Chapter Five:
Escalate

Disclaimer: I don't own anything of the Fallout franchise. That is all © to Bethesda. I just (barely) own the slightly fleshed out humdrum backstory and writing contents of this story. Any vague mentioning to any shows/ books/ video games/ songs that are mentioned in this story are all © to their respective owners, I do not own them either.

Note: These twins are my current scrungly blorbos, and I love squeezing them like stress balls. It's therapeutic!

Alliance: None

Companion: Dogmeat

"Boy, that escalated quickly. I mean, that really got out of hand fast!"
"It jumped up a notch."
"It did, didn't it?"
—Ron and Champ, "Anchorman: The Legend of Ron Burgundy"

Quill had to pass nearly every raider's body that he'd put down. They lay sprawled out, undignified, and smelling of blood, piss, and shit.

He covered his mouth to keep from feeling sick again and rushed past the bodies and skittered down the slanting floorboards that had broken through to the basement. The security cage where the fusion core lay at the base, just as Sturges had told him it would be.

Just like in the game, he thought without irony. The cage was still lit inside, and he spotted the fusion core sitting pretty in its cradle. Quill spotted the computer terminal next, sitting in its upraised frame on the outside of the cage. It looked dusty, but it also looked like it was still on.

"Happiness is figuring out how electricity works in the Fallout universe," Quill said to himself. "I think I read that somewhere."

Quill scrabbled over the last few feet down into the dank and brought himself to the terminal. His fingers flighted over the keyboard, before he pressed the enter button. The computer beeped and the screen booted up before a block of text came into view, showcasing a familiar sight to Quill.

He cracked his knuckles and stared over the characters and lettering once it was done loading completely.

"Okay…four guesses, and I already see a few blocks that can eliminate some of these duds and maybe a retry reset…"

He continued to talk to himself as he ran through the entire screen, careful in his selections. He had to pause every few minutes to wipe his hands on his jeans, they were getting so sweaty.

I'm going to smell so gross later, he griped silently. He cleared out another dud and was just about to select one of the words he suspected of being the right one—

"Hey buddy? How's it going down there? No rush, just…raiders incoming, is all!" Sturges' voice came bouncing down the walls to find him in the basement. Quill hesitated, finger hovering over the enter button.

"Just…gotta unlock this gate! I think I'm almost through!"

He stared at the word, at the line of text on the side, studying the patterns he saw. No, the word he had highlighted was wrong. He backtracked farther up the screen and hit enter on a different one.

The computer chimed merrily, and he whooped. "I'm through!"

The computer gave him the option to open the door and he slammed home the command to do so. The security cage door clicked, and he threw himself at it, tossing the door open to snatch the fusion core up.

As soon as he did, the lights inside the cage died, leaving him in the dark. The small burning lanterns, however, provided him enough light to see by and he scrabbled up the slanting floorboards. Up the shattered main staircase, through the winding and narrow hallways and staircases, and back up into the third-floor room Quill flew. Sturges clapped him on the shoulder and Preston looked so relieved, Quill wouldn't have been surprised if he started crying.

"Go, go! Get to that power armor and get that minigun!"

Quill nearly tripped over himself as he hurtled through the torn out hole in the back room. He carefully skirted around the edges of the broken flooring. Quill found the door that would lead himself outside and he burst through, breathing in the air that had grown so frigid it actually hurt to suck in.

It took his eyes a few moments to adjust, but he quickly sighted the power armor, standing upright of its own volition, like a sentinel standing watch.

Quill rushed to it, and he squinted at the dark, the shadows, the swimming and deceitful cast of light that made everything shift before his very eyes. He felt along the back, until he found the depression where the fusion core was supposed to go, and his eyes were beginning to adjust.

He fumbled to get it in, but when it finally clicked and locked into place, he cried out in relief and twisted the wheel on the back. It hissed and popped and flung open, yawning open like the discarded carapace of an armoured insect, waiting for admittance of its new host. Quill shed his weapons first, setting them aside for the time being. He clambered inside when he was done and the inner support bands snapped over his limbs, locking him into the inner structure while the outer metal shell slid shut along his backside.

He drummed his fingers inside the glove compartment, testing his range of motion, and the suit moved as he did.

"Holy shit," he laughed looking down to see his metal digits, opening and closing them in awe. "I'm fucking Iron Man."

"Frank, good to see you're alive. C'mon, let's get him down over here. Thanks Jun, Marcy."

Preston helped ease the burden of Frank's weight from Jun first, and the man nodded mutely as he slunk away. Marcy assisted in getting Frank settled on the ground and Sturges took over to relieve her.

Frank winced and hissed as he splayed his injured leg out at an awkward angle.

"I've got Frank, you go and give that kid cover fire. Something tells me he's gonna need it, even with that power armour protecting his hide." Sturges said.

