Fallout: Fury Blood

Chapter 55: A Rag-Tag Road-Trip

Danse prided himself on his discipline, both interior and exterior. He liked to think that he had adequate control of himself, no matter the situations he found himself in. It came with being a good soldier. There was no such thing as a good soldier without discipline.

But the idiots he was now stuck with were currently wearing his discipline thin.

The three-spy, raider, and dog-meandered in a sloppy excuse of a formation while Danse took up drag to guard their vulnerable rear. Emphasis on the vulnerable. He was already exposed enough in his shoddy armor over his shirt and jeans, and the makeshift field repairs were barely holding it all together.

Had it simply slipped their minds that the Commonwealth was infested with not only raiders, mutants, and various forms of abominable wildlife, but Dark Blood patrols with a penchant to enslave or kill anyone they came across? Yet they continued to interact with each other in obnoxiously loud voices, giggling like little girls at pathetic comical jests while tossing about sticks and stones for Dogmeat to fetch and bring back.

Over, and over, and over again.

Did the game of fetch endlessly entertain the minds of the simple? Dogmeat, he could understand. But the other two... At least they did him the justice of distracting him from the absence of Kelly.

Danse grizzled under his breath, following their antics with a dark glare beneath the rim of his leather hood.

"Go long!" Deacon hollered at the absolute top of his lungs. A gnarled stick was retrieved from a sloppy jaw and then promptly hauled long, spinning on it's axis through the air for the dog to chase in eager sport.

Danse cringed at the volume with which the spy had hollered. "Keep it down, both of you. This isn't a road trip for your leisure," he reproached them as discreetly as he was able, though he ladled a considerable amount of grit into his tone to compensate.

The two looked back at him, the raider with guilt, the spy with a smile. The smug pestilence.

"Relax," Deacon tossed back with an infuriating amount of calm. "The Railroad tourists had this route marked as safe-ish. Notice how we haven't bumped into any nasties yet? Yeah, you're welcome. I know all the dull routes in the 'Wealth." He tussled with Dogmeat for the stick back, then threw it again for the dog to bound after, grunting with the effort. "Besides, you're the combat specialist in our little army. We get into a fight, that's what we've got you for."

Little army? Danse shook his head. He was a part of no army that included untrained, undisciplined civilians or Wasteland scum out for blood sport without the decency of honor. He was going to the Rad Lands for Kelly, full stop.

Perhaps Deacon's intimate knowledge of the Commonwealth was advantageous, but he was still a right pain in the posterior. Once they shipped out to the Rad Lands, his navigational expertize would be irrelevant, anyhow. Danse supposed he shouldn't blame the raider, however. Clay-Crawler was barely sane enough to take responsibility for his stupidity. But the spy surprised him. A spy, of all people, should know the benefits of moving across the landscape in low profile, even if the routes were reported as docile. You never, ever, let your guard down.

While walking the dusted road detachedly with his laser rifle in hand, eyeing his companions ahead of him, Danse eventually came to the conclusion that at the end of the day, spy or not, Deacon was still just a civilian. The Railroad had no military background, as far as he was aware, meaning they were just an overhyped civilian organization. Civilians didn't know the importance of duty, honor, protocol, and conduct. Therefore, they could not be trusted.