#Deacon needs to just play Somebody's Watching Me when he follows Sole around

[fallout-fucker]

As much as I don't wanna take away from the 50's aesthetic of Fallout, a part of me wonders if any other country did progress past that era, mostly for the music and cultural movements. Like, how do we know the UK wasn't in a 70's hippie and/or 80's punk reminiscent era?

Sometimes I get this little headcanon that a lot of the same songs and music genres that came out of like the 50's-90's, perhaps even to the 2010's, still exist in the Fallout universe. Maybe not every artist, understandably, but a few? But the reason that there's only 50's music is that at some point a few decades before the Great War, America quietly and gradually banned the majority of music genres and songs because they didn't fit into the 'Clean, good, family-friendly' American culture they wanted. Also, it was a move the government made to control the populace. Take away art and music and things that could add to the already existent tensions due to the Resource Wars and such, and there are fewer things to stir the pot. If people aren't inspired by music and its influence, then maybe they won't be influenced to make a stand. It was a way to control them and keep them peaceful. Bring in more songs about love from the 50's, and people start settling down like in the 50's. Want people to embrace nuclear energy and robots, even if they're potentially a radiation risk? Atom bomb, baby! Have a few party songs, a few innuendo-filled songs (The Wanderer, Rocket 69), and one or two slightly political ones (Anything Goes), and they still think they have a choice.

The reason there's only a few songs in the games isn't just because they're the ones that survived the bombs, it's also because they're the ones deemed acceptable by the government and the rest were already destroyed. When I do think about this stuff, I always imagine people smuggling holotapes of music into the US.

Maybe Sole had a couple pirated holotapes? Maybe they never will again and that sucks. The 'Wealth might not even know there's other music. Perhaps Daisy heard some? Perhaps they try to remind one another how a particular song went, or what the missing lyric they can't recall is. They bond over hating the limited amount of songs now compared to what it was. It was bad enough when the US government discreetly banned ABBA, but now there's nothing. If Sole has to hear one of those songs again and nothing else, they'll go storming old recording studios and illegal Pre-War clubs themselves to find other music.

What I'm saying is, I would find it funny if the US is stuck listening to the same 40 songs, whilst people in other countries could be popping everything they have to Dancing Queen or Barbie Girl.

I like the mental image of someone fighting for their life against raiders to Gimme, Gimme, Gimme, or fighting glowing rats to Toxic by Britney Spears. What if Fallout-verse Taylor Swift is like 90-something when the bombs drop, and is now roaming the Wastes as a Little Old Lady Ghoul and the locals dub her as 'Granny/Grandma Ghoul'.

/Joke/Shitpost/

[fallout4reactsblog]

Companions react to in-game glitches and other inconsistencies happening around (/being used by Sole)? Flying on an engine, cars jumping around spinning at crazy speed, corpses/items moving like they're possesed, settlement structures hovering in the air with a single ladder piece attached, people "swimming" on land, instantly getting all items from a smallest piece of meat... (Just not normal gameplay features like saveloading and Pip-boy stopping time, but 100s of items in pockets will do)

 Cait: She wiped the sweat off her brow, letting her ball bat hang loosely at her side. A trail of blood followed her fingers as her eyes surveyed the room, taking in the blood, guts, and general gore that now decorated the floor and walls. Her and Sole sure had made a mess.

They folded their arms, a satisfied smile on their face. “The loot’s gonna be great. You take that half of the room, I’ll take this half?”

“Yeah, alright.”

She moved toward her half as sole crouched down in front of a man whose head had been cracked open like a walnut, brain spilling out of the ruined shards of his skull. Without hesitation, sole picked up a lump of brain flesh, turning it over in their hands before sinking their fingers in.

“Sole, what the fu-”

Her words stopped short as sole pulled a 10 mm pistol from the chunk, looked it over and made a face, then tossed it to the side. They pushed their hand in again, this time emerging with a stimpack, which they tucked into their pocket.

