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concussed-to-pieces · 4 years

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The Mettle Of A Man; Part Fourteen

Fandom: Fallout (4)

Pairing: Eventual Paladin Danse/Female Sole Survivor

Rating: Holy shit M.

AN: Enjoy!

Part One: ArcJet

Part Two: The Prydwen

Part Three: Orders

Part Four: Finding Brandis

Part Five: Weston Water And Oberland

Part Six: Meeting Preston And Matthew

Part Seven: Radstag And Radstorm

Part Eight: The Return To Sanctuary Hills

Part Nine: Domestic Ruminations

Part Ten: Institutionalized

Part Eleven: Two Weeks, Three Days

Part Twelve: Haylen’s Warning And The Glowing Sea

Part Thirteen: Under Fire

[!TRIGGER WARNING!: This installment contains graphic depictions of abuse. Stay safe!]

"This would be so much easier if you would just comply , Vega." Maxson sneered.

"How the fuck else am I supposed to comply? Danse never told me he was a synth, Maxson!" Backhand protested, glaring up at the young man as best as she could with his boot pinning her head to the floor.

Across from her in the brig Brandis floundered against his shackles, the older paladin clearly furious but unable to articulate around his gag.

Maxson ignored him, leaning down and applying more pressure to the side of Vega's head. "My patience is growing thin , Vega. I refuse to believe that he did not confide in you. You're the only person who's been in and out of the Institute, no doubt keeping that traitor apprised of orders from the masterminds of his true agenda."

"After everything that Danse has been through, I can't even believe that you would think he's a threat to the Brotherhood! Whether he's a synth or not!" Backhand retorted hotly. "So what if he is one? Synths can be rescued , wiped, reprogrammed with new identities. They aren't all infiltrating units, some of them are-"

Maxson hauled her to her feet, shoving her back against the wall. The rivets of the brig ground through her Vault suit, making Vega grunt in pain. "You certainly have a lot to say in the defense of synths, Vega." He hissed, taking a fistful of her hair and forcing her to look at him.

At the tearing sensation on her scalp, two hundred-plus years abruptly melted away for Backhand. She was suddenly in the pristine kitchen of their first apartment and Nate , shouting as loudly as any drill sergeant, throwing his briefcase in frustration, grabbing her neck and dragging her--

No . She had fought back then and she could fight back now. Backhand jerked her head to the side, not caring whether she lost a handful or two of her hair. "Get your fucking hands off of me!" She snapped, and Maxson's gloved fingers slammed shut around her throat.

"You would disobey the elder of the Brotherhood?" Maxson asked, a sinister smile twisting his mouth as Vega choked for breath. "I think your insubordination deserves repayment in kind."

...

When Danse awoke, he was incredibly disoriented. His hands clenched tight into the blanket that covered him as he stared up at the unfamiliar ceiling, feeling his breathing stutter as he tried to remember what the hell had happened.

Haylen . The message the scribe had given him. Confusion. Terror. Panic . Crushing it all down, I am a paladin of the Brotherhood of Steel I have sworn an oath protect sisters brothers skills weapons body --

Finding the munitions. Elizabeth Knight Vega damn it departing to report back to Maxson, the paladin knowing almost definitively that she had no idea about what he was, about the hideous truth of his existence. Her giving him her lucky bandanna, wrapping it around his neck like a scarf, touch light and tender.

Fleeing the Sentinel site, abandoning his armor, the deathclaw, the walk of shame that culminated in...God, was he really a synth?

M7-97 .

A synth . With a sinking feeling in his gut, Danse cast his mind back over his first memories yet again, growing up alone in the Capital Wasteland …

If he wasn't a synth, surely he would have something more concrete than a hazy record of empty locations? Something tangible, maybe an encounter with a friendly trader or a scuffle with some other children, something . But nothing seemed solid until he got to the memories of opening his junk stand in Rivet City. Eerily similar to what Sturges had mentioned. At that point he had been an adult for several years, or at least he believed he was--

God, his head was pounding . He was so confused. Danse pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes, trying in vain to rub the tension away.

"Oh, you're awake! Good."

Danse jerked his hands down, shoving himself half-upright on his elbows. His confusion only intensified when he realized that it was Mrs. O'Brian who was currently hovering in the partially-intact doorway, the woman pointedly keeping her distance.

"Wasn't sure how fighty you'd be when you woke up." She said by way of explanation, "you looked like you'd been through hell."

"Where am I?" Danse rasped.

"At the O'Brian homestead, just a little ways south of that Oberland settlement. How do you feel?" She queried.

"I…" Danse paused, taking a mental inventory. His legs felt like they belonged to someone else. His face and shoulders were, admittedly, worse. Bandages pulled at his shoulders, the fabric wrapped over and under his arms. "I'm in pain, but the levels are manageable." He muttered, struggling to swing his legs over the side of the bed. "I have to-"

"Whoa whoa, hold it! I did a lot of work getting you all fixed up, you're absolutely not movin'!" Mrs. O'Brian scolded him, waving her hands in front of her like Danse was a rampaging brahmin. "You are going to sit and heal, so help me God, if I have to strap you down to do it!"

"Citizen, you don't understand . Having me here puts you in danger." Danse's brain finally caught up with the rest of him as he remembered, "you have children , a family, innocents--I shouldn't be here." He said in a panic, trying to stand again.

M7-97 .

Mrs. O'Brian scoffed, stomping over to the bed and giving Danse a careful shove in the middle of his chest. He was immediately knocked prone, his back hitting the mattress hard enough to make him grunt. "Don't give me that shit, Mr. Paladin. You're all kinds of banged up and you're not goin' anywhere ." She instructed him firmly. "Trouble might have been followin' you before, but you've already been out for two days and we haven't received any visitors."

Danse blinked dully up at her. Two days . His stomach growled abruptly, hunger pangs digging in on top of everything else.

"Now, you just sit tight and I'll get you some noodle soup, alright?" She patted his arm calmly, a fair contrast between her previous attitude. "If trouble comes, then trouble comes. Until then, we'll focus on getting you back to your old self."

He was almost too weak to move, aside from adrenaline-fueled bursts. Danse felt anxious, skittish, frantic . What the hell was he going to do?

He had to leave. But where could he go? He could return to the Capital Wasteland. Or maybe he should head north instead, run to the untouched expanses of Maine or the mountains of Vermont.

He had to leave. He couldn't stay here.

M7-97 .

He should be dead.

