The creature standing at the entrance of the Cambridge police station compound looked more wild animal than human. Certainly more uncivilized than the large dog at her side. Her body language spoke strongly of an animalistic urge to tuck tail between legs and slink away; she swayed back and forth uncertainly until the dog chuffed in its - his, Danse saw as the dog shifted - barrel chest.
Her physical appearance indubitably marked her as one of the very dregs of the wasteland. Possibly a prostitute, quite probably a junkie of some degree or another. Her dark, matted hair looked as if it had been hacked off in ragged handfuls with a combat knife. Her face was dirty and caked with the dried blood of a long, curving cut that ran from left temple to jaw. A bruise on the other temple could easily account for the dazed expression in eye and face. She held a wooden bat in her right hand; it seemed to be her only weapon. Indeed, the only object on her person that Danse could see at all.
Her clothing - if it were truly hers to begin with - was of Vault-Tec origin, one of the ubiquitous cobalt blue and cadmium yellow one-piece suits handed out to vault inhabitants. The vivid colors glowed against the subdued rusts and dead browns of the Commonwealth. The olive green Pip-Boy strapped to her left wrist strengthened the case that she had emerged from a vault at some point. The condition of the clothing indicated she had been out for some time; the knees and seat were so filthy it was impossible to determine the underlying color.
Whatever or whoever she was, she had just wandered into a lull between the relentless waves of ferals that had been pounding their location that day. They had already lost one man. Knight Rhys was injured, perhaps severely, if the intense, frowning concentration and deft movements of Scribe Haylen's hands were any indication.
As pitiful and frail as this creature looked, Danse would take no chances with the remnants of his squad. He immediately inserted himself between them and this strange interloper. He reminded himself that ferals also looked brittle and weak until provoked. His swift movements prompted eyes of an indeterminate color to lock onto him with an unexpected laser sharp focus. A mutual suspicion was prevalent there, along with fear and pain.
It was all she allowed him to see before her head drooped and hanks of hair fell forward to obscure her face. She shuffled forward, acting like nothing more than a smooth skinned feral. Danse wrinkled his nose in disgust - he was downwind and could verify she also smelled like a feral.
The giant tan and black dog, intelligent of face and muscular in body, padded into the compound ahead of her, head lowered warily and ears pricked forward. The dog trotted forward and sniffed Danse's armored leg, then turned to the woman and made another soft noise in his chest. She tottered forward another few paces and dropped to her knees with a boneless flop that was so sudden Danse's finger tensed on his trigger.
Of all the ridiculous things for the stranger to do, she looped her arm around the dog's shoulders and asked, "Are we safe with them?" The dog nudged her with a wet nose and sneezed as if to say yes.
She was no threat to them if she relied on a dog for decisions such as that.
"Watch your fire, people. We have company." Danse turned back to the woman and eyed her. "This location is by no means secured. I can't guarantee your safety, nor will I allow a civilian to remain in this compound. Take a few minutes' rest and move along."
Along with the assistance of the heavy wooden bat she carried, she had to take hold of the dog's sturdy shoulder to push herself upright. Danse observed her with honest astonishment and wondered how she'd survived as short a time span as thirty seconds on her own. He'd seen healthier looking ferals among those attacking them. She was nothing more than a skeleton, with her sunken cheeks and hollowed out eye sockets. The vault suit was too loose around her; it hung in baggy wrinkles and folds that only served to accentuate the prominent jut of the bones underneath. She looked like the walking dead.
Then the walking dead, or a close enough facsimile, attacked again, forcing Danse to change his initial impression of her. The dog barked at her encouragingly and dashed away, only to return a moment later, hindquarters first, tugging his unique version of a gift to her. His jaws were clamped around the calf of a writhing, shrieking feral.
As the dog held the creature in place, the vault dweller placed one foot on the thing's caved in chest and touched the tip of her bat gently to its forehead. She then lifted the weapon high above her head and slammed it down with sufficient force to crush the head like a ripe melon. She didn't flinch when the radioactive pulp splattered across her face and chest.
Damn. He was wasting too much time goggling at her. Danse used the butt of his rifle to propel the feral attempting to crawl into his suit away and lined his shot up. Seemingly turning on his tail, the dog leapt in the air and sunk his teeth into the thing's upper arm, whipping it to the ground with a terrible snarl. The feral's throat was effortlessly and messily torn out by long, white fangs.