“What the fuck?” Cait whispered as sole pulled out several pieces of armor, a set of road leathers, and a tattered but still-intact box of InstaMash.

Sole looked up, the box still in their hand. “What’s wrong?”

“You just- all that- from one chunk of brain?”

“Uh, yeah? That’s the stuff they had on them. Not much of interest.”

“Normal people don’t do that.”

They just laughed.

“I’m serious, sole. That’s fucked up. You can’t pull a pistol out of somebody’s brains and not expect people to look at you funny!”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

Curie: “Madame/Monsieur, do you think that man is… alright?”

“Which one?” Sole looked up from their drink, peering around the bar.

“The man over there, who is having a seat on, ah, nothing.”

Sole squinted toward where Curie was pointing, and sure enough, some strange man was relaxing next to a table, seemingly comfortable in a ninety degree squat. He took a sip of beer as if to prove it.

They hummed, eyebrows furrowed. “Goodneighbor folks sure are strange, huh?”

“I do not think he is well.”

“Maybe he’s just had a bad dose of Jet? Or too much to drink?”

“Best not to stare, I think. It is not polite, oui?”

They laughed a little and turned into their drink. “I suppose so. let him do what he needs to do.”

“At the very least, it will be an excellent workout for his thighs.”

Danse: He’d pinch the bridge of his nose, if not for the power armor, so he settled for folding his arms instead.

“Sole. Carrying all of that junk around is just going to slow you down. Let it go.”

They huffed, shoving another tin can into their pocket. “They have more uses than you think they do.”

“Is the same to be said for the empty beer bottles?”

“Actually,” they said, scooping two up and shoving them into the same pocket, “it is.”

“The alarm clocks?”

“Even more useful.”

“The typewriter?” he asked, watching them shove a whole one into the chest of their vault suit, never to be seen until they found a workbench.

“The most useful of all.”

He eyed how smooth the pockets of their suit were, despite the number of items he knew they were carrying. He was surprised they had room for junk at all, given the number of weapons, ammunition, and armor they were carrying.

“Sole, how strong are you, exactly?”

“Not sure,” they replied, scooping up a screwdriver and a hammer, tucking them into the same pocket the tin cans and beer bottles had gone into.

“Better question, how do you manage to pack all of those items into your pocket?”

They looked down at the pocket, which hadn’t even begun to look full. “I don’t know. I just put stuff into there until I can’t carry any more.”

“That works?”

They shrugged. “Somehow. How do you think I get you to carry all that stuff?”

His eyebrows shot up. “I’m carrying things?”

“Uh-huh. You’re great at it.”

“What am I even carrying it in?”

They just smiled at him. “Does it matter if I take it all out after?”

“Yes. It does.”

They refused to answer, and all Danse could hope was that they didn’t try to store things in his power armor joints.

Deacon: “Hey, sole, come over here a sec.”

Sole wiped the super mutant blood off their arm, flicking it to the side as they picked their way over to him. “What’s up?”

He pointed wordlessly at the body of a super mutant that was slowly sinking into the ground, headless. Sole stood silently at his side, watching the Earth slowly devour the carcass, inch by inch consuming it. They seemed to stand there for hours as it sank. There was no sound, no wet sucking or movement of Earth. Simply a super mutant defying any laws of physics that Deacon had ever known.

When all was said and done, and the last of the body had disappeared, Deacon nodded sharply. “His soul and body are with Todd now.”

Sole stared at him a moment before laughing, an ugly snort-laugh that turned their voice up an octave. “Todd? Who the hell is Todd?”

“I don’t know,” he said, giggling a little himself. “Someone who likes super mutants I guess.”

“He must like them a lot!”

They laughed a moment longer, then sole sighed and reached into their pocket for a tin can. Solemnly, they placed on the spot that the super mutant had disappeared.

“Here lies Howard, consumed by Todd. May he find his peace.”

“Howard is a terrible name for a super mutant.”

They stuck out their tongue at him. “I don’t see you coming up with any ideas.”