Preston hesitated, but Frank shook his head at him. A sheen of sweat drenched his face and he glanced at the man's leg. It was in bad shape, having taken a few hits from the raiders. He just hoped that Frank could live, never mind keep the leg. Frank could live with one leg.

"Right. Just…please keep him alive."

Frank was one of the good ones.

Sturges gave him a little salute and set to work as Preston rushed back toward the balcony door. He stopped himself short at the soft calling of his name from Mama Murphy. Anticipation thrummed through Preston, electrifying his nerves, and setting his pulse to racing. He caught a glimpse of the outside situation before he grudgingly turned away to address the older woman. It wasn't good; raiders were skulking down the street, coming in like a pack of mongrels to finish the job they'd started.

"Preston…it ain't good."

"You're telling me. Mama Murphy, please—I need to get back out there."

"No, Preston, honey…there's something else out there. There's something dark and…angry, waiting out there. It's sitting in the darkness, biding its time."

"Worse than raiders? I doubt it."

"It is, it's worse than those raiders. Just…please be careful. And keep that kid alive any way you can. At least until his sister gets here."

"Sister?" Preston queried, brows puzzling. He sidestepped back toward the window to take another cursory glance. He seethed between clenched teeth at what he saw. They were closer, and he couldn't hear anything from the roof. Had Quill reached the power armor? Was it still in functioning enough condition to work? Sturges had said it would be, once it got a fusion core, but that thing's been standing up there for over two hundred years. Anything could have happened to it that even Sturges couldn't see…

"Right. Quill said he had a sister," Preston vaguely recalled, not really hearing himself speak, and he ran a hand tiredly over his face. He was running on fumes. They all were. He wasn't sure if they'd have enough left in them if this plan of theirs didn't work out.

"His sister's the real wild card of the pair, but they work best when they're together. They need each other."

Preston turned his attention to Mama Murphy once more, but Marcy scoffed loudly.

"Oh, spare me, Mama Murphy. We're only out here because of you! Chances are this is where we're gonna die, so we might as well just accept that. That kid isn't going to save us, just like the Minutemen didn't save us back in Quincy—"

"Then go, Marcy! If you don't want our help, then go! Why stay, if all you see is our faults and none of our virtues? Why keeping hanging around if all you're going to do is complain?" Preston snapped back and instantly regretted it. Marcy's mouth popped shut and he could see the ire shuttering on her face. Just for a moment, it came to a standstill, and he could see the cracks in her defenses: the rage and grief and guilt that only a mother could feel in losing a child, a home. Everything.

Jun drew his wife to him, pulling her to his chest and wrapping his arms around her. Marcy allowed herself this minute of reprieve and buried her face in his chest. Jun regarded Preston tiredly, understanding marring the lines of his face.

"We know you're trying your best, Preston. It's okay. She didn't mean it."

Preston's shoulders sagged. "I know. I'm sorry, Marcy. I…I didn't mean that. I really didn't."

Marcy said nothing. Or perhaps she was gearing up for it, ready to catch her second wind—but everyone froze at Quill's voice booming from outside.

"Preston! I got it! I got the power armour and the minigun! Let's get these fuckers!"

Sturges chuckled from his spot on the ground as he tended to Frank's injury. "Sounds enthusiastic. I knew I liked him."

Preston turned back to the balcony and his stomach slithered lower into his abdomen.

Nearly a dozen men and women, all coming to collect. They bore the usual trademark outfits and armoured gear that marked raiders for who they were: a mismatched cobbling of leather and metal armour over road leathers and whatever else they could slap together and call an outfit. All of them, armed to the teeth with pipe pistols and shotguns, rifles and more.

The first raiders were right at the T-junction in the street below.

That's when the scream of a minigun began firing away from the rooftop of the Museum of Freedom, raining hellfire below on the raiders.

Quill was sure the raiders on the street below were screaming. The minigun in his hands was much louder. And yet, the heavy huff and puff of his own breathing was preternaturally loud and suffocating. Sweat soaked inside the helmet, drenching him as he waved the barrel of the minigun back and forth, stopping and starting in short bursts.

"Die, motherfucker, die," was how Quinn explained it to him once. "You don't want to fire for longer than it takes you to say that: die, motherfucker, die. You'll burn out the barrel and melt it down if you keep it going like a firehose. You do that, you'll fuck up the gun and it'll stop working and you won't be able to get it to work, maybe not ever again. Not until you get a replacement barrel attached, if you even have one of those lying around."

So, he kept chanting that in his head, over and over again. He took that advice to heart, knowing his sister knew what the fuck she was talking about.

Die, motherfucker, die. Die, motherfucker, die. Die, motherfucker, die.

Stop and start, stop and start, stop and start.