"Mrs. O'Brian," He began carefully when she returned with the soup. "You don't grasp the danger of this situation. I'm a s…" His voice hitched. "A...a synth ." Danse finally forced the word out, speaking it aloud and solidifying it as reality. His empty stomach pitched violently.

"That's nice. You can just call me Katie." The woman replied absently, patting his hand. "Should we get in touch with the Railroad?"

" What? " Danse asked incredulously. " How can you be so nonchalant about this? I should be dead , I'm a monstrosity -"

"Mr. Paladin, what you are right now is a hungry and scared man. So hush up and eat your soup." Katie interrupted Danse gearing himself into an elaborate diatribe. "If you were supposed to be dead, you would be." Her eyes were almost as green as Brandis', and she narrowed them at him. "I don't doubt that if you could have done the job yourself, you would have. And since you haven't ," she continued pointedly, "I'm going to assume you won't."

Danse mulled over her words as he slowly consumed the soup, more water than broth and noodles. She was right, he realized. He was too afraid to end himself, and too cowardly to wait to be destroyed.

M7-97 .

What the hell was he going to do?

…

He tried to slip away the following night, but his attempt was foiled by Mr. O'Brian's watchful eye. That and the fact that he was barely able to put one foot in front of the other. Hell, just tying his boots up had almost made him pass out. He knew deep down that it was idiotic to attempt to leave while he was in such a sorry state, but he kept imagining the sound of vertibirds drawing near and the fear that the O'Brians could be in danger because of him kept him from getting any meaningful rest.

The older man startled Danse out of his skin when he cleared his throat from his shadowed spot beside the door. "I had a feelin' you might try somethin' dumb like this." He remarked, shaking his head while Danse cast wildly around for a way to explain his current ambulation. "Have a seat, big fella'."

"I can't stay, Mr. O'Brian. If the Brotherhood-" the paladin began desperately.

"Call me Tom, Danse. I'm of the impression that we're in this together now. If trouble finds you, then it finds you." Mr. O'Brian interrupted him, inadvertently echoing his wife's sentiments. "Personally, if it was me in a jam, I'd much rather I was surrounded by people that care about me when trouble comes callin'."

"I'm trying to leave so that you don't need to get involved-"

"No, you're tryin' to leave because you're hellbent on runnin' from this problem." Tom's expression was sharp in the warm glow from the lantern. Danse had no idea whether Mrs. O'Brian had told her husband that their unanticipated guest was a synthetic freak . "You wanna' get the hell out of here, maybe go back to the Capital Wasteland and pretend like nothin' happened. But the weight of the truth is heavier than any sin, Mr. Danse. You'll figure that out. I hope for your sake it's sooner rather than later."

"Mr. O'Brian, I...I don't know what to do ." Danse admitted softly, sinking down into the rickety chair beside the other man in defeat and putting his head in his hands. Everything ached.

"I can tell, son. You're all tangled up like Katie's balls of yarn. I don't have the answers for you. All I know is that runnin' away only prolongs the trouble." Mr. O'Brian rose slowly, muttering about his old knees. He clapped a hand on Danse's shoulder in passing. "The O'Brian family doesn't give a flying fuck one way or another about whether you're a synth, got it? And if anyone else in the Commonwealth has any sense left in 'em, they'd be wise to follow suit."

Tom left him to think beside the door, and Danse was there until sunup the following morning.

...

The O'Brians homestead consisted of an acre or so of land and an old, half-collapsed commercial brick building just outside of Forest Grove Marsh. Danse had apparently crash landed on their proverbial doorstep that fateful morning, though he didn't remember much after he had passed out.

Tom and Katie had eight children, four sons and four daughters of varying ages. They ranged from the eldest, a boy named Eamon who was nineteen, to the youngest, a tiny girl named Siusan who was almost a year old. Between them was Thomas Junior (known strictly as Teej), then came the triplets of Connor, Matthew and Bridget, and the twins Kathleen and Fionnula.

Danse had never had such a difficult time remembering names, consistently stumbling over Fionnula while the three-year old patiently coached him.

It didn't help that Connor and Matthew looked exactly alike, as did Kathleen and Fionnula. Bridget at least wore her hair longer than her identical brothers, so that gave Danse a fighting chance amongst the triplets.

Eamon was tall and lanky like his mother, while 'Teej' was on the stockier side like his father. All of the children were freckled and sported either blue-black or dark brown locks, further adding to Danse's predicament.

As the days turned into weeks and the paladin slowly regained his health, he found himself automatically settling into the schedule of the O'Brian family. It was comforting to have a routine. Maybe that was the military in him. Rise before daybreak, milk the brahmin, gather the laundry, weed the crops…

His nose mercifully healed as good as new. No visible damage remained aside from a small mark at the peak of the bridge, right between his eyes. His shoulders were much the same, functional even though they were now graced with long, jagged lines of scar tissue from where the power armor frame had collapsed. Danse knew he was incredibly lucky to have escaped from a deathclaw so unscathed.

Tom managed to find a few old pairs of jeans that would fit Danse somewhat after the paladin expressed his concern at his threadbare jumpsuit. "From my younger days!" The older man claimed, tugging Katie close and planting a kiss on her cheek. "Back when I had to stay in shape so that my beautiful bride wouldn't grow tired of me."

Katie chuckled, swatting Tom's arm. "If you thought a few extra pounds would scare me off, you don't know me very well." She teased.

Clad in blue jeans and a tattered assortment of too-small hand-me-down flannel shirts, Danse almost fit in. Almost. He still held himself a bit too rigid to really get away with assimilation, but Katie assured him he at least looked the part. He was still certain to make himself scarce whenever company came calling, not wanting to bring trouble to the O'Brians.

He refused to be deadweight to the already-struggling family however, and as he was not exactly gifted in the areas of agriculture and animal husbandry, the paladin quickly fell back on one of the many practical skills he possessed.

Hunting.

Only armed with his service pistol now, the man was up well before dawn on the days he stalked prey. He avoided the roads as much as possible, sticking to the brush. The last thing he wanted was to draw any attention to himself and, in turn, the family fostering him. Occasionally he was accompanied by Teej or Tom, both senior and junior relatively skilled hunters in their own right. Through their combined efforts Danse was able to contribute a bit more protein to the large family's diet, while simultaneously balming the concerns that he had about being a burden.

Eamon was a quiet, peaceable young man and helped Katie manage the younger children while Tom was away. He was adept at settling squabbles and redistributing toys to keep the peace. Danse couldn't help but picture him becoming a knight and sponsoring countless fledgling initiates.