“Super mutants need weird names, like ‘Blood’ and ‘Guts’ and, uh…”

“Hamburger,” sole supplied.

He nodded sternly. “Exactly. Now you’ve got the hang of it. Here lies Hamburger. May he find peace with Todd.”

Sole placed another tin can on top of the other with a flourish, and they walked away, discussing other good super mutant names.

Gage: “Boss, I’ve got a question.”

“Shoot.”

“How, uh, solid would you say the average ghoul is?”

“Depends on the ghoul. Bloated ghouls are about ten percent, because they’re all, y’know, bloated. Your standard run-of-the-mill crazy ghoul is about forty percent. They get pretty squishy because of the rads. Sane ghouls are a solid eighty, which is higher than the human seventy, because they lose a lot of soft tissues.”

“So they should not be able to be halfway through walls?”

They hummed thoughtfully. “Not unless they’re in a hole.”

He eyed the wall the ghoul was stuck in, nudging it with the butt of his gun, and determined it to be quite solid. “No hole. Just a ghoul through a wall.”

“Gage, ghouls can’t go through walls if the wall is solid. Someone chopped a ghoul in two and mounted it on either side of the wall.”

He poked at it a little more. “It’s definitely in one piece, boss.”

“Gage.” Their tone was warning. “I’m going to come over there, but if I find out you’re fucking with me, or pulling my leg, I’m going to kick your ass. Got it?”

“Yeah, sure.”

They appeared at his side, almost scarily quiet. He gestured to the body vaguely, half-disgusted.

“Yeah, they shouldn’t do that.” Sole nudged at the thing with their boot, making a face. “Just leave it.”

“Doubt I could get it out of the wall anyway.”

They snorted, then leveled their pistol to put one round in its back. Gage leapt away as the wall suddenly decided the ghoul shouldn’t be in it and launched it across the room. Sole’s hand shot out as if to protect him, and they stared at it a moment.

“Just leave it,” he echoed.

“No kidding.”

Hancock: He stared down the road at the body of a now-dead raider, one hand gently rubbing his forehead. He turned back to sole, who was now shaking out their wrist. He looked back down the road.

“Damn, this batch of Jet is fucked.”

“What makes you say that?”

“I swear you punched that guy all the way down the street.”

“Oh, uh, yeah. That actually happened.”

“Huh?”

He peered back down the street, suddenly trying to put reality together where he thought there was only illusion. “So, how strong did you say you were?”

“Definitely not strong enough to punch a guy down the block, I’ll tell you that.”

He considered that. “So the Jet’s not fucked, but physics is?”

They laughed. “Seems so. Gravity decided to not come in today.”

“Hey, he earned it. Hardest worker around. Let him take a vacation, right?”

“As long as I don’t go floating off, I’d love to keep punching people and watching them fly away.”

“Pretty entertaining if you ask me.”

They turned to him with a mischievous smile. “Bet it’s even better on Day Tripper.”

“I’ve got some of that. Right, ah, here.” He pulled a bottle of pills from his pocket, shaking it enticingly.

“Well, let’s go find some more raiders and see if we can make it happen again.”

MacCready: He stretched out, listening to the bones in his back pop. “I say we call it a night. It’s dark, and I’m getting tired.”

“I could go for a nap,” they replied, though they didn’t look all that tired. “I think that Outpost Zimonja is close to here, we can catch some shuteye there.”

“It’s safe?”

They chuckled. “Should be. I built the place myself.”

“I guess it’ll have to do then,” he said teasingly. “Though how good your judgment is, no one knows.”

“Jury’s still out,” they replied, happily playing along, “but the other settlers aren’t complaining yet.”

They made their way to the settlement, sky darkening around them. Sole pushed through the gate at the front of the settlement, and showed him past the turrets and guard tower to the rest.

It was small but otherwise cozy, and sole beckoned him over to the workbench. “I need the stuff you’re carrying for me.”

“Sure.” 