The end of the minigun hardly got brighter than the lit end of a cigarette. In contrast, he could see red bolts from Preston's laser musket spitting out at the raiders below, keeping them further at bay. One raider got bold enough to try for the front doors.

It's locked, asshole. I made sure of that, Quill thought as he swung the barrel to chase after the man. The bullets ripped along after his feet, pockmarking the road until they caught up with the man himself. A spray of red clouded the air as his legs were ripped out from under him, the thunder of the minigun roaring away. The raider collapsed, either dead or dying from the bloody stumps where his legs used to be.

Quill cursed when most of the returning fire was now concentrated toward him. He heard and could just barely feel the pinging of bullets hitting the power armor. He cried out in shock when one slammed into the plated glass of the helmet's eyeholes. There was a scuff mark where the bullet had struck.

The sound of his own breathing was unbearably loud, louder than the minigun, louder than the screaming raiders, louder than the thudding of his heart—

Fuck, I need to get down there.

He eased his finger off the trigger of the minigun, his heart climbing so high in his throat, it was choking him. Tears were pricking at the corners of his eyes as he weighed the options, the lead weight dragging his stomach down, down, down as the dread climbed right up alongside his aching heart.

Quill cast a downward look over the edge of the museum's rooftop to the ground. His hands were slick with sweat, and he wished he could wipe them clean.

Okay, I am Iron Man, I can do this. Just…jump. You'll be okay. Probably.

The ground looked so far away.

Quill clenched his grip tighter around the minigun, the metal creaking in his armoured hands.

"Go, go, just go, just go—!"

He took the leap; he flailed and choked on spit that he'd swallowed wrong and landed awkwardly on the ground in a sprawl, coughing violently, the minigun flung from his hands. Quill hacked away and struggled to get upright again. Quill looked up in time to see a scrawny kid in baggy leathers running at him full tilt.

No, not him.

The minigun. Quill dove for it, hand clumsily grabbing the handle just as the kid's hand snatched at the barrel. He tried to yank away from Quill, lifting a pipe pistol and firing wildly at Quill.

He got his feet underneath him and tugged the minigun toward him. The kid yelped, the barrel slipping away from him. He made the mistake of chasing after it. Quill reacted on instinct and backhanded the kid. He winced as he heard something crack as the raider went flying, practically rag-dolling across the road. Quill clenched his grip around the minigun's handle again, and he pulled the weapon back into his control.

The bullets were finding him again as he moved down toward the T-junction. A few of the raiders had been downed, but there was still too many. If even one got inside the museum, he didn't think the others had a chance. They were on their last legs, one step away from giving up the ghost.

I can't let them die. This isn't a script. This isn't a fucking game; these people will die if I don't help them!

The reality was finally sinking in, and the panic was beginning to bloom in earnest inside his chest. He brought the minigun to bear, trying his best to not flinch every time a bullet ricocheted off the power armor's surface. He slammed the trigger back after fumbling to find the housing, forgetting the mantra Quinn had taught him. He sprayed over the raiders, cutting them down as he pushed forward and down the main street. Some tried to duck for cover, only to be gunned down or injured so grievously that even if they did manage to crawl away, they'd only die of their wounds shortly after.

He could feel the weight of the power armor weighing on him now. Heavy and cumbersome, his movements were more like a diver inside of an old-school diving suit with hundreds of feet and literal tons of pressure weighing down on him. I'm not going to last much longer.

His energy was flagging, and his arms were beginning to shake within the inner frame of the power armor. I need to end this, and I need to do it now.

OoOoOoOoOoO

The turn of the tide came the moment that minigun began firing down from the roof of the museum. Within seconds, nearly half the raiders' forces were cut down, sharp and quick for most of them. One or two of them managed to crawl away, but Preston doubted they'd live for very long, even if they had a stimpak on them.

Preston kept firing. He only stopped to reload, to roll the crank to prime his shots, to aim at oncoming enemies. He downed two of them, wounded a third. He flinched at a noise behind him, recognizing it was Frank's whimpers of pain, followed quickly by Sturges trying to calm and soothe the man's pains. A cold line of sweat rolled down the side of Preston's temple.

We need medicine or he's not going to make it through the night, Preston thought with a clench of his jaw. He lined up his sights, taking aim—

The whole building shook and Preston staggered, hand flashing out to grab at the railing to keep his footing. He looked down the street, pulse quickening as he searched for the source. If these raiders had a missile launcher or a Fat Boy on hand, they were royally screwed—

He spotted a figure, off down the T-junction to his left, clunky and awkward looking despite its humanoid shape and struggling to get upright.

Quill, he silently pleaded. Get up. Get up, come on.

One of the raiders broke off the from the rest, scrambling after Quill. No, it wasn't Quill he was going after, it was the damned minigun.

