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The fucking Brotherhood would be the ones with all the tech, wouldn’t they? Of course. Fuckers.
Hancock spat into the dust, uncrossing his arms to slant the point of his tricorn farther down over his eyes. Danse had wheeled in on one of his – the Brotherhood’s – ridiculous toys. And, ah, how Hancock coveted the thing. It was some kind of vehicle, jacked up on four massive all-terrain wheels and jet black. He didn’t know what it was called exactly, certain it must have had some stodgy all-letters-and-numbers code name, but the only thing that interested him was the fact that Danse, for all his soldierly vigilance, had left a fusion core in the thing.
He left a fusion core. In the thing. He left it.
Hancock twisted the smoldering butt of his cigarette against the top railing of the fence that surrounded Mama Murphy’s garden and leaned, peering into the dusty kitchen window at the back of the common house. Danse’s big head was in there, towering over MacCready while they shot the shit about something. Mac didn’t look too fond of the jarhead, good ol’ Mac.
“What are you up to?” Piper bent to deposit an armload of firewood near the side door, and she was scrutinizing him while she clapped the dirt from her hands.
“What?”
“You really hate him, don’t you?”
Hancock scoffed. “Nah, I love the guy. Judgmental, dreamy, jerks off to the BoS Code of Conduct. What’s not to like?”
“Jesus,” she huffed at his horrific imagination. “Look, I’m going in for some chow. So should you, if you can be, you know, civil.” She faltered on that last bit, flustered somehow, and went inside without another word.
Civil. Surely, Piper had meant polite. Mature. Level-headed. But Hancock was a singular sort of guy and, in truth, the only thing he took from that was civil disobedience.
.....
The afternoon was lovely that day. There wasn’t any sign of rain or rad storms, and the wind was light and warm. If the river hadn’t been dangerously irradiated, Danse would have wanted to take a swim in it. The only sounds were of the birds picking through the vegetable gardens, and…the snarling roar of an engine.
There was a plate of barbecued radstag on his lap. There was a tin mug in his hand. All had been listening to Preston tell them about progress being made with the reconstruction of the Castle, but then everything was happening in slow motion. Danse’s stomach turned over and he was moving, lurching from his chair, upending his dishes and oblivious to the murmurs at his back as he tore through the living room and into the kitchen, gaping out the window with a snarl.
“That motherfu—”
The ghoul was in the driver’s seat, arguing emphatically with that lunatic Deacon over shifts and gears. In the back seats were the mutt and who else but goddamn Nora, her lips pulled into an anxious line as she held on to Dogmeat and stifled her laughter.
“You’re gonna drive?” Deacon demanded.
“Affirmative.”
“You know how to drive?”
“What?”
“Anything.”
“Negative.”
Baffled as to what else to do, Danse wrenched open the window and shouted at the top of his voice so they might hear them over the hum of the fusion motor. “HEY. YOU CAN’T – I’M NOT AUTHORIZED TO – THAT’S THE PROPERTY OF—”
“No, it’s this one,” Deacon was urging Hancock, but the ghoul batted his hands away.
“I got it, I got it, how hard can it b—”
And something kicked and popped and sputtered, the sound pulling all the color from Danse’s face – They’re going to stall the belts, the engine can’t take it, they’re going to warp the tension rods, they’re going to fucking break it – and Hancock released the breaklocks and they were off, skidding muddy tracks into the yard as Danse hauled himself out the front door to stop them.
.....
It was so jarring. Everything shook and vibrated beneath them as the wheels labored over the grass. It was teeth-chattering, it was fabulous. Hancock whooped so loud, it made him wheeze, and Deacon was hollering, clawing wildly at Hancock’s sleeve because the jackass hadn’t fastened his seatbelt.
“HANCOCK,“ came a shout from somewhere. “YOU BASTARD, IF YOU DON’T STOP THE—”
Oh. Hello, Danse.
Nora was snorting out giggles as he drove a lazy circle around the house. “Hancock, maybe we should…”
“GO FASTER,” Deacon hooted, and as they shot past Danse’s ridiculous waving arms, Hancock hung his tongue like Dogmeat and bade the soldier farewell with a deranged war cry.
The decrepit street that wound through Sanctuary was much easier to navigate, and they sped between houses with zero fucks given, Dogmeat yapping and chomping at the rushing air. Nora clung to her dog for dear life, only letting go when Hancock shouted at her over the chaos.
“My hat, get my hat!”
Once his tricorn was safely in her lap, he kicked up the speed, and Deacon gripped the edges of his seat as they approached the tumbledown bridge.
“Bro, that’s not gonna work.”
“We got it,” Hancock barked. He grinned impishly, scarred knuckles white on the wheel as they neared the rickety crossing.
“BRO, WE DON’T GOT IT,” Deacon howled. “THERE ISN’T ENOUGH BRIDGE.”
“Oh my god, Hancock.”
Nora was practically shrieking until Hancock made a turn and the war buggy – YES, YES THIS IS ITS NAME – jerked to the left.
The river came into view and then Nora was yanking at the back of his coat collar. “No. No. NO. HANCOCK, NO.”
He went for the shallows and they careened down the hill at a bone-shaking pace, all three of them screaming with mouths wide open. They hit the water with a swell of river spray, wheels churning against rocks and sunken trees, struggling some, and then they were bounding out again, surging up the other side of the bank.
“Holy fuck,” Deacon was panting. “Holy fuck.
“Let’s go to Red Rocket.” Hancock was drunk with it, the devilry of it, the glee. This was the best move he had ever made to rile Danse. This was at the height of his greatest hits. “Let’s go to Red and give them rides, let’s go.”
Now, they were all cackling again, in euphoria, maybe in fear. They didn’t know.
“Uh.” The old gas station was coming up fast, but Deacon had twisted around and was up on one knee in his seat, staring out the back. “We should not stop, pal.”
Nora emulated him, her eyes like saucers when she turned back to face forward and echoed, “We should not stop. ”
Hancock frowned, checked a mirror, and laughed. He laughed until he swerved once, twice. He laughed until he thought he might be sick.
Fucking Danse.
The Brotherhood Paladin was decked out in his goddamn power armor, and the bastard had a jet pack. It was ludicrous. It was absurd. It was the best day ever. The guy’s face was set in the grim promise of retribution, his steely hands in fists as he vaulted over the crest of a hill and tailed them, relentless.
“Can he catch us?” Nora hissed. She sounded somehow triumphant and genuinely worried, all at once. “Is he gonna catch us?”
The engine whined as Hancock really picked it up. “He won’t catch us.”
“What if he catches us? Because fuck you two, I’m gonna run.”
“He’s not gonna catch us!” Hancock nearly threw them all when he rounded a corner, his breath hitching as he recovered, his laugh ragged. “Look at him in that thing, he won’t last ten minutes.” When Nora stared at him, he glanced her way and then sneered at the road. “Hey, it’s whoever runs out of core power first. It’s up to fate now. Destiny.”
Deacon nodded sagely, his hands grabbing at the dashboard as the ruined highway grew ever bumpier. “I’m okay with this.”