"He passed out."
Don sits across the length of the garage on a wooden box, his head resting on his interlaced fingers in deep contemplation. He almost doesn't hear Sturges' voice, but it manages to pass through like he's several leagues underwater. Don motions to the garage door, where a medium sized bucket sits half-way filled with murky rain water, he'd found it around back sitting on a pile of old-world garbage before the start of this process.
Wearily, Sturges retrieves it for him. He's on his feet despite the bullet wound in his leg; he's pretty exsanguinated and can't do much more than hobble around and offer moral support, but at least he's half-way to being alive. The bullet needed to be fished out, but it was in a single piece and didn't so much as graze the arterial vein in his thigh, it still bled like a son of a bitch, so he's going to need some time to recoup. Blood transfusion isn't exactly an option around here.
Don will take what he can get, it'll be nice to have the extra set of hands that won't a) get kidnapped, or b) disappear into thin air after confrontation; besides, you need a lot of moral support when it comes to torture.
"...I don't know if you'll get anything out of him at this rate." Sturges offers jadedly once the bucket is out of his hands, he's looking pretty pale and Don has an inkling it doesn't have anything to do with blood loss, despite being from around here, it appears he might not have the stomach for this sort of thing.
"I think I just came on a little strong," Don muses as he approaches the occupied metal chair next to the power armor station. The raider he'd come to know and recognize as 'that gimp bastard who shot me' is tied down secure, his head hanging languid, totally unconscious after the first bout of questioning. Well, to be fair, Don hasn't done this in some time, he's a bit rusty. Thankfully the bastard isn't dead... yet.
When he dumps the bucket over him, the putrid stench of ozone and rot fills the air, chunks of something brown splatter onto the large man's skin, and he immediately jerks awake, yelling out in alarm as the ice cold water slaps the burns on his forearms and back. That was the first thing that happened during questioning, sizzling, the smell of burnt skin wafted into the air and it was horrifically familiar, and somehow... comforting.
Don crouches to get a better look at him, the raiders eyes are fluttering, but he flinches when Don slaps him on the cheek a few times to get his attention and make sure he isn't brain dead, or at the very least brain damaged.
"Earth to mad man," Don lulls, "Wakey wakey-y, eggs and radioactive bakey-y."
The raider shakes his head, coming back into consciousness with a disoriented confusion, almost frothing as he growls, his gaze focusing with a sudden sharpness, his entire body tenses up as he jerks against the binds, causing the chair to jump a little and skirt across the cement.
"There we go," Don grins, "Good morning sunshine."
"Don't you fucking touch me," He snarls.
"Did you have a good nap?"
The raider pants heavily, his hands balled into fists as he spits with vitriol, "Fuck you."
Don hums pleasantly and repositions the wooden crate to sit closer, bringing the lantern along to more clearly see the details of his face. Partially he blames the dim lighting for the accidental over-stimulation. If he can't properly see what he's doing, well... how can that possibly be his fault?
"Okay, so, we're going to try this again, and this time, you're going to answer my questions politely," Don pulls another box close to his side, smaller, but much heavier. It's black; two large bolts sit upwards on the opposite ends, bleeding wires that coil around in red and black. They split into four and snaking up the legs of the raider's throne, clamping onto the framework, threatening to go live with the flick of the trigger that Don's fingers slowly brush up against.
The first question he asked him when the battery was initially hooked up was, what he thought, a fairly simple question. Don asked this raider his name and what he was given was a wad of spit. It missed pretty much entirely, but the message was clear. Don hit the switch, not sure what to expect from a battery so old that it outdated nuclear generators, and the raider went stiff, his entire body jerking from the invisible force of electricity coursing through his body. The legs of the chair vibrated, beads of sweat formed. The veins in his temples, forearms, and neck, popped. His teeth bared large and grinding, the skin in direct contact with the metal of the chair started to burn, and his entire body went red.
Don was so fixated by the visceral reaction, that by the time he thought to turn it off, it had been too much, and the raiders head dropped. He'd considered in that moment that it might have killed him, and there was a pretty good chance of it, but he didn't know for sure because the wattage of the battery is entirely unknown. He'd been more prepared for it not to work at all, to have to resort to different methodology, but he preferred it this way in particular for a number of reasons. One, it was easier, and two, he has no strength, especially not in his current state, to match someone of the raiders size. Don had a hard enough time getting him in the chair in the first place; he's in an entirely different weight class, so Don had to play to his own strengths.