Dammit, you should have stayed on the roof!

Quill scrabbled for control, getting a secure hold on the minigun just as the raider tried to yank it away with by the barrel. Quill backhanded the man, and even from up on the third-floor, Preston could hear the almighty crack of metal striking bone as the blow sent him flying. Quill rushed forward, taking up an offensive position to defend the front of the museum. He began to push the raiders back down the street.

A warmth began to grow in the center of Preston's chest at the sight. A growing sense of tentative relief and hope was spreading inside of him. This could be the turning point that they all needed. That Preston himself needed.

Preston began taking aim again, but to his profound surprise, there were even less raiders now. Quill had made quick work of them with that minigun, and any shots fired back at him pinged harmlessly off that power armour.

"Hey Sturges!" Preston called over his shoulder as he lowered his weapon.

"Yeah?" The mechanic drawled back.

"That plan of yours? It's working and then some."

Sturges laughed. "Told ya it would!"

Preston thought he heard Marcy say something, but it was immediately drowned out by a hollow crash of metal. The ground trembled beneath them again, but the shockwave was greater than what Quill had done. It came again and this time, he saw something, further away, all the way down the street at the other end of the main strip. Even the raiders took notice, stopping in their attack completely to take stock of the new element coming into play.

Quill did the same as everyone else: stopped and stared as at the end of the street as the very earth began to tear itself apart. The asphalt shattered and tore into chunks and went flying in all directions. A large metal grate, most likely a sewer access entrance, went flying into the air shortly after, spinning wildly until it collided with the side of a storefront and tumbled to the ground with a massive clang.

Preston flinched with every collision of the grate. One of the raiders, close to the site of the street tearing itself apart, skittered away to covered. Preston took account of how many raiders there were and took little comfort in knowing there was only four left. Just four.

But now we have to deal with whatever that thing is, he thought and then he recalled Mama Murphy's warning just minutes ago.

As if she was reading his mind, her voice warbled ominously in the very still room, "Something dark and angry is here, Preston. And it won't leave until everything's dead."

"Oh, Christ," Sturges said hoarsely besides Preston, startling him. He was staring right outside, at what everyone else was looking at in the streets below. At what was crawling out of the earth like a beast from hell, all leathered scales, and massive spikes, and a mean attitude to go with it. "That's a goddamn Deathclaw if I ever did see one."

Quill began firing the minigun. He didn't need prompting; he didn't wait to see what would happen if he left well enough alone. The raiders began firing away as well, bullets cracking away at the Deathclaw's hide but to little avail.

The massive beast hauled itself onto the street proper, looking like a demon come to life with how the light of the burning fires played off its dark scales and sharp, jagged edges. The Deathclaw roared as it pulled itself to its full height, massive talons on full display. Even from all the way on the other end of the main strip, Preston gritted his teeth at the rough sound.

The Deathclaw wasted no time in getting to work. It lunged with horrifying speed, launching itself over the red pick-up truck toward the closest raider hiding behind it.

Preston couldn't see what happened from there, but from the sudden high-pitched squeal and the sharp cutoff, he didn't need much more than that to know what had happened.

"Retreat! Retreat!"

The raiders were heading back toward the museum, but this time in retreat rather than attack. Preston brought his laser musket to bear and looked down the sights, lined up his shot and took it. Down went one of the running raiders, square in the center mass. What was left of his chest cavity glowed like cheery little embers from a dying fire. One of his raider buddies, too busy looking back behind him to watch the Deathclaw, tripped right over the smouldering corpse. He screamed, kicking the body away when he realized what it was that had sent him reeling to the ground. The others were scattering, trying to find their own way to safety, not bothering to stop and help their fallen comrade.

Cowards, Preston thought. Quill booted the man in the face, sending him flying back toward the monstrous lizard. He screamed all the while, only stopping with a gag when the Deathclaw speared him in the chest. Quill kept on peppering the massive creature with the minigun, stopping and starting to keep from overheating the barrel.

Preston was cautiously optimistic when he saw the red that began to bloom along the Deathclaw's flank. With every bullet slamming into it, it chipped away at its tough armour, leaving it vulnerable and easier to take down—

The gunfire stopped from the minigun entirely. Preston's heart grew petrified in his chest as he waited, breath held tightly in his throat. He broke sight of the Deathclaw to focus on Quill. He was smacking the minigun, shouting obscenities at the weapon. A shrill scream drew Preston's attention and the last raider in sight was being dragged out of a storefront by the leg. The Deathclaw clamped its jaws around the man's thigh and snapped down, using one of its hands to pin the struggling raider down. No doubt one of those claws pierced down into him, because the scream he had built up cut off suddenly. Preston couldn't tell if he was still alive, even as the Deathclaw pulled away a bloody chunk out of the raider's thigh. He immediately withdrew his uncertainty.