Maybe, just maybe they'd survive this after all.
Whatever stupor she had been in disappeared, at least momentarily, as she shouldered her bat and turned to face the waves of ghouls that were now pouring in from front and side. She made her stand right where she had risen to her feet, roughly ten feet in front of him, causing her to become the default target of the incoming enemy.
When the woman wasn't beating the ferals to death in the dirt with a manic intensity, she employed a violent swing of the bat that involved the rotation of her whole body from wide planted feet to tilted shoulders. She had an odd mannerism of occasionally lifting the bat straight out from her shoulder as if pointing to something before viciously connecting with the head of the next ghoul windmilling towards her.
From his slightly elevated position, he was able to keep the ferals from overwhelming her, especially with her as their primary focus. In addition to Danse's covering fire, the dog seemed to have a sixth sense for when his mistress needed his aid. He would either bodily knock the ferals away from her or repeat the same process of shake-drag-hold, even pulling a feral over to Danse in the same fashion a few times. The dog was easily able to cover the entirety of the compound, instinctively breaking up the more dangerous clumps of ferals and herding them to their demise as he pleased. It was damned impressive.
It wasn't until they were literally calf deep in feral corpses did Danse realize the steady flow had slowed to a trickle, a trickle to a halt. Between the canine assisted elimination, his own laser rifle, and her gore covered bat, the three oddly mismatched allies had improbably survived. If he were a religious man, he'd be saying fervent prayers of thanks.
For now, he simply shook his head wearily. He abruptly felt every second of his thirty seven years spent on the earth. Without this woman and her dog...
Danse wanted nothing more than to sink to his knees in fatigue, but he had a team to take care of. Immediately, he turned his attention instead to the surviving members of Gladius. Haylen had the peculiar tightness in face and shoulder that he'd come to associate with the loss of one of their own. A surge of concern flooded him for her well-being. In truth, she was the glue that held them all together, both before their heavy losses, and even more afterward. Knight Rhys was pale from shock and pain, but he was alive.
Unlike Keane. Another field interment awaited them.
He ... had failed them again.
No. There was no time for that. Not… now. He would mourn later, in private.
Firmly, Danse instructed, "Haylen, take Rhys inside and bind his wounds. I'll see to our … friend."
"Yes, sir." The scribe hopped to her feet and started carefully helping the bigger man to his. She kept one hand pressed against the blood stained bandage on his chest as he rose.
"Rhys, once you're on your feet, I want you to make certain that the perimeter is secure." The man seemed steady enough once upright, although he had his arm oddly tucked against his chest. Danse still needed him, injured or not.
The man grunted, "I'm on it," as Haylen slung his other arm over her shoulders and eased him towards the entrance of the police station.
Haylen affectionately patted the man on the stomach, "You're not gonna cry this time, are you?" The Knight's tart response was lost in the squeal of the rusted door hinges.
Danse turned his attention back to their unlikely savior. The woman was sagging with exhaustion, propped up only by the loyal canine leaning against one side and the bat on the other, brain tissue and congealing blood sliding down its length sickeningly. Whatever reserve of energy she had managed to gather was obviously drained by coming to their aid.
He approached her slowly, armored forearm held out cautiously in case the dog thought he had less than honorable intentions toward his mistress. Her companion watched Danse with bright eyes, but made no move to attack. Warily eyeing the dog the whole time, he slipped one arm behind her shoulders and the other under her knees. It felt like she weighed no more than his laser rifle as he lifted her. She crumpled against him like an empty paper bag as he carried her up the stairs to the entrance, the dog right at his side.
Once inside, Danse carefully set her on her feet. She immediately retreated against the far wall of the police station and slid to the ground with arms clasped tightly around her knees. It was just as well - he had work to do. Haylen would see to her needs in a bit. The scribe had already begun treatment on Rhys's injuries. She wrapped bandages around Rhys's chest and abdomen and administered a stimpak to speed the healing of his fractured arm, then approached the woman and crouched in front of her in a friendly manner.
Haylen talked quietly and kindly to this strange woman for some time before rising to retrieve her medical kit. Very reluctantly, she allowed Haylen to treat the nasty cut on the side of her face, as well as other minor cuts, burns, and abrasions she had acquired in the wasteland. The scribe also found it necessary to start an intravenous drip of Rad Away to flush her system of accumulated radioactive isotopes.