...And he'd be lying if he said it didn't satisfy him a little too.
Don relishes how the raiders panicked and enraged eyes shoot to his fingers dancing fondly around the flicker switch, how his sweat mixes with the water still dripping from his head, making little track marks in the dust and grime coating his skin.
Then, the corners of the raider's mouth twitch, and his chest heaves with a deep chuckle, his crooked and yellowed teeth bearing open not unlike they had during electrocution.
Don lets him laugh for no more than a few seconds, before the switch makes an audible click. The raider's body goes stark rigid, violently jerking like a seizure, making the chair rattle on its feet as spit foams through his pained grin. Don watches, patiently, and counts to five in his head before switching it back off.
The raider goes limp once more, but without the same dead weight of unconsciousness as before. He gasps, panting; his fingers white knuckled around the arms of the chair like it hadn't been on fire, he hisses, pained, as he tries unsuccessfully to adjust his posture, groaning into the discomfort.
"Am I not being clear right now?" Don places his chin on his hand, leaning over and away from the battery, "Or did that first jolt actually fry your brain?"
"You..." The raider shakes his head, breathless, weak, "You think... this is new to me?"
Don narrows his eyes as the gimp starts to chuckle again, and it's clear it takes a lot of his energy to do so, because of how hilariously diluted it is.
"I've had worse," The sclera of his eyes are bloodshot in patches, highlighting the natural hazel green with an almost radioactive glow as he glares up at Don from under his low brow, "If you want something out of me, you'd better step up your game, scavver."
"Oh, I see," Don nods in understanding, "You think this is the best I can do."
"I was hoping it wasn't."
"A fan of pain, are you?"
"You could say that."
"Well," Don straightens back up, "I wasn't planning on bringing out the big guns, to be honest, I don't think I have it in me today."
"Had a bad day, huh?"
Don's eyes are sharp as he studies the lines of condescending humor on his greasy face, normally he would appreciate the exchange of a little sass, in fact, he sees a lot of himself in this bastard right now, if he's ever unlucky enough in the future to end up in a chair like that, he'd more than likely act the same way.
...But today he finds his funny-well is a little dry.
"You're not just some random lackey, are you?" Don asks as the raider slouches in the chair, breathing in low and exhausted gasps he might have mistaken for more laughter, "You were in charge of that group that came to Concord, the same ones who took my friend back in Sanctuary."
"Your friend?"
"The woman"
"Oh yeah, I remember her," He cackles, "Blonde, thick all the way around, sturdy enough to take one hell of a pounding, I bet. Pretty too, I wouldn't have minded coming all over those pretty little lips of hers-"
Don switches on the battery again and the raider jerks, cutting off his voice far too late, his back arches as the veins on his arms begin to pop, his skin flushing red and beading. In the meantime, Don sits in contemplation, his mind processing his own realizations on the matter, deciding what to do that would be the most effective, trying to consider all of his alternatives, but it's like wading through a thick cloud of haze with irrational impatience.
The raider is antagonizing him on purpose, pissing him off, and it's working.
Very uncharacteristic there, Don.
When the raider comes slowly back out of the shock, Don is examining a key ring; of course he searched the raider sometime after knocking him out with his own fire axe and suiting him on his live-wire throne. The key is worn, a little rusty, and accompanied by a scorched memorabilia tag, showing the last few letters of the brand, 'VEGA'.
Now, Don is no detective, but he has a pretty good idea of what it might be.
"So, back to the topic at hand, after you tied up my friends and shot Sturges," Don notes each event casually, "you took Mama Murphy back to the factory, to your boss, I assume. So what I need to know is, how many are in the factory, are there any backdoor's, and where might I find your boss?"
The raider blinks at Don with a kind of slow impudence, probably due to the electrical trauma.
"Oh, uh," Don leans forward, "Please."
The raider grins, "...up your ass."
Don returns the smile, but his is much wider, and far emptier, warranting something far different that an outward display of amusement, "God, I don't know what I hate more... that stupid goddamn smile on your face, or the fact that you're giving me so many amazing openings for perfect one-liners... at probably one of the only times I've never felt like using them."
"Tough tits."
Don leans back, tossing one leg over the other; the movement makes the raider flinch, and he sits just like that for long enough that it makes the resolve in his eyes waver, making the bigger man suddenly nervous, and it's not until that very moment that Don speaks.
"Okay, I have just got to know what is so goddamn important."
The raider lowers his brow and looks Don up and down.