Preston's stomach twisted at the sight, and he had to look away for a moment.

That was not an easy or quick death. Being killed by a Deathclaw ended either one of two ways, and that was not the way Preston would wish on even a raider. He turned his attentions to Quill, and his stomach dropped from him completely. Quill either couldn't get the minigun operational again or…or…

"I'm out!"

"Oh, fuck," Sturges hissed besides Preston, shooting him a worried look, brows creasing deeply, jaw set with a clench. "That's…definitely not part of the plan."

The Deathclaw took pause in its snack, red dribbling down its jowls as it seemed to realize that Quill was still moving. Quill was still alive. The Deathclaw didn't like that. It freed its talons from its makeshift meal, reddened muzzle pulled in a snarl as it began moving toward Quill. Stalking, at first. Slow, purposeful.

Then it lunged with all the fury it could muster, its screams deafening as it hurtled itself forward.

"Shit. Shit, shit, shit—!"

Preston took aim and fired away.

"Get out of there, Quill! Run! RUN!"

Even with the power armour, Deathclaws were deadly adversaries. Give them enough time and motivation, they could pry the armour apart as easily as a mirelurk's shell to get to the meat inside. Quill didn't have any of his other weapons on hand, it looked like. Quill turned and fled, rushing as quickly as he could toward one of the stores on the corner of the street. He dropped the minigun. It was dead weight at this point, anyway.

Even with Preston giving the other man cover fire, the Deathclaw ran unhindered, covering huge swathes of ground in mere seconds. Quill just barely managed to get inside the store—only for the Deathclaw to hook the tips of its claws on one of his outstretched legs and yanked him right back out.

It looked almost effortless, the way the big animal snatched up Quill, still clad in the power armour, right out of the air and flung him like a ragdoll. The man screamed and went tumbling gracelessly through the air. Preston kept firing, desperately cranking the handle to get his shots off quicker. Quill slammed into the side of the museum, sending another shockwave through the building.

One hit finally seemed to register, and that was a stray bolt to the face. The Deathclaw roared and scratched at the offended struck area and turned its head in Preston's direction. Even this far away, even in the poorly lit street, he could see the malice that was bright in those yellow eyes. The Deathclaw snarled, looking as though it was weighing its options: either it continued to tear at Quill to pry him out of the power armour, or to go after this new annoyance in Preston.

If it chose the second option, to get to the others in this room with him—and Preston had no doubts, no illusions, that that was possible—it would do it. These monsters weren't natural climbers when they got this big, but they weren't opposed to hauling themselves up given the right motivation—

Something was pounding away somewhere.

Loud. Rhythmic. Too purposeful to be random. It was a beat, a pattern. Like someone beating a drum.

"BUDDY, YOU'RE A BOY, MAKE A BIG NOISE!"

Was that…someone singing?

"PLAYING IN THE STREET, GONNA BE A BIG MAN SOMEDAY!"

"Down there, Preston. I think…I think it's a woman out there." Sturges nodded down, pointing out where the source of the noise was coming from. Just as Sturges had said, Preston saw it was a woman, all the way at the far end of the main street, where the Deathclaw had first emerged. She was sporting her own minigun, but she had it resting on the ground while she beat a broken piece of pipe on the hood of the red pick-up truck.

"YOU GOT MUD ON YOUR FACE, YOU BIG DISGRACE! KICKING YOUR CAN ALL OVER THE PLACE!"

The Deathclaw, still halfway looming over Quill and pivoted halfway toward the museum, turned its head toward the source of the noise. It flicked its forked tongue out, tasting the air. Quill wisely chose not to move so as to not attract the Deathclaw's attention again.

"SINGING, WE WILL, WE WILL ROCK YOU! WE WILL, WE WILL ROCK YOU, MOTHERFUCKER!"

The woman tossed the pipe away and every clang it made was deafening in the sudden silence that had fallen over the world. She hauled the minigun up into her arms, aiming the barrel straight down the street.

"Get the fuck away from my brother, you ugly sad sack of poorly packaged horseshit!"

She unleashed her payload then, punctuating her point with the pull of the trigger. Bullets zipped down the street, slowly at first before picking up the pace and slamming home into their target.

The Deathclaw roared and shifted gears, hurling itself back down the way it had come, straight for the woman. It was only halfway down the street when the bullets stopped.

Preston found everything else in his chest dropping when that happened, terror for everything that's happened up to this point finally slamming home, scorching and unbearable.

Twice?! Two separate weapons, stalling at the exact wrong time?!

Maybe Marcy's right, Preston found the thought coming unbidden, unwarranted. He hated how a small part of him welcomed it. Maybe this is where we'll end up dying.

