Chapter Text
Danse is blind, drifting— anchored only by his power armor and the crush of memory, an abyssal pressure that makes his breath sit heavy in his lungs.
It would have been kinder to leave him be, to think himself as utilitarian as a pistol, a boot. An item with no purpose beyond its function.
(Or: if they were going to give him false memories of a childhood that was never his, why couldn’t they have given him a kinder history, one without a loving family buried in cold earth? It is crueler to remember community, now that he has no friends, no family, no one to sit shiva for him. If he can even claim mourning rites for a false person.)
So he buries himself in function, follows Curie around the clinic and lifts the things she asks him to do. Bend at the knee, rise. Move. Follow orders.
She trills delightedly, and he would think she’s overdoing it in some pathetic attempt at sympathy (but she is a synth too; how much of this is her obeying her own programming? At least when she was a Curie model he didn’t have to trouble himself with wondering where those lines between programming and personality blur) except she gives that same delighted trill when Cait drops by with a smirk and a bag of ripe mutfruit, or when Preston comes in with apologies and an injured puppy, or when Strong—
Actually, Danse suspects it might still be that cloying, patronizing kindness. Which disturbs him more that she might put him on the same level as that abomination than thinking she might think him some fragile bot in need of fixing. As if his mechanical heart and wires are torn out for display.
Unfortunately, Curie often sends Danse and Strong on the same assignments. He can’t fault her; he and Strong are the most physically capable in Sanctuary, after all. Between his power armor and Strong’s mutant bulk, they are easily able to clear detritus and take care of tasks that require more strength than skill. Unfortunately, Danse’s Brotherhood training gave him little practical knowledge: how to fix a pipe, how to roof a house, or (much to his dismay) even how to mind children without reducing them to tears.
“Shame on you, Monsieur Danse!” Curie scolds, hands on her hips. She jabs a manicured nail in the air, thrusts it and wags it admonishingly under his nose. “You do not instruct a child by threatening to deprive them of rations!”
“It was not— children need discipline—” he sputters, red-faced and sweating, humiliation blotching its way down the back of his neck.
Curie’s voice hits another trilling octave. “For shame!”
Over Curie’s head, Danse spots the formerly-crying child giggling as Strong lifts her over his head, settling on his shoulders and munching on a taffy with sticky-mouthed contentment.
Dully, Danse considers that perhaps there was a reason he was never given charge of the squires.
Danse and Strong are assigned to clearing bloodbugs from the nearby river, including destroying any egg clusters. Danse elected to wear his power armor, though every time he sees the blank chestplate and gauntlets is another reminder that he is no longer a member of the Brotherhood. Both synth and mutant are armed with what Danse calls a strategic probing device and what Strong calls ‘big stick’ as they splash about in muddy water.
Their silence is terse rather than companionable, until finally Strong asks, “Why still wear bucket?” Strong splashes over a few steps, jabbing his stick at the riverbed.
Danse grimaces, but has given up on educating Strong on proper power suit terminology. “What do you mean?”
“Bucketheads threw Danse out. Why still wear bucket?” Strong asks, taking another splashing step.
Danse balks. “I am still— I still follow the Codex. It is more than a faction, it is a way of life.” He grits his teeth. “Not that I expect you to understand the complex realities of my situation.”
“Is bad brotherhood if throw brother out,” Strong says, swirling the waters to a muddy churn.
Stiffly, Danse gives a rote response. “They instilled discipline and taught me much, for which I am still grateful.” The same answer he’s polished, staring at the ceiling at night. With enough work, it might start to feel natural.
Strong grunts, and Danse grinds his teeth, overcome with irrational fury that curls hot behind his ribcage.
Stumbling over some submerged rock and making far too much splash, Danse says, “I may not have been— who I hoped I was, may not have been worthy of serving those ideals, but they were good ideals.”
“Is selfish.”