He then felt idiotic for still thinking about young people and children in the Brotherhood way, as if they were all destined to be military assets thrown at the next enemy. Danse slowly forced himself to recalibrate, doing his damnedest to imagine a world where a gentle man could still have a future. Maybe Eamon would be a teacher, or a merchant in tandem with his mother's wares.

Matthew and Bridget were all but attached at the hip, the two of them dogging Danse's footsteps and peppering him with questions when he was in the yard or weeding. The paladin had taken over a ramshackle trailer that sat across the road from the homestead as 'his', and the two children were always eager to visit as soon as he sat down on the front step in the mornings with his cup of coffee. Connor was a little more shy, hanging back from his outspoken siblings.

Bridget was the first one to demand that Danse show her how to shoot. "Papa won't. He says I have to be twelve." She huffed. "But I'm almost twelve, and that's like being twelve."

"I'm sorry, little one. I can't go against his orders." Danse tried to soften the blow by asking her to teach him how to do something, which was how the paladin found himself learning how to make a poppet out of dried corn husks. Not exactly a practical skill, but he supposed he could do with a few less conventional lessons.

Connor actually approached him while he was being instructed, the normally-timid boy offering him a few pointers to make the task a little less challenging. "I'm not good at braidin' like Brigey, so I gotta' hold the ends real tight." He mumbled, tiny hands miles more deft than Danse's had ever been pushing and pulling his fingers to get the arms of the doll tucked properly.

Bridget praised Danse just like her mother praised her when she accomplished something, and the paladin got a little misty at the notion that his own tendencies towards praise while he was in the Brotherhood might have made a few of the aspirants more inclined to be encouraging to their fellow soldiers.

It was hysterical to be supported by a child for his proverbial 'field work', but the way Bridget's little brow furrowed sternly told Danse that she was deadly serious and he should take her as such.

"You are very patient for someone your age." Danse commented, holding up his latest attempt for her inspection.

"We gotta' work together, Mr. Danse. Mama says I'm the strong one, Matt's the brave one and Connor's the smart one." She replied, squinting at the length of husk he had tied around the body of his little creation. "Almost! You're getting better and better." The thin girl clapped her hands like she was applauding him and Danse couldn't help his sad smile.

"Show me again, please?" He requested.

…

Vega had no idea how many days it had been.

After Rhys had brought Brandis' evening meal (and snuck Vega something in the process), the knight had whispered that Maxson seemed to be waiting for something when it came to dealing with the two 'dissenters' in the brig.

"Not sure if he's trying to use her to draw the Institute into attacking us directly? I just don't get it." Rhys swallowed hard, glancing over his shoulder before continuing, "According to our field reports, Danse is dead. They bagged him out in the Sea and incinerated his body."

Backhand had been expecting this news, but hearing it aloud felt like a kick to the stomach. She sobbed out once before she could help it, drawing Rhys' attention back to her.

" Fuck , Vega, I'm so sorry." The knight apologized tremulously. "He sponsored Haylen and I, he was fucking selfless and loyal to the cause. I don't...God, I can't believe he's gone."

"Rhys, this cannot be allowed to continue." Brandis declared, "we are being held without trial, without evidence! Maxson has no right to-"

"Anyone who questions his judgement is threatened with the same treatment Vega is getting." Rhys interjected dully. "None of us know what the hell to do , Brandis. The consensus is that we need to forcibly eject him, but no one person seems to have the balls to do it." The knight tipped his head forward in shame. "Not even me. If something happens to me, I don't know what might become of Haylen and I...I can't risk it. I'm sorry, Brandis. And Vega, you don't deserve this shit."

"Don't apologize, son. I'll...I'll figure out something." Brandis replied sadly, letting the knight re-shackle him as loud footsteps heralded Maxson's approach to the brig.

"Out of the cell, Knight Rhys." The elder ordered sharply, his voice sending a new frisson of scalding fury through Backhand's battered body.

He killed Danse .

"Maxson, how long do you plan to stand on ceremony like this?" Brandis queried as Rhys obediently departed. "This is not justice! "

"I see the knight forgot to gag you again." Maxson shrugged. "No matter. Nothing that you say will have any real impact." He tugged open the cell door and sauntered in, standing over Vega's crumpled body. "We slaughtered that abomination out in the Glowing Sea." Maxson chuckled in a self-satisfied manner. "It thought it could run from us."

Backhand squeezed her eyes shut tight against the hot wave of tears that threatened to spill over, forcing herself to focus on the rage instead. "You're a real prick, Maxson." She rasped.

Maxson caught her arm and roughly yanked her upright from the spot where she had collapsed previously, gripping her shoulders in a pantomime of a caring embrace. "We incinerated it and cast its ashes to the wind." The young man answered smugly, those cold blue eyes boring into her own when she mustered up the strength to raise her head.

" You ," Vega seethed through her teeth at the elder of the Brotherhood, "were a fuckin' god to Danse, know that? You could do no wrong in his eyes. And you killed him ." The reality of it hadn't wholly set in for her yet and she clung to the rage she felt, nurturing it into a grudge in her chest. "But you're not a god at all, are you Arthur? You're just a scared little brat who got too much power too soon." She spat.

Maxson ground his teeth, grabbing her by the throat yet again and slamming her back against the bars of the gate. "Keep testing my patience, Vega, and we'll see who the scared one is!" He roared in threat as she struggled weakly in his grip.

...

The celebration dinner for Siusan's first birthday was surprisingly elaborate. The entire house was decorated with garlands of hubflower and ash blossom, painstakingly woven together by Matt and Connor. Katie had been baking with Eamon and Kathleen for the past two days, stockpiling a variety of sweet treats for the youngest family member's fête.

Danse, for his part, had done his best to stay out from underfoot. He helped Tom move several of the old tables together, and obediently smoothed the wrinkles out of the faded purple tablecloth that Katie asked him to cover the tables with.

Vega never even got to have this with her son , he thought somberly. No birthdays, no celebrations...nothing. First the divorce and then the war, one right after the other .

It was a saddening topic to think about and Danse found himself distracted by it. The fact that she had been so thoroughly robbed of raising her child, despite her oft-voiced trepidation of whether she was a good parent...

Well, there was nothing he could do about it, was there?

That night Siusan sat on her mother's lap at the table, staring wide-eyed at the child-sized mutfruit pie that was just out of her reach while everyone in the family sang her Happy Birthday .