The scene Quinn found when she arrived in Concord was a chilling one. It reminded her of one too many patrols out on deployment, behind the wire. There was an eeriness to it all. The burnt-out shells of buildings, the detritus left to waste wherever it lay. Signs of both long-term abandonment and recent lived-in conditions. There were many places boarded up, and many others having been pried into.

There was no silence to be found here, no peace of mind. Even with half her hearing gone to shit, Quinn could make out the faint, rapid popping of guns going off, and the chaos of it all drew her like flies to honey. Even the strain and fatigue of the last few miles seemed to melt away as she got closer until she turned down the final street and came across the carnage of downtown Concord.

A giant of bone and leathery armour arose out of the earth, tearing apart metal and blacktop with horrifying ease. Dogmeat offered no reprieve in the situation either. His hackles were permanently standing at attention as he growled and snarled and snapped madly at the beast, yet he didn't dare get any closer than he was. She could tell he was scared with how he paced and presented himself. Quinn directed him aside, hoped he'd be smart enough to stay behind. She couldn't tie him off, couldn't lock him away to protect him.

Quill had been right. This thing was massive, larger than any bear she'd ever seen. She was willing to bet it probably even weighed more. Seeing it in action and how swiftly it was moving, she doubted two things: she could take it head on and that she could outrun it.

This wasn't some dying beast, vivisected in half after a harrowing battle with another monster, begging for release from the mortal coil. This was a whole and healthy specimen, looking for a fight and not taking a loss for an answer.

Quinn knew she had to pick out how to approach this battle.

She rushed ahead, leaving Dogmeat to linger behind and ducked behind one of the local store fronts. She paused long enough to wedge the extra gun bag and her pack in the dark corner of the stoop behind some rubble. She could hear the Deathclaw tearing through a cadre of raiders she'd spotted moments before the great beast had made its grand entrance. Judging from the shrill start-and-stop screaming, that giant was making quick work of them. Quinn did a quick overlook of the minigun she had on hand; making sure the feed belt wouldn't jam, how much ammo she had left, the whole nine yards.

If I know Quill, he's around here somewhere. He's always getting into trouble, intentionally or not. She could feel him close by. And he was most likely in the thick of it, as usual. Always biting off more than you can chew, aren't you, baby brother?

Quinn snapped everything back into place and hefted the minigun back into her hands. She made for the T-junction of the street. There were trashcans ablaze, placed at random, giving the place some illumination. The Deathclaw had finished off the last of the raiders, having torn through them like wet tissue paper. Quilt tilted her head to listen with her good ear and she could make out the roar of another large machine gun blazing away.

Just as Quinn was pulling herself up to the end of the street, she spotted another figure at the opposite end. Larger, bulkier and broader, almost mechanical in nature. She caught a glimmer of a metallic sheen to them and her mind went straight to armour.

"Is…is that War Machine?"

She was forced to duck back under cover as a wave of bullets came screaming down her way. All spray, no control.

Yep, that's Quill. Doing exactly the opposite of what I fucking taught him.

The bullets stopped suddenly, and they didn't start up again. She counted the seconds, for they were precious and could mean the difference between life and death. The silence persisted and it made her blood run cold.

Crap! Does he know how to clear a jam properly or feed the ammo belt back into place when he's done? He was firing for too long; did he melt the fucking barrel? Idiot!

All good questions, and she had no clear way of getting those answers. Quinn hauled up the minigun again, her arms straining from having to heave it around so much and for so long. Just a little longer, King. Don't you dare drop out now! Last leg of the journey, let's make it all the way!

She pushed her way back to the junction of the street, just in time to see the armoured figure go sailing through the air. Red bolts were firing away at the Deathclaw from a balcony of the building they were in front of, prompting it to turn and roar. Even from this far, she could tell it was hardly having an effect on the creature, though.

Quinn hip-checked the red pick-up truck as she slid into it. She dropped the minigun and cursed, sweat covering the palms of her shaking hands. She hesitated in grabbing the handle, and instead snatched up a lead pipe.

Gotta get that thing away from Quill, she thought as she stood and began smacking the hood of the vehicle.

The words tumbled out of her mouth unbidden next as she played a familiar beat. It seemed, in her mind, apropos.

"BUDDY, YOU'RE A BOY, MAKE A BIG NOISE! PLAYING IN THE STREET, GONNA BE A BIG MAN SOMEDAY!"

The firing red bolts ceased from whoever else was still alive and kicking. The Deathclaw paused in its attack and turned its attentions to her. That's right. That's right, big guy. Look at me. Don't look at Quill, look at me. Look at the soft squishy, not the metal tin can man.

Quinn continued to beat away on the car, belting out Freddy Mercury's lyrics as loud as she could.

"YOU GOT MUD ON YOUR FACE, YOU BIG DISGRACE! KICKING YOUR CAN ALL OVER THE PLACE!"