He rifled around in his pockets, passing every item to sole’s outstretched hands. That it took a few minutes was expected, but after the tenth desk fan and thirtieth ball peen hammer, he was getting suspicious at the amount of stuff he was finding on him. How did he carry that much weight? It seemed, well, impossible.

“That should be it,” they said after nearly twenty minutes, tucking a handful of pencils into one of the workbench drawers. “Thanks.”

He stared down at his thin arms, trying to imagine how he hadn’t even noticed all the items he’d been carrying. “What the heck did you do to me?”

“Oh, with all the stuff you were carrying. I just asked you to pick it up. You don’t seem to notice when I ask you to grab it for me, as opposed to when I hand it to you myself, so I just asked you to grab the junk I couldn’t carry.”

“But- I- I don’t-”

They slapped a hand on his shoulder. “Try not to think about it too hard. Let’s just get some rest, okay?”

“Sure,” he said, but the way his thoughts were spinning told him he wouldn’t be sleeping at all.

Nick: “Sole,” he said, honestly trying his hardest not to laugh, “you can’t do that.”

“And why not?” They grinned at him, hands on their hips, clearly pleased with their work.

“It’s just- It’s not right sole. You can’t put beds in walls and expect everything to be okay.”

“I think I can,” they replied. “The settlers can sleep in it just fine.”

“How the hell do they do that?”

“Simple. They lay in the wall too.”

That was enough to make Nick Valentine, synth detective, lose his composure, and he burst out laughing. Not a small giggle, either, a full laugh, one that left him doubled over and leaning against the wall for support. He hadn’t laughed so hard in a long time, but the thought of some poor settler laying in a wall to sleep had him in absolute fits.

When he finally calmed, only a smile lingering on his face, he gestured to the half-inside, half-outside bed and simply said, “How?”

“Oh, silly Nick,” they teased. “It’s on a rug! Don’t you know that if it’s on a rug, it can do anything? I can put beds through walls, I can put bookshelves though walls, I can put anything through a wall, as long as it’s on a rug.”

“Oh my God.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, still smiling. “I don’t even want to know how you figured that out. So you saw the ways you could break all the rules and immediately decided you’d put beds through walls.”

“Of course! What else does one do with such power?”

He shook his head. “I don’t know. Are you going to put the bed back inside?”

“Heavens no. Then it wouldn’t be funny at all, just boring. It’d look like every other house out there.”

“It does add a certain, ah, uniqueness I suppose.”

They bumped his shoulder with theirs. “Now you get it.”

Preston: “Sole, when I asked you to build a settlement in Hangman’s Alley, you know this isn’t what I meant.”

They shrugged. “You said to build a settlement, so I did.”

He raised an eyebrow, still staring at the supposed settlement they’d built. A single staircase touched the ground, and the rest of the building expanded from that, hovering above a grid of garden plots that held the crops and water pumps that fed the settlement. As impressive as it was, he couldn’t imagine it was safe.

“I know what you’re thinking.” They spoke before he could even open his mouth. “I promise that it’s safe. I just got tired of building the same old buildings over and over again, so I wanted to do something different. I tested it before I let anyone in and I did the math, and I swear that it’s not coming down anytime soon.”

He glanced over at them, and though they were his general, all he saw in their eyes was a need for approval. Maybe a hint of embarrassment at having been caught, but mostly a need for him to trust them and like it as much as they did.

“Well,” he sighed, turning back, “it’s definitely new. And practical, given the small space.”

“Do you like it?” Their voice was so hopeful, so bright, and yet so fragile.

“Yeah,” he said with a smile. “I like it a lot.”

“Do you want to have a look inside.”

“I’d love to.”

X6: “You cannot fly.”

“Yes I can,” they said cheekily.

“No, you cannot.” He folded his arms. “Not without the assistance of some sort of machine.”

They held their hand out. “Give me your jacket.”

He raised an eyebrow, clearly conveying his displeasure with that idea.

