
Don drops his jaw a little in surprise, staring up at her as her eyes soften into something familiar and sorrowful. Its then that he knows she's serious, and he can read it on her face, there's hope. Like he had felt that glimmer of hope that it wasn't her body out there with the blue shawl if he could find that last sign she had made it here and possibly lived long enough to fight for her life, part of her was hoping that it was really him, and not someone else, something else.
...a Synth?
Don drops his hands again, feeling the emotion swell inside him once more to see that look on her face to, for that moment, relive those memories not of just him, but of before him, before Sanctuary.
Memories of the camps...
"Your real name is Su Yanlin."
Nora, tense like stone, exhales a shaking breath as she pulls the barrel of the shotgun to the floor, taking a step back to stare at him, her own sanity seeming to resurface as she stares at the belly of his Vault-Tec uniform as it sits exposed from the open front of his jacket. Swallowing hard, she looks down to the floor, squeezing her eyes shut and using the palm of her glove to press hard against the right side of her brow.
Don gets to his feet once more, concerned, "Hey, are you okay-?"
"Back off, I'm fine." She snaps at him, jerking the body of the shotgun towards him before sighing, "Sorry, I mean. I'm fine... don't worry about it."
Don stands back and waits for her to blink back into the room, her brow wrinkled in pain.
"What happened to you, Don?"
"Vault-Tec," Don admits timidly, "Vault-Tec happened."
"Elaborate."
"They put us all in machines and froze us," Don explains, "Turns out they were using us as lab rats to test out the long term effects of cryogenic freezing."
Nora shakes her head at him, "I'd say bullshit, but you're standing in my bunker looking a lot better than me at the same age so..."
"Yeah," Don nods slowly, "It's still my bunker."
"Fuck you, I've actually been using it."
"Well, I was just about to," Don defends, "For a very good reason, I might add."
"Yeah, yeah, the settlers," She rolls her eyes, "The one's you led right into the Guai trap, I know."
"What do you mean, Guai trap?"
"What did you think, that Sanctuary was some new found untapped land?" She scoffs, "There's a reason that place is empty, raiders have been using it as a hotspot for decades now. You should know, you got hit the first night you were out."
Don blinks at her in surprise, and hesitates, but she seems to read it on his face.
"No," She clarifies, "Before you ask, no, I didn't stand by and watch you get shot, I was busy, I came back to the mess they left behind in the morning. Didn't look like much, so I didn't get close. I figured whoever had been there last night was dead, but A.D. insisted on sticking around to find out."
"Who?"
"The one I finally had to threaten with dismemberment before he fucked off," She checks the chamber of her shotgun with irritation, "Turns out I wasn't the only one waiting for someone to finally come out of that damned Vault."
Don watches her smack her palm against the side of the chamber and smiles a little, "You were waiting?"
"Huh?" She squints over at him.
"That's what you said, you were waiting for someone to come out of the Vault."
For a moment, she looks like she's about to deny it, until she blinks a little squirrelly and looks away fiddling with a screw and patch job on the side of the barrel, "Figured someone would have eventually."
Don nods, and then his smile disappears, "I wasn't alone."
She frowns, Don suddenly recalls the shape of her brow, those thick black arches always tailored and symmetrical without fail, she'd always been a stickler for perfection, but now... She's very clearly no longer worried about it, "I know, that other asshole told me later that two people came out, the only ones who did."
"Do you know who came out with me?"
"No, like I said, I was away, missed the whole damn party."
"It was Carolyn."
Hands freezing on the spot, her gaze jerks up to him, eyes widened and jaw tense as she studies his face for any indication of a lie. After a silent moment, she looks away once more, almost distantly as she ducks her head and slaps a hand over the chamber, mumbling something sharp in her native tongue.
"I'm here to help the settlers, yeah, but I'm also here because of her," Don explains, "That firefight you heard the first night? That was me trying to fend them off. After they shot me and left me for dead, they took her."
"Where?" She growls.
"Don't worry, she's alright. She's in Boston right now, but the jerk in charge of the Vault she's being held in decided I'm not worth his time and won't let me see her until I take care of the little raider problem in Lexington."