While the medicine was dripping into a vein in the crook of her elbow, Haylen scrounged some clean clothing and a basin of water. The scribe gently began cleansing her face and neck, talking soothingly the whole time. Once the Rad Away bag was emptied, Haylen pulled the woman to her feet and softly encouraged her to step into the other room so she could finish bathing in privacy.
It seemed privacy didn't concern her. The vault dweller immediately stripped her blood-caked clothing off right there in the main room and kicked it away, uttering only a hoarse, "Burn it." She was so gaunt her ribs actually cast shadows down her torso. Danse averted his eyes in pity as she started to remove her filthy undergarments. He turned back to his terminal; he'd seen enough.
In recognition of her assistance, Danse agreed with Haylen's request to allow her to stay the night at the police station with them and share what few supplies they had. The woman refused food and only accepted a can of purified water after some urging from the patient scribe, although the dog hungrily wolfed down the can of Cram Danse offered him.
It was easy to forget she was there - she didn't speak and hardly moved, only changing position once from sitting against the wall to lying in a sharply angular ball on the floor. Haylen gently tucked a blanket around her frail shoulders and raised her head enough to slip a folded Brotherhood uniform underneath as a pillow. The woman drew the woolen blanket over her face and somehow compressed herself into an even tighter ball. The dog curled around her backside, calmly observing the three of them as they prepared to hold services for Knight Keane.
Late that evening, Danse was patrolling along the platform ringing the perimeter of the compound, rifle at the ready. There was a seemingly never-ending supply of ferals in College Square, just up the street from their location. Anything - the wind, an animal, a sound - could spook them. It wasn't as if he'd be able to sleep anyway - he'd take the night watch and stand guard over the remnants of Gladius until reinforcements arrived.
If reinforcements arrived… He shook his head to rid it of the negative thoughts. It was imperative to keep a positive frame of mind, even under dire circumstances such as these.
Danse looked over his shoulder at the sound of booted feet on metal and watched as Haylen wearily pulled herself up the tubular railing of the stairs to stand next to him. The blood of her patients, surviving and otherwise, stained her uniform. At some point she had removed her regulation cap, but he would allow the minor infraction to slide. There was no real downtime in the field, and his people had more than earned their pay and whatever meager relaxation they managed to find that evening.
"Your report?" he asked quietly.
"Rhys'll be fine." The scribe sighed. "Let's just say he isn't too fond of our guest, though. Thinks we should have let the ferals put her out of her misery."
Rhys tended towards cruelty at times. It had caused the Knight to receive negative marks in his service record more than once. For Haylen's - and pure propriety's - sake, Danse let the thought remain unspoken. He suspected the two were involved on some level beyond that of squad mates. He would turn a blind eye as long as their relationship didn't affect their duties. He highly doubted the levelheaded scribe would allow personal matters to affect her professional commitments, however.
Danse turned his attention instead to the woman who now complicated their situation. She had proven herself the solution to one crisis but had become a new, additional problem.
"And the vault dweller. What of her status? Were you able to find out any history?"
"Medically, she's a mixed bag. She's finally asleep, for the first time in days, I'm guessing. She should begin to recover her health now that the rads are gone, although she's still refusing to eat. From the looseness of her skin, I'd say she's lost a significant amount of weight in a very short amount of time. On top of that, she's dangerously dehydrated."
Haylen frowned unhappily and shook her head. "Mentally … well, that's another story. At the very least, she has severe psychological trauma. I don't think she's actively suicidal but she's definitely borderline. She told me she's looking for someone but completely shut down as soon as I started to question her. A family member, I believe. Perhaps even an infant, as she has newer stretch marks on her abdomen that would correspond with a recent pregnancy. She's wearing a wedding ring and has another on a chain around her neck but refuses to discuss that topic either. The loss of spouse and child could easily account for the trauma. I just don't have enough experience in psychotherapy to diagnose her any further, let alone treat her. Damn it, I wish Cade were here."
Danse reached out and squeezed her shoulder sympathetically. "You're an extremely capable medic, Haylen. I doubt even Cade would have done any better than you have in the field. I'll be recommending a promotion as soon as I'm able."