“I promise to give it back,” they huffed. “I’ll even clean it for you after. I just want to show you that I can, in fact, fly.”

He considered the offer a moment, then begrudgingly removed his coat. Their face lit up and, for a brief moment, he almost didn’t regret it.

“Alright, X6. Watch and learn.”

He watched, slightly curious, as they laid the coat on the floor, the crouched down and positioned themselves so they were standing on it. He almost protested their dirty boots on the leather, but they had offered to clean it, so he decided against it.He simply observed them grab to solid handfuls of fabric, getting a good hold on it, and then he watched them jump.

And somehow, they stayed there, floating in the air on top of his coat.

He slid his glasses down his nose, and softly murmured, “Holy shit.”

“See?” They jumped again, rising further into the air. “I told you I could fly.”

“You did. My apologies, ma’am/sir. Though I would recommend you bring this to the attention of our scientists immediately.”

They released their hold on the coat, falling gracefully to the floor. “Why, you think they’d be interested?”

He leveled a stern look at them over his glasses. “You just broke physics, ma’am/sir. I think the term ‘interested’ is an understatement.”

[flourhurricane]

Fallout Week: Day 5, July 19th

Old or New?

...

Old World Soldier

Fandom: Fallout, Fallout 4 Rating: General Category: F/M Characters: Paladin Danse, Claire Lockhart (Sole Survivor), Knight Rhys, Scribe Haylen, Deacon, Dogmeat. Pairing: Paladin Danse / Female Sole Survivor Summary: “Don’t really have a home... not anymore.” Knowing very little about the civilian who saved his and his recon team’s lives, Danse asks Claire about her past. Takes place after Call to Arms, but before Jewel of the Commonwealth is completed. Word Count: 2783

Update: Edited and now posted on AO3!

...

Danse knew there was something unique about his new civilian contact. During their mission inside ArcJet Systems, Claire Lockhart followed orders and performed like an experienced soldier. But the Commonwealth lacked a military presence. There were the Minutemen but they were an inefficient, ragtag group without discipline or honor, and they had disbanded months ago.

Perhaps Claire came from the west and was a former NCR soldier. Her accent wasn’t native to the Capital Wasteland or the Commonwealth, or any settlements in-between. She spoke in a down-to-earth manner, with a charming drawl, and Danse was surprised by how much he enjoyed listening to her talk. He even found it amusing when Claire argued with Rhys: the madder she became, the more she enunciated her words.

“If you really don’t want any more of my help, I can just leave.”

Danse glanced up from his weathered copy of Riders of the Purple Sage as Claire and Rhys entered the police station, their hair and coats dusted with late November snow. Her dog with the peculiar name greeted her at the door, his tail wagging madly. Her friend with the sunglasses and pompadour wig remained seated at the corner table, playing a video game on her Pip-Boy. Haylen was at the terminal, writing her daily report. Danse was almost certain he heard her chuckle under her breath.

“Look, civilian,” Rhys fumed. “You may have helped Top recover that transmitter, but that doesn’t make you qualified to boss me around.”

“Boss you around?” Claire and Dogmeat continued to follow Rhys, hindering him from starting his lookout duties. “I wasn’t bossing you around,” Claire insisted. “All I did was offer to split up the night shifts. Y’all could get an extra hour of sleep. I don’t mind--”

“You’re not a Brotherhood soldier.”

“That didn’t seem to matter when I killed all them feral ghouls.”

Rhys turned around and glowered down at Claire. “Didn’t you hear me the first time, civilian? I don’t want your help!”

Dogmeat growled at Rhys for raising his voice, placed himself in front of Claire, and bared his yellowed teeth. Danse watched as Rhys stepped back, but he could tell the Knight was too aggrieved to walk away.

Danse dropped his book onto the front desk and rose from his chair. “Rhys, stand down,” he ordered.

Rhys switched his attention to his commanding officer. For a second, his anger simmered beneath his skin, reddening his face. (Or perhaps it was embarrassment. Everyone was now staring at him.) Then he complied and backed further away from Claire. Dogmeat’s stance relaxed. He slid down to the floor, but kept one paw on his mistress’ boot.