“We are not selfish! We—” Danse chokes, sputtering as he remembers himself too late. “They see a way forward for humanity, preventing humans from repeating the mistakes of the past. They keep technology secure from the rabble. They instill order and discipline where they can. Surely you can see that life aboard the Prydwen is better than death in some raider camp, or even— or even—”
Strong interrupts Danse’s stumbling defense with a grunt. “Strong like settlement better. Have hot food. Have hot water. Have ‘shower,’” Strong says, tongue still thick and clumsy around the new word. “Have friends.”
“The Prydwen has all those things,” Danse retorts, still stung.
“Dumb blimp have dumb bucketheads.” Strong snorts, splashing to the edge of the shallow pond and stomping wet tracks through the dry dirt, thick cakes of grit clinging to his soles. “Is selfish. Brotherhood not kind. Only help themselves. Do not share.”
“We keep technology safe from those who will misuse it,” Danse repeats, but the words are dead ash on his tongue, bitter in his throat.
Strong turns, the light catching him at an odd angle to cast his face in shadow. “Danse not kind. Not helping because kind. Helping because bucketheads throw him out. Not care about synth. Or robot. Or Minutemen.” Words heavy without judgment, mere statements. “Only care now because have to, not want to.”
While the General already cleared the Corvega plant of the usual riff-raff, Danse remains on alert as he and Strong enter the facility. The floor is littered various decomposing corpses and black patches of dried blood. It appears unlikely that any raiders returned during this interim; while they have questionable taste in decor, their style of corpses-as-ornamentation trends towards the more gruesome and deliberate.
That is still no reason to forgo vigilance.
“Focus on high value components with aluminum,” Danse says, words echoing too-loud in the vast emptiness of the main floor. “There may still be hostiles lurking, so be sure to—”
“I know!” Strong growls, stomping to the assembly line and dropping fistfuls of hubcaps into a sack. “Quiet!”
Danse clears his throat and pitches his voice soft. Perhaps taking a page from Curie will mollify the brute. “I know you do, but I am offering valuable tactical advice—”
Strong laughs like broken gravel, grating Danse’s ears. “If you know I know, why say?” His lips curl, baring his teeth. “Buckethead likes sound of own voice.”
Danse wavers, uncertain whether that’s meant as a smile or a threat display. He bites his tongue and swallows. Counts his breath. “Very well. Brevity is the soul of wit, after all. I won't trouble you further.”
Strong bursts into laughter, slapping his belly. “Ha! That is ironic!”
Danse quickly checks for an anvil overhead.
“That means funny because man who say it is windbag,” Strong explains, lips twisting into a pleased smirk. “Like Danse.” His eyes glitter, sly and strangely knowing.
Danse sputters, ashamed of the hot flush creeping up his neck. “What do you mean?”
“That is from Shake Spear,” Strong says solemnly, eyes distant as if quoting from memory. It takes Danse a few moments before he recognizes it as the brute’s pronunciation of Shakespeare. “Play is Hamlet. Man who say it is Polonius,” he continues, voice slow as he enunciates each syllable with precision. “He is big windbag. Talk too much. Give advice not need or want.”
“I… see,” Danse says at last, the words roiling in his stomach. He is only familiar with Shakespeare’s work through word of mouth, and knows only the most famous plays and characters.
And apparently in less detail than a mutant.
He stomps, sweeps the area and almost at random picks a line of rods. It’s steel, not aluminum, but at least the clink of metal helps bury his own thoughts. “Who taught you that?” Because surely the abomination can’t read.
“Curie and Deacon read,” Strong says. He grins. “Are good friends. Even if Curie not like Macbeth.”
“Is that your favorite?” Danse asks, voice high and strange with disbelief, his throat tight. At Strong’s mute nod, he asks, “Why?”
“Tell secret of human success. ‘Milk of human kindness.’” Strong hefts his sack, the aluminum rattling within. “Is why Minutemen will win. Is why bucketheads will lose.”