Danse hung back in the doorway, feeling a little awkward until Katie urged him in. Fionnula immediately clamored that Danse had to sit next to her. Sandwiched between Kathleen and Fionnula, Danse slowly relaxed enough to smile and even laugh once or twice, his own attitude affected by the collective high spirits of the O'Brians. It reminded him of being at Sanctuary and with a melancholic pang, he recalled the simple meal he had shared with Elizabeth and her makeshift 'family'.

Not a day passed that he didn't think about her. Her smile, her voice, the pleased flush she got when he praised her performance in the field, her selfless nature...

Danse had convinced himself that she was better off without him, though. The Brotherhood would allow her to achieve her future goals of totally breaching the Institute's defenses, hopefully letting her enact that master plan of freeing any synths that wished to be freed. He just prayed that the Brotherhood wouldn't override her and decide to wholly eradicate the Institute instead.

Maybe once he got himself far away from the Commonwealth, he could send her a message. Something simple that wouldn't compromise her position. Would she even care, though?

Danse, lost in thought about Elizabeth once again, didn't notice the young man looming in the front doorway for several minutes. Not until Tom called, "Garvey! You're just in time for pie, pull up a chair!"

Preston removed his hat politely and Danse felt his heart plummet to his boots. "Evening, Thomas. Katie. I'm afraid this isn't a social call." Lieutenant Garvey said calmly. "I'd like to speak with you outside, Paladin." His eyes were flinty despite his mild tone. Dogmeat was at his heel, the large German shepherd's ears flat against his skull.

Danse surprised himself by nodding, the paladin rising from the table with a murmured apology. "I'll return shortly." He promised Matthew, the little boy looking like he might pitch a fuss. Danse then followed Preston outside, barely resisting the urge to jam his hands into his pockets and hunch his shoulders like a squire waiting to be scolded.

What he didn't expect was Preston's next sentence. "Alright, where the hell is she?"

Danse blinked at the other man, suddenly confused and off-balance. "I don't understand." He said finally.

Preston huffed angrily, "The general , Danse! She's been missing for weeks now, ever since you and your little tin soldiers were all getting prepped for heading to the Sea!"

Danse was sure all the color had drained out of his face. Was he going to pass out? Did something like him even have the ability to pass out? No, no, he had been unconscious before. But did that count as actual unconsciousness-

He grabbed the side of the building to steady himself, his voice shaking when he pleaded with Preston to explain. Dogmeat whined, licking at Danse's hand.

"How the hell do you not know?! She went missing on your watch!" Garvey protested. "She hasn't been seen at all, Danse. Not at any settlements, not around the airport... nothing . It's been a big fat radio silence."

"Oh my God." Danse's voice was frail.

"You...you really didn't know, did you?" Preston asked incredulously. "What are you even doing out here anyways? Shouldn't you be at the airport with the rest of your troops? I thought Dogmeat's nose had busted when he led me here ."

Danse opened his mouth, then hesitated. The reality of being a synth was something he was still trying to come to terms with, but lying to Garvey would no doubt make everything worse. "Lieutenant Garvey, I must confide in you." He fixed his attention firmly on Preston's boots. "Some information was discovered after the first journey into the Institute. Something pertaining to me. I of course, was not made privy to such information before we had departed for the Glowing Sea, but another individual of the Brotherhood managed to tip me off in time. When last I saw Vega, she was returning to Waypoint Echo on foot per the elder's orders. After we were separated, I...I was fired upon." He said gruffly, the words filling him with a morose sensation.

"Whoa, wait a minute. Danse are you saying you're a-" Preston lowered his voice, "are you saying you're a synth? " His heart hammering in his throat, the paladin raised his eyes to Garvey's and nodded wordlessly. "So what happened in the Sea, then?"

"We reached our target and cleared the area without incident. She was under orders directly from Elder Maxson to report back immediately once the area was secured. I was tasked with guarding the munitions. I was attacked by my own troops, so...I fled." Danse confessed.

" Damn . That is...that's a lot , Danse. She had to report straight back?"

Danse nodded. "Correct. Maxson was very firm on that."

"You don't think your elder guy would have...I dunno', locked her up or something?" Preston suggested, pointing out, "You disappearing probably looked pretty bad. She'd be a suspect."

The paladin swallowed hard, this new realization crushing down on him. "I had not considered the ramifications my sponsorship would impose upon her." He rasped. " God , Garvey, I didn't think...I didn't...I thought I was doing the right thing. Hell, I should have let myself be slain. I'm an abomination , I'm everything that I signed up to eradicate. Of course they would--God, I'm so sorry, if they suspect her, I..." His thoughts were a tangled mess, loping this way and that.

"Don't be sorry yet." Preston grumbled. "What the hell am I supposed to do, Danse? She's the only way into the Institute. I can't just let her cool her heels on that fancy balloon, not when we're so close to taking the Institute down!"

"If I had my armor, I might be able to sneak into the airport. But I don't." Danse said unhappily, burying his fingers in the thick ruff Dogmeat sported. "If I go anywhere near there without some sort of protection, they'll just gun me down. Kill on sight."

"Now's not the time to consider a sweeping policy reform, unfortunately. If we got you a suit…" Preston trailed off, then changed the subject. "Pack whatever you have. You're coming with me."

"Right now?" Danse asked.

" Yes , right now!" Preston retorted sharply. "The hell is wrong with you, man?"

"I just...I'll need to say goodbye, that's all." Danse felt immensely awkward, but he pressed on, "The O'Brians have been extremely kind to me during my prolonged stay in their residence."

"Oh. Oh . Okay, yeah. Go ahead. But make it quick!" Garvey blustered, jamming his hat down a little.

Danse crept back into the O'Brian family dwelling, his footfalls muffled by a rousing rendition of The Ants Go Marching that Siusan was enthusiastically enjoying. This struck Danse as odd, seeing as how the only ants he had ever seen were the size of stray dogs. And why on earth would ants trouble themselves about the rain? Most of the irradiated insects seemed to love it.

He managed to catch Tom's attention and pull him off to the side, explaining in low tones what was happening.

Tom surprised him by punching Danse lightly in the chest. "I'm shocked it took you this long to get your head straight." The older man chuckled. "Go get her, Danse. Paladin Danse."

...

The trek to the Castle, or rather Fort Independence, took almost six hours. Preston avoided a majority of the destroyed roads, the both of them tensing up every time they heard the whirring blades of a vertibird approach.