"Even if you told me exactly what I want to know, how likely do you think it is that I'm going to actually survive a rescue mission?" Don inquires sharply, "Take one look at me and tell me how long you think I'll last."
"Does it look like I give a fuck?" The raider snarls, "Maybe I ain't givin' you shit because I don't fucking like you."
Suddenly, Don laughs.
His chest flares with a fresh kind of pain, a dull ache that nearly chokes him, but he continues to cackle despite it, despite everything actually, because all he can think about is his own goddamn weaknesses, the well oiled machine he'd tuned himself into is failing, his mind isn't able to give him the answers he needs like it always has. He's failing and there isn't anything he can do about it.
Before, there was fear, there were very few who weren't afraid, but in the end, right before their final moment, they all were. The pain of that final fight, their body protesting in one last panic of screaming nerves, it was what gave him the power to get what he needed, because everyone, no matter who they were at the time, didn't want to die, and he made it so abundantly clear that it was going to happen as an alternative to cooperation.
He was very good at his job, but the problem here is abundantly clear.
This bastard doesn't appear to give a shit if he dies.
"Okay," Don, thoroughly humoured, wipes a few tears from his eyes and leans over to the battery again, "Alright."
The audible click of the switch signals the flow of the electrical current once more, Don takes a moment to stand up and stretch his back as the sounds of the raiders convulsions blend into the background like white noise, he sighs, chuckling into the palm of his hand as he presses it against his face, his skin feels hot to the touch but there's a chill in the air he can't escape.
Behind him, the raider's skin starts to blister against the red hot metal, and foam begins to run down his filthy neck, mixing with a new highlight of bright crimson red.
Outside of the garage, Sturges leans against the shaded side of the building, under the canopy where he assumes old-world vehicles had, at one point in time, parked to get gas. It sits shrouded after the passage of time by a thick layer of foliage, lush and bright from the rainfall, one of the only thankful living beings around that ever benefited from it.
The sun is out now, might end up being a scorcher from the way the clouds are running in opposite directions, it always cheered him up to sit under the heat waves, something about that warmth gave him the impression that things were going to be alright.
But then he started to hear the low but distinctive drawl of sounds coming from inside the sealed garage, and all those unkind thoughts came rushing back to him like a flood.
The mechanic watched for as long as he could, waited until his stomach threatened to expel all of the horror and fear he'd been swallowing since Quincy, so he left, and he has a feeling that the new General of the Minutemen didn't notice him go.
This new General of the Minuteman was far too involved in the process of torture to pay him much mind. Sturges thought he had been ready, as ready as he could've been, to help with the questioning; he just wasn't prepared for the cool and collected way in which Don had proceeded. It might've been easier if he wasn't the only one to be sick to his stomach at the sight of it, but he was.
He figured that... after everything that goddamn raider bastard had done to Preston, to the longs, and to Mama Murphy, that it would have been easy to watch, it would've been easy to participate, but...
Sturges runs his hands over his face, through his hair that had been reduced to a mess a few days prior, and... he can't help feeling like a failure.
He could've done at least this, he couldn't save the settlers, he couldn't go for help, and now he can't aid in torture of the bastard responsible for all of it, how in the hell is he supposed to face Preston after today? How is he supposed to explain to him that he couldn't do it? How is he supposed to be the one to explain that they lost Marcy, they might lose Jun, and they've probably already lost Mama Murphy too?
How is he supposed to be the one to save Preston after all this bad news if he can't do anything but tinker and make jokes to ease the tension, after all, that's all he's been able to do, and he has a pretty good idea... that it's all he's capable of.
When the door next to him opens, Sturges flinches, mortified at the state of himself as he turns away to wipe the tears from his chin, and again, the General doesn't seem to notice him at all. It takes a moment or two of silence before Sturges musters up the courage to break it, "So, uh... any luck?"
"Yeah."
"Okay, so...?"
Don absently stares off into the distance, his mind clearly miles off to the south, almost like he's squinting directly at that old factory in Lexington from here, and at the moment Sturges believes he actually might be, with some strange intuition, boring a hole right through it.
"Go back to Sanctuary."
Sturges is startled out of his observation, "Huh?"
"You can head back and check on the others," Don turns his head, but not enough to look directly at him, but enough that he can see his neutral expression, "I have everything covered from here."
Sturges shakes his head, stifling the sudden fear of what might happen if he argues, "No," He murmurs, "N-No, I need to see this through."
