Chapter Text
He was nineteen when he first killed a man. He’d missed the first bullet, or ten, he didn’t remember. Not that it mattered in the end, his victim fast expiring, the life flowing freely from the blooming petals upon his chest, soaking into the parched earth. Dread, fear, regret: all things they had said he’d feel when this time came to pass. But in the moment, he had only felt relief. Years of listless existence, a clambering for sense of purpose, all eradicated in one fell swoop. He could get used to this. This sense of utility.
So come the time he was plucked unceremoniously from the world as he knew it, and flung into post-war Boston, he fell into a meandering pool. His purpose spent and served, forlorn; collecting dust over the fireplace mantel. Hero, veteran. Words that meant nothing to him, empty without their underlying effects. But through it all, She had provided a small comfort. He made her happy, She said. So he did have some use after all.
Waking up from his cryostasis in Vault 111, in many ways, was a reprieve. But it came at great cost, his heart heavy and wedding band seemingly much too tight. By the time he had ventured out the vault and came privy to the irradiated abominations roaming amidst the now ravaged backdrop of Boston, it had all been too familiar. Different day, same shit.
He needed answers, and by some crock of shit, so happened upon what appeared a relic of the Old World. A group that pronounced themselves the Brotherhood, their structure a mimicry of the military of old. He’d fallen in with them, and the days passed quickly, his quest for the truth growing further from his mind. Already it was verging on eight months since the start of this new hell. And as of current, hell walked towards him, its rotting limbs dragging across the pocked floor.
He steadied his hunting rifle and peered down the sights. A feral ghoul fell into his crosshairs, the skin of its decrepit head teasing the trigger. Inhaling sharply he held his breath and pulled. With a loud crack, the ghoul’s head exploded in a momentary display of gore, the remnants of its rotting innards plastering the wall behind it. Holding the gun steady, he scanned for any residual movement. The low murmur of the wind whispered across the wasteland, seemingly unperturbed.
He sighed and packed the stray bullets back into their respective boxes and laced his boots. Having secured his rifle to his back, he surveyed the map on his Pipboy. He was a few hours out from the Cambridge Police Station. Rhys had sent him off to dispatch hostiles in the surrounding region. The man’s disdain towards him was obvious and mildly amusing at best, and to spite him Van opted to flaunt the spoils of his nepotism at every given opportunity. He particularly regaled in the attention afforded to him by the leader of the recon squad, a fact that had elicited many a hushed whisper amongst the Scribes.
It was not long thereafter that Van found his gaze lingering after the Brotherhood Paladin. His eyes roving over dampened black locks, callously pushed back whilst toiling over repairs; or along the hardened muscle, glistening under the fluorescent lighting of the power armor bay. It had started innocently enough, with what he initially identified as admiration for the man’s work ethic and seniority. However, such notions became increasingly outlandish with each night spent desperately chasing release; stifling groans as he spilled over onto his palm to those very images committed to memory.
So he had taken it upon himself to suppress such thoughts. He crammed his days and nights full, shouldering as many tasks from Haylen and Rhys as he could manage before the Scribe started to inquire into his physical and mental condition. His time spent at the station was minimal, limited to the routine check-in to provide progress reports and alerts to successful completion of mandates. An exercise in futility, however, as his feelings persisted; festering into a frustration that had begun to create a notable strain on his relationship with the Paladin.
Stepping over the debris of the dilapidated shelter and narrowly avoiding the splattered gore, Van started towards the police station. The faint green glow emitted by his Pipboy cast strange shadows that danced across the surrounding refuse littering the streets. The trek was a routine one for the most part, with an expected number of hostiles dispatched by a few quick bullets to the vitals that sent them crumpling to the ground. There were only a few anomalies in the form of raider patrols scoping out new settlements, best avoided by stealthily slinking along the opportune cover provided by the long shadows of the Boston city square.