"They shouldn't be able to see us without using the searchlights." Danse informed Preston as Dogmeat flitted behind the supports of a ruined overpass. "They have no methods of thermal detection."

"I'm still not taking any chances." Preston grumbled. " I've got people counting on me, Danse." Danse fell silent at that, just following after the Minuteman and keeping his mouth shut.

I've got people counting on me .

Once upon a time, that had been Danse. An example to his brothers and sisters, the pride of the Brotherhood. Now, he skulked through the darkness like a fugitive. A traitor to his cause. A liar, by omission or by ignorance. A fraud .

Danse wiped at his eyes, frustrated with his own weakness. How the hell was he such an emotional wreck? He was a machine for God's sake. It was hardly fair that everything in him was screaming that he was human when he had already been backhanded with the empirical evidence to the contrary.

M7-97 .

He gritted his teeth, exhaling through his nose. He didn't have the luxury of contemplating his humanity at this point in time. Maybe someday, once everything had sunk in, he would be able to examine himself from a critical stance. But for the moment, it needed to be compartmentalized.

"If I cannot reacquire the general," he began cautiously, "perhaps I can still be of service. If I am a synth, maybe there's a way for me to…" A lump rose in his throat. "Return, I suppose? Breach their defenses accordingly?"

Preston hummed thoughtfully. "Vega did mention a synth reclamation department. And coursers , the guys sent out to reclaim the escapees." He shuddered, his grip tightening on his musket. "She had to put one of those bastards down to get what she needed in the first place. It was brutal. She said he almost killed her. I guess they're made for hunting synths or something?"

Danse felt sick to his stomach, remembering Vega talking about the courser mourning the loss of his friend. "Well, we have the option," He muttered, "should the need arise. Proctor Quinlan often said that the best edge is the unexpected one."

The walls of the Castle solidified against the night sky and Danse caught the scent of the sea on the breeze, the smell refreshing his memory of finding Vega half-dead in the Minutemen's crumbling excuse for a fortress. It appeared that they had done extensive renovations since his last visit, however.

"Well well well, look what the lieutenant dragged in!" Sturges chuckled without humor from beside the outermost guard tower, his eyes uncharacteristically narrowed. Danse didn't miss the way his grip on his old rifle tightened. "You've got some explainin' to do, big fella'!" The cheer in his voice was decidedly hostile.

"Stand down, Sturges." Preston said wearily. "We need your help. You still got that suit you were working on?"

Sturges chewed on his answer for a moment before he finally nodded. "Garvey, you'd better not be suggestin' what I think you are." He gestured up at Danse with the hunting rifle.

"We don't have a lot of options, Sturges. He's been kicked out of the Brotherhood." Preston replied curtly.

Sturges did a double take. "You uh, wanna' run that by me again sir? The holiest of rollers was kicked out? What the hell did you do? " The mechanic asked Danse incredulously.

Danse swallowed hard. "It would appear that I am...less human than I had been led to believe." He stated, trying to choose his words with care.

"Well, physically anyway." Garvey tacked on grudgingly.

Sturges' mouth curved into an 'o' as the truth dawned on him. " Ho then. That uh, explains that. Damn. Damn . But...shit. So where the hell is the general?" He muttered, as if to himself.

"According to Danse, he's been on the run since their foray into the Glowing Sea. That was also the last contact he had with General Vega." Preston explained.

"I've heard about how damn wild the Brotherhood gets over synths. How the hell did you even escape?" Sturges queried, his tone suspicious.

Danse cleared his throat. "One of the soldiers I sponsored tipped me off right before we set out into the Glowing Sea. Scribe Haylen saved my life. Originally I assumed that Vega was to be my executioner, but it turned out that she had orders from our elder to return as soon as we have verified the location." Danse paused. "We were separated and shortly thereafter, the Brotherhood attempted to end my life."

"Just like that?" Sturges gawked. "How long you been Brotherhood, Danse? Good ten years? Fifteen? I can't even believe that shit. Pitched to the wayside on account of some fuckin' speculation!"

"Not speculation, if Scribe Haylen's information was accurate." Danse corrected the other man. "My DNA matched the DNA of an escaped Institute asset known as M7-97."

" Escaped , though. So you're a Railroad refurb like me, you ain't some shitbag infiltrator unit!" Sturges protested, ushering Preston and Danse further into the courtyard. "How could they just try to snuff you? Brotherhood's gone balls-deep this time."

Danse hadn't actually thought about it like that, but he supposed it made sense. He wouldn't have been listed as escaped if he was assigned to infiltrate the ranks of the Brotherhood, that wouldn't make any sense. It was almost a relief to realize that maybe, just maybe there hadn't been some ulterior, coded motive behind him joining up with the Brotherhood. That and the fact that there wouldn't have been someone he was replacing.

So for all intents and purposes, he was the original and only Paladin Danse. A comforting thought.

Sturges wasn't done though. "If you're here and Vega ain't, that means your boys in armor have her. If she ain't dead, of course." The mechanic mused. "Might be that they thought she was in on your little secret and capped her instead of botherin' with interrogation."

"I would greatly appreciate if you would not suggest that Vega is dead, Sturges." Danse's palms started to sweat, his breathing rough for a moment. Calm down, calm down .

"Well I'd greatly fuckin' appreciate if she wasn't dead neither, big fella', but until we know for sure…" Sturges shrugged. "Anyway, to work. Got a real cherry suit here, a little pet project of mine, and if you're goin' to that airport, I imagine you'll want some protection."

"I'll need it just to get near to the damn place at this point." Danse mumbled.

Sturges' grin was a little less hostile this time. "I think you'll like your chances."

Part Fifteen

#fallout 4 #fallout four #spoilers #paladin danse #paladin danse x sole survivor #Eventual romance #paladin danse/sole survivor #paladin danse x f!sole #paladin danse imagine #fo4 companions imagine #fo4 companions #fo4 paladin danse #preston garvey #fo4 preston garvey #brotherhood of steel #canon-typical violence #slow burn

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elliemarchetti · 7 years

Text

Losers at Hawkins and the Death of Will Byers

A little long but that’s because I had to put two different stories in only one chapter. Hope you enjoy.