Haylen braced her hands against the railing and hung her head. "I … couldn't save them, Danse. If Cade had been here…" She glanced over at the Brotherhood flag fluttering in the slight nighttime breeze. It had briefly served as a shroud for Knight Keane earlier that evening. Danse knew without asking that the scribe felt each death as keenly as he did.
Haylen turned to him and slipped an arm through the crook of his elbow. For a long silent moment, she rested her head on his arm and leaned against him. Danse permitted them both to disregard decorum for the moment. He simply stood silently beside her, allowing her off the record time to mourn their losses. He'd be deceiving himself if he didn't admit to leaning into her slightly in return.
After a few minutes, Danse sighed. Duty, as always, called. "I have to ask - is she in any way capable of assisting with the ArcJet op? We need that damned transmitter."
Haylen was plainly worried; he could see the doubt in her face when she straightened and looked up at him. "I don't know. I just don't know. She's ready to tip over the edge at any time. It's positively criminal the way people are released from vaults, totally unprepared for the outside world."
Haylen shook her head sorrowfully. "She needs urgent psychiatric care. We can't help her here, Danse, not with our limited resources." She sighed. "It... might be kinder to let her stay another night and send her on her way. I hate to say release her back into the wild, but…" she trailed off.
Danse rubbed his neck, wincing at the soreness of tight muscles and even tighter knots. He'd been all but living in his power armor since the Corvega assembly plant disaster. "We'll start preparations for my departure first thing in the morning. I'll have to run the mission solo. Damn it, I hate going in blind, but we have no choice."
Determinedly, the scribe said, "Take us with you, Paladin. You need backup." She crossed her arms and scowled at him.
No. He wouldn't risk their lives. Only his.
"That's not an option, soldier. Listen closely, Haylen. You and Rhys take cover and wait for me. Only venture out if it's absolutely necessary. If the vault dweller's willing and you judge her capable enough, I'm authorizing you to let her and the dog remain to assist you. On the other hand, if you believe she's a danger to herself or the two of you, turn her out. If anything untoward happens here, or if I don't return in a few days, make your way to the fallback location. Understand?"
The angle of her jaw and stubborn look in her eye told him she was prepared to argue. He would nip that argument in the bud. "That's an order, Scribe Haylen."
Haylen's shoulders slumped in defeat. She knew that he knew she was too well trained to push the issue. Instead, she patted him on the arm and turned to leave. "You should get some rest, Danse. I worry about you, you know," she said gently.
"Negative." He softened his tone. "And… I know you do. I'll be fine. Go get some rack time. I'll come get you if I need a break."
They both knew he wouldn't.
The vault dweller's hysterical screams later that night even reached his ears on the roof of the police station, leading him to believe they were under attack again. As the actual source of her agitation became apparent, he grimly authorized the usage of their last precious vial of sedative before the woman attracted a fresh flood of ferals. If she continued to have such intense flashbacks, they could easily be ripped to pieces before sunrise.
Haylen was right. She'd have to go. He'd give her one of the weapons recovered from the police station armory in the morning, with their thanks, along with enough ammo to last her a few days at least. She needed something with long-range ballistic capability to augment the melee weapon she carried. It was all he could spare.
The next morning he was inspecting and cleaning his armor and weapons one last time for the mission ahead of him. He'd be leaving within the hour for the ArcJet facility. Danse had no choice - he'd have to try to infiltrate the location alone to attempt to retrieve the Deep Range Transmitter. It was their only hope of calling for backup. In truth, it was their last chance. He firmly tried to ignore the feeling of dread deep in the pit of his stomach. If he fell in combat or even failed his mission, there was a very good chance the Commonwealth would consume Gladius, much like Artemis had been seemingly swallowed whole before them.
The vault dweller approached him as he was tightening a loose hydraulic coupling on the left leg of his power armor. He set his wrench down and courteously turned to face her, noting the unconscious twitching in her limbs and wildness in her eyes that was only barely restrained.
"I'm coming with. You need my help." It was the first full sentence she had yet spoken to him.
He looked her over thoughtfully. She did look slightly stronger. It seemed the chemically induced sleep had helped. She was standing on her own two feet, not propped up by any aid. Her head was not drooping and her eyes, if a bit glazed, at least indicated she was living in the present moment and not in the past with the clawed demons that were riding her back.