As he neared the police station he could make out the outlines of two power armored guards standing alert by the makeshift gate surrounding the perimeter. As he walked past them he offered a curt nod—a gesture that was reciprocated in turn—and approached the closed doors. He steadied his breathing and with bated breath opened the doors to the station. He first caught sight of Haylen engaged in conversation with Rhys whose expression quickly soured at the sight of him. Following his gaze, Haylen turned towards him, acknowledging his presence with a polite smile.
“Oh, look who decided to come back,” Rhys chided as he walked towards him. “I take it that the area is clear?”
“Affirmative.”
“Really? Maybe you’re not entirely worthless. Here, your payment.” Rhys tossed the bag of bottlecaps unceremoniously at his feet. “Report to the Paladin, he wants a word with you.”
Unholstering the rifle from his back Van steadied it momentarily in his hands. Rhys’ brows shot up across his lined forehead, his mouth opening in exclamation. Van continued to carefully snag the drawstrings of the pouch with the bayonet mounted at the end of the firearm, before tossing it effortlessly into his hand. Rhys looked positively livid, his mouth agape in what appeared to be a conflict of rage and disbelief. Behind him, sharp exhalations of breath were audible as the spectating Scribes stifled their snickers.
With a smirk Van shouldered past the angry Knight, earning a few hidden gestures of praise as he turned into the hallway. He continued down the corridor before halting in front of the office door that lay slightly ajar. The low static of a dispatch radio attuned to the BoS airwaves issued forth. A moment’s hesitation, before he rapped his knuckles thrice against the chipped paint. A gruff voice issued promptly, granting him entry.
He strode over to the metal desk in the center, and propping his rifle up against the wooden chair, settled himself opposite of the seated figure. He appraised the space: it was mainly comprised of loose leaflets scattered in the semblance of groups and a lone pack of Fancy Lads Snack Cakes™. It was notably empty and only just visible, peeking out from over its tall and precarious perch of stacked documents. A headless power armor frame loomed in the corner of the room, its missing head dominating the remaining space on the desk. Paladin Danse glanced up from amidst his paperwork to fix the soldier with a grin.
“Impeccable timing soldier. Elder Maxson will be pleased to hear of your return.”
As his breath caught in his throat, Van coughed. Attempting to regain composure, he pointedly fixated upon a distant hole in the wall directly to the right of Danse’s head, “Is there a particular occasion sir?” The grooves of the hole were slightly tapered, shallowing as it extended outwards. The chipped plaster appeared to have been clumsily repaired, its shoddy workmanship lending to its current state of disrepair.
“We have been requested aboard the Prydwen, we are expected by 0800 tomorrow.”
Reluctantly, Van pried his eyes away from the wall to survey Danse’s face, attempting to make light of this curious development. Almost immediately, he caught sight of a rogue cake crumb adhered to the man’s bottom lip. The low grumbling of what may have been words was lost on him, muting into an indiscernible hum. He watched the rogue crumb as it mocked him, dancing astride its rosy pedestal. He wanted to reach out and snag it, dispose of its tantalizing mockery; but instead bunched the fabric of his cargos in his fist, urging his hand to remain stationary.
“Soldier, repeat back to me what I just stated,” the voice issued forth as a sigh.
“Elder Maxson requests our presence aboard the Prydwen at 0800 tomorrow.”
Danse raised an eyebrow in feigned surprise before continuing, “Make sure you are ready to board at 0600 sharp, the vertibird will be docked outside of the station by 0530. You are to bunk here tonight as we cannot afford any potential delays in scheduling. Scribe Haylen will brief you on your accommodations.” A flash of red in his peripherals and Haylen marched forwards, stopping short of the metal desk. “Any questions soldier?” Van answered in the negative and was dismissed.
As he rose to gather his things, he glimpsed the Scribe discreetly engaging the Paladin, gesturing towards her mouth with a finger. A pink hue enveloped the patches of pale skin that peeked through the thick facial hair. It was as Danse began to run his tongue over his lip that a violent screeching filled the room as the chair was forced aside; Van hurried past Haylen, nearly toppling her in his haste.