Words: 4260

IN DERRY

The terror, which would not end for another twenty-eight years -if it ever did end- began, so far as I know or can tell, with a boat made from a sheet of newspaper floating down a gutter swollen with rain. The boat was of a twelve year old boy and his big brother done it and gave him as a gift. Jonathan was not a much loved guy, and he certainly did not have many friends, but he loved his little brother, and he was not ashamed to spend time with him. That day he would come out with Will, really, if only he had not been sick. He could not go out and risk worsening the situation: he could not lose other days at school. Jonathan did not have good grades, but not because he was not smart. He was bored at school. He dreamed of studying photography, and going out with the beautiful and intelligent Nancy, one of his classmates. From time to time it happened that he went to dinner at her house, because his brother and the youngest of the Wheelers were good friends. He had never had the courage to talk to her. This was what Jonathan Byers thought while his little boat bobbed, listed, righted itself again, dived bravely through treacherous whirlpools, and continued on its way down Witcham Street toward the traffic light which marked the intersection of Witcham and Jackson, followed by his brother, wrapped in a yellow wax and with red rain boots on his feet. About three-quarters of the way down the block as one headed toward the intersection and the dead traffic light, Witcham Street was blocked to motor traffic by smudge pots and four orange sawhorses. Stencilled across each of the horses was DERRY DEPT. OF PUBLIC WORKS. Beyond them, the rain had spilled out of gutters clogged with branches and rocks and big sticky piles of autumn leaves. The water had first pried finger holds in the paving and then snatched whole greedy handfuls-all of this by the third day of the rains. By noon of the fourth day, big chunks of the street’s surface were boating through the intersection of Jackson and Witcham like miniature white-water rafts. By that time, many people in Derry had begun to make nervous jokes about arks. The Public Works Department had managed to keep Jackson Street open, but Witcham was impassable from the sawhorses all the way to the center of town. But, everyone agreed, the worst was over. The Kenduskeag Stream had crested just below its banks in the Barrens and bare inches below the concrete sides of the Canal which channeled it tightly as it passed through downtown. Right now a gang of men - captained however by a woman - were removing the sandbags they had thrown up the day before with such panicky haste. Yesterday overflow and expensive flood damage had seemed almost inevitable. God knew it had happened before -the flooding in 1931 had been a disaster which had cost millions of dollars and almost two dozen lives. That was a long time ago, but there were still enough people around who remembered it to scare the rest. One of the flood victims had been found twenty-five miles east, in Bucksport. The fish had eaten this unfortunate gentleman’s eyes, three of his fingers, his penis, and most of his left foot. Clutched in what remained of his hands had been a Ford steering wheel. Now, though, the river was receding, and when the new Bangor Hydro dam went in upstream, the river would cease to be a threat. Or so said Ted Wheeler, who worked for Bangor Hydroelectric. As for the rest-well, future floods could take care of themselves. The thing was to get through this one, to get the power back on, and then to forget it. In Derry such forgetting of tragedy and disaster was almost an art, as Jonathan Byers would come to discover in the course of time. Will paused just beyond the sawhorses at the edge of a deep ravine that had been cut through the tar surface of Witcham Street. This ravine ran on an almost exact diagonal. It ended on the far side of the street, roughly forty feet farther down the hill from where he now stood, on the right. He laughed aloud -the sound of solitary, childish glee, a bright runner in that gray afternoon- as a vagary of the flowing water took his paper boat into a scale-model rapid which had been formed by the break in the tar. The urgent water had cut a channel which ran along the diagonal, and so his boat travelled from one side of Witcham Street to the other, the current carrying it so fast that Will had to sprint to keep up with it. No twelve-year-old boy, raised in a normal family, behaved that way, but Derry knew that the Byers were not all normal, so none of the neighbors noticed the lonely kid chasing a paper boat, therefore, the water that sprayed out from beneath his galoshes in muddy sheets went unnoticed and so his strange death who arrived because of two disquieting yellow eyes locked inside the storm drain. Or at least, this was what Will thought. He saw them by accident, when his little boat ran straight into the storm drain, and he cursed in hopes that a dirty word would help him to take it back. When even the owner of those eyes, a clown resembling a cross between Ronald McDonald and Bozo, saw him, greeted him by calling his name. The clown was holding a bunch of balloons, all colors, like gorgeous ripe fruit, in one hand, and in the other he had Will’s paper boat.

“Want you boat, Will?” the clown asked, smiling. If only Will had been older, or if only his brother had not been sick and could have accompanied him, the boy would never have responded to that smile. Perhaps, but it is only a hypothesis, his boat would never have ended up in storm drain and Pennywise the clown would not have brought further suffering to that family. But Will was just a naive boy, and his brother was not there with him, so he smiled at the clown, as if he had met him at the annual fair in Derry and not in a storm drain.

“I sure do,” he said.

The clown laughed. “I sure do. That’s good! That’s very good! And how about a balloon? “

"Well… sure!” He reached forward… and then drew his hand reluctantly back. “I’m not supposed to take stuff from strangers. My brother said so.”

“Very wise of your brother. How old is he?” asked the clown, interested.

“Sixteen.” replied Will, but he was looking at the boat.

“Did you brother made this for you?” asked Pennywise, kindly. Will nodded.

“And why he’s not out there, playing with you?”insisted the clown.

“He’s sick. But he promised that we’ll go out to play together again when he will be better.” replied Will, proud. He loved his mother, but he loved his brother more, because when his dad left he also left so much love to give to a male figure, and Will decided to give it all to Jonathan. For the greater of the Byers it was the same, although it held a grudge for the father. He remembered well, that disturbed man and how he had managed to treat both his sons and his devoted wife badly.

"So I guess you want it even more!” the clown exclaimed. “But if you cannot take anything from strangers, we must first introduce ourselves.” Will liked how that clown solved problems simply.

“I, Will, am Mr. Bob Gray, also known as Pennywise the Dancing Clown. Pennywise, meet Will Byers. Will, meet Pennywise. And now we know each other. I’m not a stranger to you, and you’re not a stranger to me. Kee-rect? “

Will giggled. "I guess so.” He reached forward again… and drew his hand back again. “How did you get down there?”

“Storm just bleeeew me away,” Pennywise the Dancing Clown said. “It blew the whole circus away. Can you smell the circus, Will?"

Will loved the circus. He had only been there once, when he was a child, but he still remembered the scent of hot roasted peanuts and fries with white vinegar, even if his favorite thing was the cotton candy, but it did not have a perfume so intense as to overcome the others. His mother had even taken him a cotton candy bubble bath, and it was all blue and made him smell like candy.

In the storm drain, however, he only felt the scent of frying doughboys and the faint but thunderous odor of wild-animal shit. He could smell the cheery aroma of midway sawdust. And yet, under it all, the smell of flood and decomposing leaves and dark storm drain shadows. That smell was wet and rotten. The stink he had smelled a couple hours before, when he went down in his house’s cellar. But the other smells were stronger, so he said he could smell the circus scent.