Danse continued, “Ms. Lockhart and her companion were generous enough to bring the food and medical supplies we desperately needed. If she wants to keep watch in exchange for boarding with us until the weather clears, then I give her permission to do so. Do you understand me, Knight?”

“Yes, sir,” Rhys answered through gritted teeth.

“Good. Your orders are to keep watch for the next two hours. Once you have completed your shift, come seek me and I’ll take over. Make sure to keep warm.”

Rhys curtly nodded and saluted Danse. He strode to the open office area, grabbed his laser rifle and a gray knitted cap from one of the desks, and went back outside. The door banged against its frame as he slammed it shut.

“... Well,” said Haylen, “maybe the snow’ll cool him off.”

Two smothered laughs came from Claire and Deacon.

Danse walked around the desk and approached Claire. “Ms. Lockhart.”

Claire’s smirk softened as she looked at him. “I keep telling you, Danse: call me Claire,” she said. “All this formality may be your thing, but it ain’t mine.”

“Ms. Lockhart,” Danse repeated. He pretended not to notice Claire rolling her eyes and went on to say, “If you have a moment, I’d like to speak with you in private.”

------

“Somebody’s in trouble,” Deacon sang.

Claire snorted. “Probably.” She remained standing next to the corner table and watched Danse disappear into one of the back rooms. Lights were turned on and flickered before pooling into the dark office area. If she strained her good ear, she could make out the sound of a table being pushed along the floor.

Finished with her report, Haylen leaned back into her chair and cracked her knuckles. “You’re not in trouble,” she assured Claire. “Danse mentioned he wanted to talk to you before you and Rhys came inside.”

“Did he say anything else?” Claire asked.

“Nope. But with all the help you’ve given us, maybe Danse wants to know if there’s a way he can repay you.”

Claire looked down at the laser rifle still in her hand. It was the same rifle Danse gave her after they acquired the transmitter. The way it vibrated against her arm when she switched it on. Its classic ozone smell when fired. It brought back memories of her days in basic training. Challenging times, but good ones.

Maybe I ought’a tell him that, Claire thought. She propped the rifle against the way, and at that moment, Danse called out her name. She reached over and the tapped her Pip-Boy’s screen, and grinned as Deacon pushed her arm away.

“Hope you haven’t beaten all my high scores.”

“Just a few of ‘em,” Deacon replied.

Claire knew what that meant: an entire score list with initials spelling the word “ass.”

Dogmeat plopped down beside Deacon’s chair, who started rubbing the mutt’s back with the bottom of his shoe. Claire retied her damp, ginger hair into a new bun as she walked into what used to be the police station’s interrogation room. It was sparsely furnished, with an elongated table, two metal chairs, and random junk scattered on the floor. Danse sat down and gestured to the chair across from him.

“Ms. Lockhart,” he began once Claire was seated, “I want to begin by saying my team and I do appreciate the assistance you’ve given us these past two weeks.”

Claire opened her mouth to speak but closed it when Danse straightened his posture, making himself appear even taller, and folded his arms across his chest. Even without his power armor, Danse was an imposing figure. (Handsome, yes, but still imposing.)

“However, he continued, “I think it’s time you were more forthright with us.”

Claire blinked, confused. “Forthright?”

“Yes.” Danse remained stern but there were undertones of warmth in the next words he spoke. “I don’t wish to insult you, but my team’s safety is my responsibility and I need to be certain no harm will come to them. That’s difficult to do when we’ve invited you into our outpost -- given you and your companions shelter -- and we know next to nothing about you.”

A twist of guilt squeezed Claire’s chest. She had read Danse’s terminal entries last night, when her insomnia and the blizzard kept her from sleeping. Recon Team Gladius had arrived in the Commonwealth last January. Since then, they had lost over half of their teammates. Knight Keane was the most recent casualty, killed by the feral ghouls that nearly took over the outpost. Of course Danse would be protective of Rhys and Haylen. They were all he had left.

