Fallout: Fury Blood

Chapter 51: Hope Remains

The Red Menace was a hushed distance but for the pain in his body. The Initiate dragged his swollen and bloodied feet through the ravage of the desert night, one with the shuffle of slaves chained together in single file.

Was there anyone coming for him?

Was there even a single soul out there in this ruined world that would liberate him?

With each day that passed, he waxed deeper into hopelessness. No one was coming for him. Not the Brotherhood. Not the Red Claws. Not even Grace. She had probably already moved on, been courted by some handsome and dashing knight in shining power armor. She always had a little crush on Paladin Danse ever since he headed their research patrol that one time, gabbing on about how inspiring he was, how composed he was under fire, how heroic he was when he had taken a bullet for her. The man was in power armor, taking a bullet hardly counted! Ever since that op, she would always blush fiercely like a school girl when he passed by or trip on her own tongue when he addressed her directly. The Initiate never got why, the Paladin was as dry as this desert. Maybe that was it? Because he never showed emotion. Women liked that, right? They liked their men to be their rocks.

He would never understand women... Paladin Danse was probably an expert in that field, like he was in every field. He probably had droves of women throwing themselves at him, and he probably lapped them all up like a well established man in his prime should. Despite himself, the Initiate couldn't help but admire the man. No wonder he was Elder Maxson's 'pet officer' as the other officers would call him in jealous though good-natured banter. Why he had never risen through the ranks to Sentinel, no one ever knew. Maybe Elder Maxson didn't want to risk the suspicion of favoritism. But it was so obvious. The Elder would always call on Paladin Danse for the most important missions; like his reconnaissance of the Commonwealth, and protecting the Wasteland woman who was the key to the Institute.

Would Paladin Danse come to save him...?

"Don't drag feet, slave!" He caught a wicked slash from the leather whip harassing their line and howled out his agony, feeling the skin across his bare back split. His stumble caused the other slaves chained behind him to lurch forward, but luckily, none lost their balance and fell to the sand. If they did fall, they were subjected to more lashings upon their tally for when they arrived at the outpost. So far, their tally was six.

No, not even Paladin Danse was coming to save him.

The Dark Bloods were in motion, the desert span alive with their migrations and booming war chants. Commonwealth spies had sent word of the Brotherhood of Steel's mobilization with the Minutemen bolstering their stead, spurring the warlords to prepare their lands for defense and vengeance. Elder Maxson was amassing his wrath. War was afoot.

War. The very word evoked belittling fear in the Initiate. No one could escape it, like an encroaching shadow of a nightmare that once set in motion, was unstoppable. Dark, desolated vistas spreading out defeated in the aftermath of mankind's horrid technology; eerie scenes of skeletal remnants and wistful echoes of love and courage, leagues of vengeful, hardened soldiers, trampling the once-fertile soil, all the good in their hearts worn away by loss and rage; while austere, powerful, yet haunted leaders looked on, lost to the weight, drunk on their power. This seemed like the war to end all wars, though the Initiate knew it was just another bloody chapter in mankind's struggle for survival. Plans were issued, strategies deploying, manpower gathering, war machines rolling, guerrilla games were sprawled in waiting. Slay and Dark-Drinker were rage walking.