The dog was standing right next to her as always, tail gently waving back and forth and attentive ears perked forward. Danse had a strange feeling the dog wouldn't allow her to participate in the mission if he sensed she was unable to handle it. A very unusual weathervane to be sure, but he'd encountered stranger situations.
He nodded decisively. "Very well. If you accompany me, we do this quickly, quietly, and by the book. No heroics."
She paled even more, if that were possible, and whispered bitterly, "You're mistaken, Paladin. I'm no hero."
As they worked their way through the facility, Danse realized Haylen's assessment had been correct - the woman was deeply disturbed, perhaps on the brink of psychosis. Frequently, he noticed her hands and limbs quaking with tremors. She often tossed her head wildly as if she were shaking away thoughts that threatened to pull her back into a catatonic state or tip her into hysteria. She spoke as little as possible, only answering him with robotic responses spoken in a flat, dull monotone that caused him to grit his teeth.
Danse also caught hints of what Haylen had sensed in her - the woman was fearless in the sense that it seemed she didn't care if she lived or died. She was just as impassive and unemotional staring down the barrel of a synth's laser rifle as she was when she helped him to his feet after the test engine had unexpectedly fired.
Yet... Danse was forced to reevaluate her. Again. He honestly hadn't expected much out of this vault dweller. He just needed someone there to watch his back - her dog, mainly. He found himself quite dumbfounded when he discovered that she was, in fact, competent. Observant. Willing to obey orders, for the most part. She had the ability to reason and carry tasks out calmly under stress. She was able to easily worm into the various terminals throughout the multi-level building. And amazingly enough, she could pick locks, a skill he had tried and failed at, to his everlasting annoyance. This aptitude spoke of another trait that was a benefit for a Brotherhood soldier - patience.
Danse rapidly arrived at the conclusion that despite her current mental state, she was a worthy candidate for inclusion into their ranks. She had potential, a hell of a lot of it, too. He would extend an offer for her to join the Brotherhood. He even halfway considered offering to sponsor her, if she chose to accept and if permission was granted when backup finally appeared.
Perhaps most importantly, when Knight-Captain Cade arrived, he would be able to provide her with the therapeutic medications and intense psychotherapy she needed to regain her mental equilibrium. He would also be able to tailor a diet for her emaciated frame that would restore much needed body fat and begin to rebuild lean, healthy muscle. True success as a soldier was not possible without a strong mind and body.
To his sincere regret, she declined his offer to join the Brotherhood of Steel. Instead, she eerily looked straight through him and told him she needed to reach Fenway Park. Danse recalled it was an archaic name for the large settlement on their maps called Diamond City. Something about a green monster came to mind. Perhaps a legendary battle had been fought there - he couldn't remember without pulling the reference file back up on his terminal.
They parted ways outside the facility, he with the deep range transmitter carefully cradled against his armored chest, she with his best laser rifle held protectively in her arms. She had blinked her eyes owlishly in disbelief when he presented her with the only compensation he had available to him. To give credit where credit was due, she seemed genuinely appreciative of his gesture, thanking him with an incredulous murmur. He felt good knowing the rifle was in capable hands. More than that, it would keep her safe during her travels.
As he was approaching Cambridge, he realized he had never bothered to learn her name. She and the dog had faded away as quietly as they had arrived.
Two days after the Prydwen arrived, the vault dweller slipped unnoticed back into the police station compound. The site was bustling with activity, causing Danse to overlook her presence until an under-the-breath curse from Rhys alerted him that something was potentially amiss. He spotted her standing in the same location she had been the first time he laid eyes on her. This time she was clad entirely in black, from the toe of her rugged combat boots to snug fitting leather pants and jacket. Even the short cropped hair was the same color; he struggled to recall it if it had been before. He shrugged - it was of little importance.
Gone was the bat; in its place was a giant handgun buckled to her thigh. He imagined her tiny wrists snapping in two from the kickback such a large caliber weapon would have. He was pleased to note the rifle he had presented to her was still with her, slung over her shoulder. Even more pleasing - it looked well cared for. The ever-loyal canine was also still at her side. The dog trotted forward to greet him with a lashing tail and happy, tongue-lolling smile. Danse permitted himself to reach out and scratch behind an ear.
