Sacrifices

Chapter 20: Final Judgement - Part 2

"There is no deceit in death.

It delivers precisely what it has promised.
Betrayal, though ... betrayal is the willful slaughter of hope."

-Steven Deitz-

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As the minutes dragged on into hours, Danse became increasingly restless. Propelled by nervous energy, he pushed himself to stand and pace about the bleakness of his cell. With each heavy footfall, the aching in his head intensifying. It didn't matter how fast he attempted to outrun the throbbing, it stalked his every step. The whirling, feuding tangle of thoughts that Jackie's confession had unleashed, crowded his head. It was too much. All too goddamn much.

The past twenty-four hours had slipped by in a blur and yet, the image of Jackie's husband endured. It fed Danse's uncertainty, robbing him of his rationale with the lucidity of the man's likeness to his own. His dizzying, swaying world threatened to knock him off kilter and Danse staggered to a stop. He growled his frustrations and mashed his fingers against his temples in an attempt to rid himself of the intrusive thoughts. But entangled beneath it all was the woman he loved, held captive by fear and coercion.

Maxson.

Suddenly the warring ceased, his mind clearing with renewed conviction. Danse had come here for a greater purpose; to wage war on the Brotherhood with fist and fury alone. The mess in his head was nothing more than a useless vessel conjuring his anxiety and above all else... it was a distraction.

More than anything, Danse regretted his words shouted in anger at Jackie, but if he didn't want them to be his last, he couldn't allow his mind to be muddied with emotional entanglements. Regardless of his failing sanity, he had unintentionally led an insurgency to topple the Brotherhood and now, he intended to win.

Failure was not an option.

He pushed his clashing thoughts aside with the promise that he would set things right with Jackie later. War was afoot and Danse was a lone crusader, marching to the snare of his drumming feet. A loose cannon set to bring the Brotherhood to it's knees. His opponent was well matched, yet Danse didn't falter. Despite Maxson's general threatening appearance, it was just that, a flaccid veneer used as an intimidation tactic.

Maxson was stockier than he, outweighing him in brute strength alone, but Danse held the combat advantage. He far exceeded Maxson in tactical expertize and field experience. Before his exile, if someone had wanted something done efficiently, done right, they sent Paladin Danse. There was a reason he'd been maintained in such high regard, and even though he hadn't held the rank, he had been the strong-arm of the infantry.

War… Danse understood war. He'd spent over a decade fine tuning his skills, training to survive a life of bloodshed out in the field, and striving to be the best. The epitome of Brotherhood ideals, he upheld his reputation with proven results. Countless adversaries had died at his hands, life strangled from their eyes and burned from their bodies. An excellent marksman who wasn't daunted by close-quarter combat, Danse excelled at being the model soldier.

Maxson's legend, however, hadn't been immune to propaganda. Inflated tales strategically told to ensure his rise to power instilled a god-like fervor amongst his soldiers. In reality, Maxson was no more a god than a man; worshiped for his name, rigorously trained to look the part, and conditioned to explicitly comply with the Brotherhood's expectations. In reality, his experience with warfare was fleeting at best and the combat exposure he boasted had become a distant memory—Maxson had become complacent.