The Deathclaw was turning away from her brother. Turning away from everything on that far end of the street. That was good.

"SINGING, WE WILL, WE WILL ROCK YOU! WE WILL, WE WILL ROCK YOU, MOTHERFUCKER!"

Boom. Boom. Boom. The pipe in her hands reverberated up her arm and thrummed through her body with each strike until she made. The giant beast took a menacing step toward her. Then another. And another.

Quinn tossed the pipe away and slung the minigun back into her hands, finger curling over the trigger.

"Get the fuck away from my brother, you ugly sad sack of poorly packaged horseshit!"

The world faded to white noise as the minigun in her hands roared to life. Every few rounds were tracers, giving her a frame of reference as to where her shots were going. The Deathclaw bellowed and hurtled itself forward, crashing over makeshift barriers and knocking over two of the burning trash barrels.

The minigun abruptly stilled and went silent in Quinn's hands. The ringing that had grown deafening in Quinn's left ear was all she could hear. Not the thundering smash of the animal as it was bearing down on her, not the barrel-chested pants and growls it emitted, not the barking of Dogmeat barely rising above the din.

"Oh, you gotta be fucking kidding me," Quinn groaned as she ditched the minigun—fuck trying to troubleshoot it—and dove for the broken-down doorway of the corner store. She could feel the sheer force of the heavyset animal that gave chase to her just from the pull of the air behind her. She made a mad dash toward the back of the store—it appeared to be a diner or a café of some sort—and found a set of stairs by the far back wall. They were clear of any debris or blockades.

Sound seemed to choose that moment to rush back in. Instead of the combination of white noise and almighty ringing, her world was filled with the crash and thunder of roars and splintering wood and glass. The Deathclaw burst through the storefront, sending detritus flying after her backside. She cried out as it struck her, but she managed to slam into the wall and ping-pong onto the stairs, scrabbling madly on feet and hands up the narrow passage.

Something slammed into the bottom steps where she'd been moments ago, but she didn't dare look back. Instead, she blindly groped at her quiver, where she'd stuffed a few frag grenades in the front pocket. She was counting her lucky stars that those raiders at the satellite station had had them. Quinn pulled the pin and tossed the grenade down the steps right as she cleared the top.

A pained howl sounded off behind her as the explosion shook the building. A few planks of the floorboards burst upward, ripped up nails and all, flying upwards into the air. Quinn shielded her face, finding herself in a living space—an apartment, perhaps the residence of the store's owner, now long-gone. A clawed appendage smashed through the floor and raked through the wooden floorboards. Quinn dove out of the way, hissing as she slammed into a side table. Her shoulder flared with new pain as she pushed herself back up to her feet, stumbling once or twice. Another fist full of talons burst through the flooring, ripping the boards down into shredded splinters. Quinn caught a flash of yellow eyes and a maw full of teeth in the gaping hole left behind, staring at her with absolute malice.

Fuck, fuck, fuck!

She bounced off one wall, and then another until she found herself at another set of stairs—and discovered that half of them have been smashed to hell and back.

"Oh, you've got to be kidding me—!"

She yelped as the Deathclaw once more burst through the floorboards, the spiked hump of its backside tearing and catching on the wood, one muscular arm scrabbling for purchase, reaching for her. Quinn turned on her heel and leapt. The air gushed out of her lungs as her torso slammed into the broken piece of staircase, struggling to get her foot hooked up for better leverage. She could hear the monster coming for her, forcing its way through the floor beneath her to do so.

Quinn finally managed to swing one leg up and hefted herself up onto the third-floor landing. She took out another frag grenade, pulled the pin, and chucked it while shouting, "Fire in the hole!"

The floor rocked violently beneath her, dislodging a number of planks momentarily as it went off before slamming haphazardly back into place. The Deathclaw thundered away at having been hit a second time. If it were possible, it sounded even angrier than before.

She'd reached an attic space of some sort. Part of the roof had caved in, and she rushed toward the open air, catching herself on the edge and leaning out.

Nothing but the sky above and the streets below. The truck was off to her left on the other side of the road, some of the light had been extinguished thanks to the Deathclaw…

The floorboards beneath her rumbled and shook violently, the massive beast slamming into the wood like a battering ram. Quinn stepped out onto the gutter, testing how well it would hold her weight. It groaned in protest, but it didn't sag or buckle. Quinn slid along while hugging the roof against her backside. She caught a glimpse of movement in one of the broken holes of the roof. One of those large, clawed hands punched through, tearing away at the flooring. She scurried faster, spotting an out that might actually work. Or not, either way—it was a risk.