The woman in black picked her way around the crates that were airlifted to their location by vertibird just that morning, gliding her fingers across one of them. To the surviving members of Recon Squad Gladius, the arrival of the crates had meant deliverance in more than one sense of the word. They meant continuity, the end of a one mission and beginning of another, and granted the surety of knowing they were not alone anymore. The cavalry had arrived, and in spades.
Danse was standing near the entrance of the police station; possibly on the very step he had been on the first time she appeared, as she slowly approached his position. He hadn't thought it possible, but she looked even worse this time. Her face held an unnatural grayish pallor and her bottom lip looked like it had been recently bitten through. It was swollen and still seeped blood sluggishly. As he watched, her tongue darted out to clean the blood off, causing him to wince in pained sympathy. He'd had a similar injury once when a vertibird he was riding hit a patch of turbulence over the Potomac and dropped twenty feet in a split second.
The vault dweller's right hand incessantly stroked the butt of the gun - unconsciously, he presumed. If she were truly aware of what she was doing, she would also recognize it was a risky thing to do in a compound full of battle-hardened soldiers who had been pent up with no combat or other outlet for weeks. He glared at the reinforcements warningly - indeed, many pairs of eyes and optical sensors were following her every move with suspicion and overt hostility.
She slowly climbed up onto the same step he was on and then scowled faintly, presumably at the drastic difference in their heights. It was the first indication of annoyance - or any other emotion - he had seen from her, other than the shocking outburst of hysteria. She took one more step up, then another two until they were eye level.
Her voice, when she finally spoke, was warm and dark, like a scrap of velvet he had once found back in the Capital wasteland. "Paladin," she said in greeting.
Her head listed to the side. The force of her exhaustion reached out and unwillingly roped him in. He could feel every ache and pain they both felt in that shared moment, both real and phantom, past and present.
Danse nodded noncommittally in return. "Civilian. I didn't expect to see you again." He allowed a touch of surprise to color his voice.
A frown puckered her brow. "I hadn't intended on coming back. My situation has… changed. If the offer still stands, I'd like to join you."
Her eyes rolled back into her head and she collapsed forward into his arms with the next breath she took.
Danse dryly thought it was becoming a habit to carry this wastelander inside the police station, but carry her he would. Haylen thoroughly checked the woman's unconscious figure over, pronouncing her still acutely malnourished and dehydrated with no small amount of dismay. Haylen had to make five attempts to find a vein sufficient for the smallest gauge needle she had at her disposal to slip in and start providing critically needed fluids via IV.
For good measure, Haylen injected her with a stimpak to quicken cellular regeneration and the production of white blood cells. The vault dweller's breath positively reeked of alcohol, which by no means helped with the seriousness of her present medical state. The stimpak would also flush that particular poison from her system.
Danse was sitting next to her cot located in the quieter side room when she woke. He had been on his feet since before dawn; it was as good an opportunity as any to take a well-needed break. And - he admitted to himself - he was curious. He often thought about her, wondering if she had managed to survive, despite the odds stacked against her. Her eyes opened and she blinked slowly at the ceiling. It occurred to him she might not recall where she currently was. Incrementally, she rolled her head towards him on the thin straw-filled pillow. Her bloodshot eyes held recognition when they met his. It was a positive sign, at least.
"Hello," she whispered. The dog stuck his snout into her hand and whined softly until she fondled his ears and stroked his nose and told him what a good boy he was.
Danse dipped his head in acknowledgement of her greeting. "Did you reach…" What had she called it? Ahh, yes. "Fenway Park?"
"Yes. It's... changed so much since…" Her voice cracked and halted.
The woman struggled to rise. Mindful of the tubing still in her arm and the fragility of her bird-like bones, Danse assisted her to a sitting position. Haylen had removed the stiff leather jacket prior to treatment. Under the thin white tank top she wore underneath the jacket, her chest was even more concave than the last time he had seen her. The fibers in her arms that could laughably be called muscles were wasted away enough he could easily encircle one arm between thumb and forefinger.
Silently, he offered her the can of water Haylen had opened to cleanse the deep wound in her bottom lip. She shook her head wildly - perhaps to banish unwelcome thoughts again - and tried to take a sip with a hand trembling so badly he had to support the bottom of the can and guide it to her mouth.