"Want your boat, Will?” Pennywise asked. “I only repeat myself because you really do not seem that eager.” He held it up, smiling. He was wearing a baggy silk suit with great big orange buttons. A bright tie, electric-blue, flopped down his front, and on his hands were big white gloves, like the kind Mickey Mouse and Donald Duck always wore.

“Yes, sure” Will repeated, feeling a little guilty for letting the circus thought distract him from recovering his brother’s present.

“And a balloon? I’ve got red and green and yellow and blue…”

“Do they float?” asked Will, interrupting the clown.

“Float?” The clown’s grin widened. “Oh yes, indeed they do. They float! And there’s cotton candy…”

George reached. And Pennywise knew he had hit the right button, so he seized the boy’s arm. And that was the moment when Will Byers knew he had signed his own death sentence.

MEANWHILE, IN HAWKINS

To be autumn, it was a particularly serene night, in Hawkins, with the sky full of stars and not even the trace of a cloud. The four kids, well hidden in the Tozier cellar, could hardly imagine that something so awful was happening at such a beautiful evening at the Hawkins National Laboratory U.S. Department of Energy, not when the thing that most troubled them was the noise of sprinklers in the garden. Anyway, the guys heard those damn irrigators for the whole time, but Richie would not have told his parents it was time to change them. He was just a kid and they would never listen to him. They never did it.

“Something’s coming, something who’s th-thirsty of blood.” said Bill. They were playing Richie’s new fantasy war-game. It was about Middle Earth, Tolkien’s world, and Bill was advantaged, he had read The Lord of The Ring, so he already knew which characters were more powerful and which were not, so they decided to make him a moderator. Richie was a little sorry, but the friend seemed to be having fun. Despite his stuttering, he was a good reader, and when he was very involved in reading he could almost not stutter.

“A shadow grows on the wall behind you; it swallows you into the dark.” Bill went on, and Eddie leaned a little closer on the table, careful. After the moderator’s intervention, it would be his turn.

“It will be there soon.” he ended, and Richie started making supposition on what could that be with Eddie. Stan also entered the speech, and Bill waited until they came to a standstill.

“An O-orcs Army attacks th-th-the shelter!” Bill exclaimed, moving the toy army. The other boys laughed. It was something easy to defy.

“Just a moment.” spoke again Bill, making all the other guys shut. “That sound. B-boom, boom, and boom!” he nearly yelled, banging open palms on the table. He was a good actor. Richie had been the one who taught him, otherwise the other guys wanted to exclude him completely from the game. Richie would never have allowed it: Bill, despite his oddities, was his best friend, and he would always be close to him, ready to help him.

“That sound d-didn’t came from the Orcs, that sound ca-came from something else.” he said, leaving the three players a moment to concentrate, the he slammed on the table the infamous black monster. “The Demororgon!”

The other kids cursed, already thinking about the next move.

“Eddie, your turn.” ended Bill.

“I don’t know!” exclaimed the other guy.

“Use the fireball! “ Richie suggested.

“But…” started Eddie, but he was interrupted by Stan.

“Too risky, use a preservation spell!”

“Don’t be girly, use a fireball!” repeated Richie.

“Use the spell!” insisted Stan.

Bill slammed his palms against the table, but not harder as the first time:” The Demogorgon is tired of your silly arg-arguing. He’s coming for you, boom!”

“The fireball Eddie!” exclaimed, hurried, Richie.

“The spell!” yelled Stan, but his voice was covered by another one of Bill’s boom.

“Fireball!” exclaimed Eddie. He wanted to make Richie proud. He was like a mentor to him. Someday, he wanted to be like him. Maybe less foul-mouthed. So he threw the dices and they dropped on the floor. Eddie’s ears started to be hotter, and he knew they were all re, but he jumped up with his friends, trying to be the first to see them.

“Where are them?” asked Bill, searching them under the table.

“I don’t know!” replied Richie.

“I’m sure it was a thirteen” added Stan.

“How could you know?” asked Bill, crawling between the chairs.

“Oh my God, oh my God.” he began to chant Eddie. He was having a headache.

And then the door opened, and Richie knew it was his mother.

“We are in full military campaign!” tried Richie, but he knew the night ended.

"Just finished.” the woman corrected him. “It’s already … a quarter past eight!” she exclaimed, looking at her wristwatch. Richie did not understand why his mother could not be careless like that of Bill, a failed pianist who spent her time dusting the shelves and washing dishes, or like Stan’s, that the only rule that gave him was to pray three times a day. No, he had the career-woman mother, who made his son live following a rigid regime of rules that she was the first to not respect. Hypocritical.

“Come on, wait another twenty minutes!” Richie begged. “At half past eight your friends must be at home, tomorrow you have school and you have to rest, you will end next weekend.” Richie knew that he really just wanted to drive the other three kids off to stick to the bottle of some cheap liquor. He was no longer a child; he realized that his parents’ marriage was not working and that his mother was too stressed out of work. Besides, his father did not care much about what the woman did or didn’t, so Richie had been in vain for some years that they stayed together just to keep the respectable family façade, which Hawkins seemed to rely on above all. He looked at his mother, her brown curls, the pink shirt that screamed as advertising, and realized that it would be useless to say that in that way they would interrupt the rhythm, that the game would not be equally beautiful, the following week . She would simply limit herself to pointing out that they had been playing for ten hours, and that for a week it was more than enough. “Dad!” he tried, but his father replied, from the living room, where he was supposed to be sitting in front of the TV, that he would have to listen to his mother. Always the same answer. Richie rolled his eyes and turned to his friends. "You heard." he said, surrendered. "Do not worry, your mother is right, you know how my mother becomes if I do not come home on time.” Eddie answered. It was hard to forget it. Once he was back at 8.35 p.m. and she was furious, even threatening to call Mrs. Tozier. It would not have been a bad scene, and finally someone would have told that woman she was definitely not a good mother, but then Richie would not have been able to bring friends home, and they would have to find another place to meet.

“I found a dice.” said Bill, handing it to Richie.