"Okay, okay. Hey, asshole! You want me?! Come and get me!" A sharp, hysterical laugh broke past her lips before she could stop it as the pieces all fell into place inside her head. There was a banner strung up between the buildings, still standing even after two hundred-something years. Let's just hope it holds me!

She felt more than heard the beast breaking through the third floor at last, it roars earsplitting. Quinn stole one last glance inside through another pockmarked hole, heart jackhammering against the backs of her ribs. She fumbled inside her quiver, fingers clasping around another frag grenade.

Two more, she counted to herself. One more for up here. She nearly lost her footing as the building shuddered, and she scrabbled desperately to keep from falling. She clutched the grenade in hand in a white-knuckled grip, waiting for the shaking to stop. Quinn took a deep breath and began counting backwards in her head.

Ten.

She hooked her finger in the pin and yanked it out.

Nine.

She tossed the grenade into the attic space and screamed, "Eat this!"

Eight.

She heard it bounce once, but the rest was lost with the bellowing of the Deathclaw.

Seven.

Quinn bunched up her legs and leapt, suddenly airborne as she aimed herself for the rope upholding the street banner.

Six.

The Deathclaw rammed its head through one of the already-splintering window frames, jaws chomping with audible, bony snaps. She could sense it trying to slash at her from behind, could imagine just how close those claws got to her. Again, the sheer force of displaced air that whooshed behind her was enough of an indicator.

Five.

Quinn's fingers looped around the rope, and she snapped her hand around it, feeling it pull taut beneath her sudden weight. She clung tightly to her literal lifeline. From this high up, she'd be lucky to walk away if this didn't slow her fall.

Four.

A holler sounded off like a siren behind her, deep and concussive, along with the sound of wood screaming as it was torn to shreds. The ringing in her ears grew to a crescendo.

Three.

The banner's anchors failed in that moment, and one side broke apart, sending her careening to the ground. The other side held, thankfully enough.

BOOM.

The blast's shockwave hit Quinn's backside like a heavy-handed slap from a steel wall. Her chest seized up in surprise, and she lost her grip on the rope as she tumbled head over heels on the ground.

Two.

Quinn brought her arms up to shield her face until she came to a sudden stop, her back hitting the sidewalk curb with a slam. She shook as she heaved breaths in and out of her.

One.

Slowly, she pulled her arms down and looked up, heart still going a hundred miles an hour. Quinn raised her attentions to the building across from her, waiting for the dust to settle.

Half the Deathclaw's torso was dangling from the hole it had created with its massive frame and the grenade's blast. One arm was clutching at the frame of the hole, the other arm hanging limply. Quinn tilted her good ear in its direction, and she could hear it still breathing heavily. The Deathclaw could barely lift its head. From what she could see, half of the flesh on its head had been burned right down to the bone, giving it a perpetual, blackened sneer. The massive beast twitched, and it managed to twist its head to the side just enough to view her with its remaining eye and it growled.

A laugh burbled up from within her chest, high and shrill and off-key. Her ears were suddenly so stuffed up and ringing. She could barely hear anything now.

"Florida Man, eat your fucking heart out."

Quinn struggled to sit upright and bit back a whimper. She tested her motion, wriggling all ten of her fingers and all five of her toes. Satisfied that she hadn't dislocated or paralyzed something or worse, lost another limb, Quinn began to work to get her bow off of her back. The bowstring thwanged noisily as she finally freed it from her body. Her shoulders and back screamed in protest when she attempted to set up a good shot. That tumble did more of a number on her than she thought.

Can't get my arms working right. Not both of them, anyway.

The Deathclaw shuddered and began flexing its dangling arm. Think fast, think fast.

Quinn thought back to the last frag grenade in her quiver. She fumbled at the flap and pulled it out, along with a bit of extra cord she always kept on hand.

"Faster, faster. Stupid hands, work!"

Every slip had her heart beating harder, faster inside her chest as she tied off the grenade to the end of an arrow.

"Fuck, I'm either going to be the luckiest one-legged bitch around here, or the stupidest."

Her work was less than stellar, but it would hold. It only needed to hold for a few, precious seconds. Quinn curled one leg for a frame and kicked her other atop it. She braced a foot against the arm of the bow, steadying her aim and nocked back the bowstring.

Can't hold this for much longer, she thought as she yanked the pin out of the grenade and released her payload. The arrow flew, listing a little heavier than she'd hoped, but the tip slammed home, right into the Deathclaw's vulnerable throat. Its scream cut out suddenly at the projectile embedded in its leathery flesh.

Three, two, one.

BOOM.

Everything disappeared into a white flash of heat and belching black smoke and red. Quinn groaned, letting her head loll back, catching a sky full of stars above her. The tiny pinpricks of light blurred together.

"Sorry, buddy. I'm really sorry. Wish it could have ended differently."

Additional Notes: Gotta love Queen, y'all!