Fallout: Fury Blood

Chapter 135: Latitudes Of Melt

Danse couldn't see her, but he could sense Kelly as she prowled, nubile in her darkness that now consumed him. He was suspended in a pool of blood, it's dark layers contoring his edges, but he was upright, the blood pool defying gravity as it hovered within a circular frame of blinding white metal.

This halo held him in it's spotlight with limbs akimbo, like a prime specimen on display to be probed and dissected. There was something surreal about it all, something intimate, intolerably familiar. He was unable to move, paralysis deeply set into muscle and bone. Yet he was aware. So, excruciatingly aware.

"He's one of our archetypes, Father. Improved from the prototype phase, without any of the defects we encountered in the earlier models, and with all of the boons. Enhanced reflexes, cognitive processing, nervous system functionality, muscle mass ratio, metabolic rate. We're calling him the Courser archetype, with your approval, of course.

"You wanted a new breed of soldier synths; supersoldiers, if you will; the eggheads loved that. Well, this is him. He's not necessarily any more intelligent than the other archetypes, - we wouldn't want a supercomputer inside the body of a supersoldier, that would just be playing with fire - but he is superior."

Another, older voice spoke through the plane of darkness. "It , Mr. Binet. It is superior. But only superior in what we allow it to become."

The first bite of pain flew through him like a bullet. It struck from his back and pierced his chest, his blood showering forward in a violent deluge. Still, Danse refused to cry out. He retreated into the recessed shelving of his subconscious, where he could compartmentalize the pain.

"A fascinating example of the pain threshold, wouldn't you say, Father?"

"Yes. Fascinating. But what about psychological pain. I'm well aware that has been a focus in your work, regarding the generation three synths."

"Ah, you mean reaction to emotional stimulus, sir?"

"Emotional stimulus would require a subject with sentient capabilities, Mr. Binet. We can't allow that eventuality."

"Yes, Father. Commencing with psychological testing."

Danse knew where he was. He was in the bosom of his creation. The womb of the Institute.

A lean, glistening nymph stood before him, blood cascading down her naked curves. She was Kelly, but she was not. In her grasp was the machete she was so lethal with. Danse knew that what he was about to endure was no testing phase. It was torture.

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After Maxson was gone, Kelly played with the idea of letting herself pass out. The pain of just breathing gave her an imperishable grimace; he had definitely broken one of her ribs slam-dunking her to the dirt.

She swelled with fresh anger. He had decimated her and left her to crawl out of her den of pain, to amble her way across the coastline in such a state. It was beyond inhumane. Cruel. Spiteful.

Yet, she couldn't deny the feeling of gratitude toward the man. It infuriated her. He didn't deserve that gratitude, not really. Not while she existed in so much torment. It was unfair; that every breath she took was somehow his gift to her.

Just like the gratitude Danse had felt toward him when he spared his life.

Danse.

The thought of him, entombed in himself, roused her. Kelly bowed forward from the pile of dirt she was splayed on, trying to gain some traction under her feet. The mere movement of her diaphragm, lungs pressing at her ribcage and muscles stretching out, was a harrowing pain that threatened to leech her will.