Danse wasn't quite sure why the mere mention of the settlement could cause such profound sorrow. He had the strange feeling while talking to her that he was just skimming across the surface of a deceptively shallow looking pond. There was an odd depth to her, a peculiar quality that he couldn't quite put his finger on. Perhaps due to her status as a vault dweller?
"Thank you for…" she trailed off and nodded jerkily towards the line in her arm.
"No thanks are necessary. If you plan on joining us, we need to improve your health. What's your name, civilian?"
She licked her cracked lips. "Nora. Nora Sinclair."
It almost sounded like she was testing the name out for the first time. He shrugged. If she was, it was of no matter to him. He himself wasn't completely sure of his entire name. She would be reborn as a soldier in the Brotherhood of Steel. She could choose her own destiny and any name she desired.
She swayed in place for a moment and then pitched forward slowly. He caught her by thin shoulders and steadied her posture. The woman could certainly use a suit of power armor, if only to keep her upright.
Unintentionally, she echoed his thought. "I... need power armor. Will I get my own? Like you? Like them?" She flicked a finger outwards; he assumed 'them' meant the soldiers stationed outside.
Danse nodded. "Standard issue T-60b. Not generally assigned to new recruits, but I'm going to recommend an immediate promotion to Knight. You have what it takes, soldier. You're one of us now."
She made a strange noise that sounded like a cross between a hiccup and a sigh and reached out a small, dirt-encrusted hand as if to touch his shoulder. She clenched it into a fist and returned it to her lap instead.
Curiously, he eyed her. Her tiny body contained such a bizarre mixture of ability and handicap. Danse knew it was an extremely ridiculous thought, but she somehow seemed almost too small to contain all of the confusing, confused puzzle pieces that she seemed to consist of. He didn't know what to make of her, nor how to categorize her. She was unlike any civilian he had previously encountered.
The hand lifted to cover her mouth now. More of the strange sounds were coming out of her, accompanied by heaving shoulders and ah, tears. Tears were spilling out of her eyes and flowing down her cheeks, leaving pale tracks through the veil of road dust on her skin. That explained her… indisposition. Danse craned his neck to the right to see if Haylen was in the next room. If the vault dweller - Sinclair, he reminded himself - was having a breakdown of some kind, she needed the attendance of medical personnel. He was... quite unsuited to this particular task.
To his complete surprise, Sinclair thought otherwise. She gently touched his bicep, regaining his instant attention and regard.
"Please. My baby boy… They have him. The Institute. Paladin, I … need your help. I need you."
With that startling declaration, she fell forward, wrapping her arms around his neck with the tenacious strength borne of desperation and grief. She buried her wet face against his collarbone and clung to him seemingly for dear life as she sobbed uncontrollably. The dog whined again and bumped against Danse's leg urgently.
This. This is why he was in the Commonwealth. He'd received the reports from Proctor Quinlan that morning. Damn this Institute to hell.
It was no wonder she was in such poor condition. It didn't take much imagination or empathy to put himself into her shoes - the loss of her son had to be eating her alive. Correction, it was eating her alive, from the inside out. Haylen's astute guess had been right after all. The intensity of her despair was truly pitiful to take in.
Hesitantly, he dared to pass a hand up and down her spine in a gesture of comfort. Haylen had opened his eyes to the value of nothing more and nothing less than simple physical contact. It would cause him no hardship to try to ease her pain a tiny bit.
To his slightly embarrassed relief, the scribe immediately appeared when she heard the commotion. She sat on the cot next to Sinclair, slid an arm around her quaking shoulders comfortingly, and offered a clean, damp cloth for her to wipe her face and nose.
After her sobs had tapered off, Danse cleared his throat and tapped her knee to gain her attention. "We have a common enemy, it seems. Tell me about your son. When did he go missing? I don't doubt what you're saying, but how do you know the Institute has him?"
The halting, improbable narrative he drew out of her with each successive question caused his heart to alternately stop and leap. When she reached the end of her story - the last incredible handful of events that had prompted her to seek him out - he and Haylen incredulously looked at each other over Sinclair's bowed head. Then, quickly and on her own initiative, the scribe pulled the IV catheter from Sinclair's arm and taped a piece of gauze over the site. Gently, she guided the woman's arms through the sleeves of her jacket and pulled her dazed, unresisting figure to her feet.