The other kids had already finished dressing, while Bill was still without a jacket. “Hey guys.” Stan said, picking up a pizza carton “does anyone want it?” “How long have it been there?” Eddie asked, with a hint of disgust. “Ten hours?” Richie asked, but he already knew the answer. “How disgusting!” exclaimed Eddie. “Do you know how many germs could have been there?” “Do you never keep leftovers?” asked Stan, stunned. “Sure, but we’ll put them in the fridge as soon as we’re done eating, and mom knows how long it takes for all the different ingredients to deteriorate, so we do not risk taking any sickness.” the boy explained. “Diseases lurk in the disorder that reigns in your home.” Richie joked, while his friend passed him on the stairs that separated the cellar from the upper floor. Eddie punched him in the ribs, but not too hard to make him feel bad. The three boys politely greeted Richie’s parents, who barely seemed to notice their presence. Mrs. Tozier must have already started drinking and her husband was enchanted by the TV screen, which could have always transmitted the same program all day, but it would have fascinated him anyway. Richie led his friends out, where they kept the bicycles with they had arrived that morning. They were all brand new, with even a beacon, so that if they had met any cars during the night, they would not risk getting hurt. It was an idea of Mrs. Karspbak but in the end everyone had adopted that solution, a bit to not making feel Eddie alone, a little because it could really come in handy, especially to Bill, who did not live right next to the other guys and had a piece of road to do by himself.

“See you tomorrow!” Eddie and Stan greeted him, and they left faster than Bill.

“See you tomorrow.” he repeated, and started ride to reach his friends.

Richie, distracted by the flickering light of the driveway, could not reply.

As for the three kids it might seem dark, and although the days had already visibly shortened, and the sky was pitch-black, on the way back they met some schoolmates, who had probably just gone out to join their friends. After all, they had just entered the Junior High School while their older mates were adults.

Like that madman of Henry Bowers, or his hateful friend, whom everyone called Vic. Bill hated them, and perhaps even for that reason he did not care much who passed through the streets at that time of night. The first to leave was Stan. He was the one who lived closest to Richie’s house, and wished them goodnight, though a little in his own way. Richie had infected him with his trash mouth, even if at home he never spoke badly: he was too afraid that his mother would go crazy.

“Let’s d-do a r-ra-race!” proposed Bill.

“Is the prize a comic book?” Eddie asked. He liked comics a lot, and it was a pastime that his mother did not think was dangerous. Bill also read many comics, but recently he had gone to books, those without figures or anything else, just words written neatly on white and delicate pages. He just nodded in response, ready to win the comic number 66 of the X-Men. He liked that story, and often he felt like an integral part of that group of outsiders. Bill knew he was different from his friends. Not really different, only perceived differently. He also knew he was strange. Although he did not like to speak often, partly because of his situation, he was a master at observing and understanding. He started pedaling faster. Although his words often failed him, his body did not do the same. “Hey!” Eddie shouted behind him. It was an unfair thing, focusing on his friend’s obsession with security and loyalty, but also a good way to pay him back for what he had told Richie. Although the Tozier’s only child was his best friend and tried to protect him from everything, Bill knew that the other kids had confided to him. They did not want him in the group, and it was understandable, because even the teachers teased him at school when they thought he did not hear them. But to point it out to Richie, the only one that had always been there for him, was a low blow. Too much to not deserve a little spite.

Bill knew he had the victory in his hand when he reached the descent. It was the only one in the whole city, and a difficult climb to take, especially in the summer. He took speed, and barely heard his friend scream at him that he had not yet told go, that the race was not valid. Bill did not really care about the comic, even if, one way or another, he would get it. At that moment he did not care about anything, with the wind in his too long hair and little desire to brake before the intersection.

“Come back!” Eddie shouted, though he was sure his friend would not. He felt a little guilty for having said those things to Richie. But Stanley had gone down a lot heavier. The two boys split like that, without even saying a goodbye, and even if the next day they would meet again at school, nothing would ever be the same.

Bill came home with a smile. It had not been the happiest day of his life, but not even the worst. Also that bicycle ride had served to clear his mind. He entered the house while his mother seemed desperately looking for something among her scores. She must have lost one. It was disturbing, sometimes, to hear her play at night. “Hi boys,” she said, without even looking up, when she heard someone had opened the door. Bill had hardly made his own copy of the house keys, but now, with the fact that he had started junior high school and that he was going back and forth from school alone, weather permitting, it seemed right to both of his parents to give him this gift.

“Boys?” asked Bill. “I’m alone, tomorrow I have school an-and I’ve b-been w-with t-th-the b-bo-boys all day.”

“Bill, where’s Georgie?” asked his mother, and he looked at her perplexed.

“I don’t know, I was at Richie’s.” he repeated.

“He said he wanted to meet you before you arrived at home, you didn’t saw him?” asked his mother, worried. Bill barely managed to shake his head.

The next morning only three bicycles were parked in front of the school. No other student was doing that drudgery when he could still ask for a ride to his parents and the older ones already had their own cars. Or at least a scooter. Richie and his friends wondered why the most problematic member of their group was not present that day, but none dared to ask it out loud. They had other things to think about. Henry and Vic, in fact, were not the only bullies of the school, and that day a reduced and approximate version of the Losers Club discovered it. They weren’t the most loved kids in town. Bill, on the other hand, had accompanied his mother to the police station. She looked crazy, with disheveled hair and eyes out of their sockets. She did not want Bill out of her field of vision, for any reason in the world, and almost did not allow him to go to the bathroom, even if he tried to hold back for an hour. When he returned, he found his mother lighting up what was supposed to be the third or fourth cigarette of the morning. The sheriff had not yet arrived, though his secretary must have called him at least a dozen times. “Mrs. Denbrough, I promise you this time will be the good one.” Florence said. The sheriff amazed everyone with a dramatic entrance. He greeted his colleagues and barely noticed the intruders, at least until his secretary pointed them out as neatly as possible with a nod. He led them gently but firmly into his office, and Bill’s mother immediately started accusing him of not being able to do his job well, making them wait too long, losing sight of the main problem.

“My brother’s missing.” said Bill, without stuttering. It was the first sentence he had managed to say clearly since his mother had told him that his brother had disappeared.

“Could not he just have skipped school?” the sheriff asked. “But you do not read the reports of your men? We were here tonight and …” Bill stopped listening to his mother’s ramblings, focused on what the sheriff was writing with his typewriter. George Denbrough had officially joined the long list of missing children in America.

#it #stranger things #crossover #losers in hawkins #the death of will byers #jonathan byers #will byers #ted wheeler #derry #pennywise #the dancing clown #bob grey #bill denbrough #richie tozier #eddie kaspbrak #stan uris #george denbrough #hawkins

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