"I can respect that, but if you don't have the stomach for it-"
"He hurt Preston," Sturges snaps, his heart pounding with panicked adrenaline, "He hurt Mama Murphy, the Longs, he had us stuck in that museum before all this. I-I... I hate him. I... I should hate him... shouldn't I?"
Don furrows his brow, and then does actually look him in the eye, it's not quite sympathy he sees there, but perhaps guilt, "Maybe," He responds gently, "but that doesn't mean you think he deserves to get tortured."
Panting, the mechanic reaches up and wipes his mouth on the back of his hand out of nothing more than simple reflex, unaware that he hasn't stopped crying, that his breathing is haggard and sharp, that his heart is beating so rapid that his vision is going white in his peripherals.
"Look, I'll bring you some supplies later, Preston needs some, and so do you. Try not to move around too much in the meantime, I shouldn't be long."
Sturges nods, and then flinches so hard that his muscles threaten to seize entirely when Don's hand grabs his shoulder, it pulls him out of the panic for long enough to realize he'd been in the middle of one, and that his hand is plastered over his mouth, wet with his breath.
Don focuses on him directly, "I'm not going to abandon you."
Sturges lowers his hand, and nods like a tremble, "O-okay..."
"That means I can't have you abandon us either," He urges him sternly, "We need you."
Sturges blinks through the sting of salt in his eyes, "Y-yeah... yeah, sure thing, Gen'ral."
It's in a haze that Sturges feels his feet hit the bridge, mechanical-like in their vibrations as he makes his way up the hill and to the orange lantern house where they had been held captive. Truthfully he wanted everyone out of Sanctuary but they didn't want to risk moving Preston very far with his head trauma, so they situated themselves in the same house where Sturges had felt himself slip into something foreign to him. That hopelessness that made him absolutely certain that it was the last thing he'd see, that they fought all this time and got all this way just to die at the hands of a bloodthirsty raider.
After everything, Sturges couldn't help but blame Mama Murphy for it all.
It wasn't fair, how Marcy had been so blatant about her disbelief in any kind of miracle vision that she had, at least, that's what Sturges had believed before they got here. There was something in Mama Murphy's eyes, he thought it was fatigue and he kind of just dismissed it, but it never really disappeared, a strange sensation of paranoia and fear that settled into him the moment they arrived.
She looked... defeated, and suddenly this last stop in their journey felt less like reaching nirvana, and more like getting trapped at a dead end, getting locked in a cage. Sturges considered that maybe, out of desperation, that Mama Murphy had lied about this place, she'd known about it for some time, and only wanted to give them hope.
As time went on, Sturges began to wonder if she knew... and that she figured it was inevitable that they just... couldn't go on any more... that they had to stop fighting at some point and just give in...
But Sturges couldn't allow himself to hate her for it, not for his sake, but for Preston's. He believed in her so vibrantly that Sturges couldn't even fathom trying to convince him of it, not that he would want to, it's the only thing that gave him hope, and allowed him to keep fighting, because there were so many times that Sturges saw him struggle to keep it up.
And maybe... things do happen for a reason.
As awful as it is to think about, maybe it had to happen, maybe Mama Murphy knew that hard truth and couldn't stop herself from leading them right into it, maybe it was guilt that he saw in her eyes that last night before the raider showed up, maybe Don showed up right on time in Concord, maybe he's here for a reason too.
The floor creaks under Sturges' weight as he steps into the living room, a pair of brown and black ears pop up to his arrival; Dogmeat sits at the foot of the stained couch against the wall, protecting the motionless man lying across it. Preston's silhouette is skewed by a thin brown blanket, his hand hanging limp off the one side, his jacket hanging on a nail nearby.
Sturges approaches, giving Dogmeat an appreciative pat before sitting on a low stool that he pulls right up next to his friend, he reaches down and repositions Preston's arm so both of his hands are on his stomach, and he keeps his hand laying over them for a moment, first staring at the bloodied bandage wrapped around his forehead and then down to his face, noting how peaceful he looks in this state.
Steadily, he feels his optimism gradually returning with the slow passing seconds.
"Hey," He murmurs gently, "I'm here."
At his side, watching with invested interest, Dogmeat suddenly turns his head towards the door, noting a new smell in the air, and leaves the two alone to go outside and investigate. He's greeted by a figure approaching from the direction of the Cul-De-Sac, a familiar face and scent that grows an excited fondness and he races to approach him with his tail wagging feverishly.