“What would you like to know?” Claire asked.

“For starters, you could tell me where you’re from.”

That was the last thing Claire wanted to talk about. Aside from Codsworth, the only people who knew about her 210 years spent frozen inside Vault 111 were Deacon, Preston, and the new residents of Sanctuary. Danse wouldn’t be placated with the usual answer she gave settlers during her travels.

“Where am I from? Oh, I’m new to the area. Used to live in this BIG ol’ settlement far south from here. We called it Texas.”

No, Danse deserved more than a witty half-truth.

“Alright,” Claire agreed. “But I gotta warn you: we could be sitting here for a spell.”

She began with the day the bombs fell. A banquet at the veteran’s hall was scheduled for that evening to honor the female soldiers who served in the Battle of Anchorage. Claire was one of those woman and she had been asked to be the guest speaker. Her husband Nate took the day off from work and her younger brother Floyd came home from college. It was the first time he’d been home since the summer.

“Nate and I were checking on our son Sean. He was only three months old at the time. Codsworth was washing the dishes and Floyd was watching TV, and… And suddenly, we hear Codsworth calling to us to come into the living room.”

The news anchor reported of nuclear detonations in Pennsylvania and New York. Claire remembered staring at Floyd and wondering what would’ve happened if he’d taken the morning train. The television station then lost its signal. Sirens blared. Military vehicles took over the roads. Everyone in the neighborhood panicked and rushed to the vault. There was little time for her family to say goodbye to Codsworth before they fled as well.

Slowly, her voice grew doleful. “Only a handful of families in Sanctuary Hills signed up for the vault program. Even the ones that did, like us, we didn’t really think the world was gonna end. Until the end was a breath away.”

Claire kept some details to herself. Like the sight of the mushroom cloud billowing into the stratosphere and feeling the heat emanating from the blast. The sound of gears and pulleys screeching as the platform lowered “the lucky ones” into the vault. Sean crying. Nate hunching his body to protect their baby from flying dust and debris. Claire gripping onto Nate’s shirt. Floyd clutching her hand, fearful, for perhaps the first time since he was a little boy. And when they believed they protected by Vault 111, some of their neighbors began weeping for loved ones left to die above ground.

Claire did, however, tell Danse about how she kissed Sean’s forehead and told him everything would be okay. That she would be right back. She told him how Nate’s smile calmed her nerves. How Floyd didn’t want to step inside his “decontamination” pod because of his claustrophobia… and how she had to convince him to follow the Overseer’s request.

As she reached the end of her confession, Claire was stoic. She’d had a lifetime of experience before the Great War of suppressing her emotions. But there was a small crackle in her voice when she talked about them. The man and the woman. She could still hear the BANG from the man’s revolver and Sean wailing as the woman took him from Nate’s arms. She could still see Nate’s body go limp and fall back into his cryo pod, and the man’s long, irritated scar as he stared directly at her. The last thing Claire remembered was trying to claw and kick her way out of her pod, so she could kill that man with her bare hands.

“When I was finally released, the man and the woman were gone. Nate was dead. Floyd’s pod was empty. I checked every room for some kind of him, but I think maybe they kidnapped him, too. Everyone else… all the people I used to know… they were all dead.”

Silence unfolded. Danse no longer behaved like the protective leader accessing a possible threat. Instead, he was leaning with his elbows on the table, riveted by Claire’s story. Riveted and appalled.

When Claire looked up, she noticed Haylen and Rhys were standing in the doorway. Haylen’s crestfallen face told Claire she’d heard at least most of her story. Even Rhys appeared sympathetic. When Claire’s eyes met his, he immediately stared down at the floor.

Rhys cleared his throat. “Uh, sir.”

Danse looked over his shoulder. “Yeah?”

“The snow’s picking up again. Anything dumb enough to be out in this weather for long is going to freeze to death.”