In the same instant, Danse bellowed for the vertibird crew to fire the engines on the double and standby for departure. He was gratified to hear the instantaneous thumping of boots jumping to attention. The dog could sense something was about to happen - he circled round and round with excitement, nails clicking rapidly against the wooden floorboards.
This traumatized, grief-stricken slip of a woman was the key to cracking the Institute wide open. The truth of that statement resonated deep in the marrow of his bones. He had to get her to the Prydwen and Elder Maxson yesterday.
The importance of the intel he had just learned far outweighed decorum at that moment; Danse scooped her off her feet and carried her to the roof himself, her dog hot at his heels. Impatiently, he waited for the crew to prep the vertibird. He shielded her from the prop wash of the rotors that were whining to life with his own body, briefly looking down to check on her and drawing her closer to his chest as she sighed deeply and curled trustingly against him. Danse would pull rank, something he rarely did, and insist upon sponsorship of her. He fully intended to become her guardian and keep her safely under his wing and watchful eye at all times.
As newly minted Knight Nora Sinclair acclimatized to her new life in the Brotherhood, Danse became her constant, silent shadow. He was her sponsor and commanding officer; therefore, she reasonably turned to him for reassurance when that life became too overwhelming to bear. He was still very much unused to physical contact that didn't involve attempted murder, but he made an effort to have an available shoulder whenever she needed one.
In the very first hour she was onboard the Prydwen, Cade began working diligently to heal her, both mentally and physically. After quietly observing a few of their daily psychotherapy sessions – at her specific request - Danse privately asked Cade to teach him some of the techniques used during her care. The Knight-Captain had been exceedingly reluctant at first, but once he saw how responsive Sinclair was to her commanding officer's deep voice and calm presence, he had no further objections.
Cade had even less objection to including Danse in the care of his patient when the three of them found out that Danse was the only one who could bully her into eating anything beyond a couple bites of food at a time. The promise of power armor was a powerful carrot on a stick, and one he dangled ruthlessly. Food didn't need to taste good, it was merely necessary fuel for the body, he insisted as she stubbornly balked.
Sinclair was often … difficult to deal with as different layers of trauma and aspects of her personality were uncovered. Danse realized and fully understood that when she became argumentative, paranoid, nonverbal, or downright snaky she was trying her damndest not to drown. He continually reinforced the simple fact that at any time and no matter what the circumstance, she could reach out for the help that was never far away. It didn't take long for her to tentatively seek his help, much as she had done one fateful day in Cambridge.
He couldn't help her completely turn off the ebb and flow of grief, but he could give her an outlet for the rage that was understandably starting to show through the cracks – an outlet in the form of the heavy sand filled bag located in the belly of the giant airship. Sinclair immediately became an apt kickboxing student. She was rarely far from his side, but when she was absent, he knew where he would find her. As she started to gain weight on her frame, he coached her on how to best tone and strengthen her redeveloping muscles.
Once she was taking her first wobbly steps on the road to recovery and jerkily stomping around the airport in her newly assigned suit of power armor, Danse started to earnestly train her to the best of his formidable abilities. During their off-duty hours, Danse ran her through the gamut of coping techniques Cade had taught him until he found a few that really worked for him – and her. He helped her to face her fear head on and push through it, supported her through her ever present torment and inevitable mental breakdowns, and picked her up and dusted her off when she was knocked flat and unable to get back up.
Their first mission together to regain the arsenal in Fort Strong was very nearly a catastrophe, but each successive operation they ran together was smoother and easier. Even though they were often at loggerheads in those early days, he slowly and patiently drew out the potential he'd seen in her and showed her how to harness it and unleash it when necessary.
It became quite apparent that the two of them were well suited in personality and temperament. The traumatized, unraveled creature she had been slowly reknit herself back together into a competent, tough soldier, fully capable of handling anything the wasteland had to throw at her. She was the partner he didn't know he needed.
He and Dogmeat had kept each other company in Cambridge during the long and unexpectedly lonely week she had spent inside the Institute once the molecular relay had finally been finished. Barring that week and minor disruptions of no more than a day or two at a time, he and the vault dweller named Nora Sinclair had each other's backs ever since.
She had gained a protector and champion, and he had gained … a friend. To someone who had been, by choice and necessity, alone for so long, friendship was a far more compelling carrot than anything else he could think of, power armor included.