"...Corvega?"
Don nods, "Yeah... it's one hell of a tall order."
"Don't tell me you're just going to storm the factory," She stares at him in disbelief, "That place is a goddamn fortress, there's a reason the bastards haven't been taken out yet."
"Hey, I still happen to be good at what I do," Don explains feebly, "But, I mean, when you put it like that..."
"You're a fucking moron."
Don nods in a mild agreement.
Nora rolls her eyes, "You're seriously going to risk Carol like that? Is this a fucking joke to you?"
"No, but now that you mention it, I could use your help?"
She studies him for a moment and then sighs, "And then what?"
"Word gets back to the man in charge, and he lets her go."
"Where do you plan on taking her?"
"Well..." Don rubs the back of his neck, "Diamond City rubs me the wrong way, but she'd probably be safe there until I figure something out."
Nora shakes her head, almost in a defeated way, "She won't be safe, not there, not anywhere."
Don feels his spine lock, "You don't know that."
"You have no idea," Her voice is calm, and ultimately more terrifying, "You have no idea what it's like to survive out here, what I had to go through to get where I am. You have no right to make her go through this, no one does."
Don opens his arms, his voice lowering into an uncertain whisper, "What else do you expect me to do? Let her die?"
Nora looks up at him steadily, unwavering, "Sometimes that's the kindest thing you can do."
For a moment, just a second, mind you, Don was sure she was joking, but the look in her eye convinced him faster than his own reasoning, and with a tense jaw, Don leans over, picks up his satchel, his pistol, and his crowbar, "You know what? Turns out I don't need your help after all."
Nora lets her shoulders drop as Don passes her by and makes his way back to the armoury, she leans against the door frame and calls after him, "You need a reason to keep fighting, I get that, but don't funnel all that focus onto someone who might not want to be saved."
"Y'know, funny thing," Don calls back as he marches towards the gun rack and immediately pulls down the large long distance rifle, "I don't recall arguing when you wanted to save her."
"Fuck you, that wasn't the same thing."
"Ohhh it wasn't?" Don scoffs.
Nora is suddenly standing in the door of the armoury, "No, you're dealing with something you haven't been trained for, this place isn't the same as the tours, and it's not the same as Anchorage. Maybe you should consider that before trying to put vulnerable people in danger by trying to save them."
"And maybe-!" Don spins around to face her, "Instead of going to Corvega and storming the place, I should just head on back to the Vault and put a bullet in Carolyn's head myself, would that be at all kinder?!"
Between them, the space is short, and the air is palpable. For that silence Don wonders if the wasteland made her like this, if this... whatever it is that's preventing her from aging and dying is making her like this, or if she's always been like this, prone to be in an environment of war.
Did he ever really know her?
"Look, you don't want to help me that's fine. I was prepared to do this by myself anyways, and clearly," He gestures to her, "Your way of doing things got you this far, and I respect that, but I'm not about to let you convince me not to give Carolyn a fighting chance. Especially if there's a possibility her son could be out there somewhere."
Nora's intense gaze doesn't falter, but her brow lowers, "You think Shaun is still alive?"
Don shrugs, "Yeah, and I'm willing to get that far to find out."
Nora closes her eyes for a second and shakes her head, "Why are you doing this, Don?"
On his heel, Don spins back around and shovels through a gun cabinet, pulling out a duffle bag, and setting it down on the work bench nearby, "I've done a lot of terrible shit," Don starts, "and I'm okay with whatever I'm due, but Carolyn? She hasn't hurt anyone, she's innocent, and I refuse to let her suffer because this world couldn't give less than a shit if she is."
For a long moment, Nora doesn't say a word in response, but allows Don the time he needs to collect what he figures is going to do the job, during calculations and approach plans, he hesitates just for a moment with the realization that he might not survive Corvega. There's always that chance that something could go wrong, all it takes is a split second, a stray bullet, and it's all over.
Doing his best to swallow that fear, he pulls the industrial zipper closed, hoists the heavy bag over his shoulder, and turns to the door of the armoury where he expects to see Nora standing and instead sees nothing. She's gone.