“Then we’ll keep watch inside the station tonight. You and Haylen barricade all the exits. We can’t chance any raiders or ferals attacking for a warm place to stay.”

“Yes, sir,” said Haylen. She threw Claire an apologetic smile and left with Rhys.

There was another, more awkward silence between Danse and Claire, until Danse stood up and exited the interrogation room. Claire wondered if the conversation was over or if she was supposed to follow him, but he quickly returned with two bottles of ice cold beer. It was the same beer she gave the recon team yesterday. A treat hidden among their food supplies. Someone must’ve packed them in snow, inside the pre-war ice machine.

“Perhaps I should’ve asked if you drink,” said Danse.

“Oh, I drink,” Claire admitted. “More than I ought to sometimes.”

Danse let out a low chuckle, a sound Claire had never heard from him. It was unexpectedly soothing. Mental note to self, she thought: make him laugh again soon.

Danse sat down, opened the longneck bottles, and handed one to Claire. They each took a long swig. Claire savored the malty flavor as it rested on her tongue. It wasn’t a Guinness but it was still the best damn thing she’d tasted since escaping the vault.

“Ms. Lockhart, I’d like to give you my condolences,” said Danse, “but I think what you need more is assistance. I’d like you to reconsider my offer. There’s still a place for you in the Brotherhood, if you choose to accept it.”

Claire set her beer down. “I appreciate it,” she said. “But I already told you, Danse. I don’t think I’d be a good fit.”

“You said you were a soldier, correct?”

“I was, yeah. I was also a lawyer. The army discharged me after I was wounded by a spider mine. Lost most of my hearing in my left ear.”

“And that hasn’t damper your ability to eliminate hostile targets. If I spoke to Elder Maxson on your behalf, I’m confident he’d grant you the rank of Knight. Most initiates train for years before earning an officer’s rank.”

“That wouldn’t be fair to those initiates.”

“The honor would still be well-deserved.”

Danse pushed his beer aside and leaned closer, his elbows back on the door. He could tell Claire was a woman with a determination nurtured by a strong, stubborn soul. It was another reason why he gave her and her company the benefit of a doubt. He wanted to help, repay her for everything she had done. But if he wasn’t careful, Claire would never accept his help.

“... Claire.”

She tilted her head and stared at him, one eyebrow arched, a wry smirk upon her lips. “Oh, so it’s Claire now, huh? You must really want me.”

“I know you’re struggling, no matter how well you’ve adjusted to this new world. What Vault-Tec did to your family and to all their victims is reprehensible. Should you join the Brotherhood of Steel, you’ll have access to advanced technology and resources not found in the wastelands. You’ll have a family of bond and steel ready and willing to fight for you. And I promise you -- right here, right now -- to assist you in whatever way I can in your search for your son and brother. And I never go back on my promises.”

Claire was drawn in by the pure sincerity in Danse’s dark brown eyes. But for one moment, all she could think about was the synth she escorted to Safehouse Ticonderoga. It didn’t matter to the Brotherhood of Steel if a synth was made of all metal or skin and bones: they were considered a dangerous weapon created by the Institute. If a Brotherhood soldier like Danse and Rhys knew about H2-22’s real identity, they would’ve killed him.

“I… I need to talk this over with Deacon.” It was the best answer Claire could give. “We’ve been traveling together for a while now and it feels wrong to make any decisions without talking to him first.”

Danse couldn’t hide his disappointment. It wasn’t the answer he wanted to hear, but he was grateful it wasn’t a definite rejection. He gave Claire an understanding nod and told her, “Take all the time you need.”

They sat together for a few more minutes, drinking their beers and idly chatting. Danse had many questions he wanted to ask Claire, about life before the Great War. But not tonight. He knew her emotions were still raw, barely hidden behind her soft smile as she talked about the snowman Dogmeat destroyed earlier that afternoon.

… How she could smile at all, Danse didn’t know. Except that it was possible Claire was one of the strongest people he’d ever met.