Chapter Text
“The hideously mutated, two-headed Radstag is a pathetic creature that will likely run at the first sign of contact. But if forced to fight, it can prove a deadly opponent.”
A heavy mechanical whirr settled into the brisk air and sent goosebumps down Deacons flesh. From his vantage point in the shack up the hill, he watched the Vault elevator make its slow descent. Deacon's breath shallowed when he thought of the months leading up to this point. The months of sitting, of nothing. Convincing Des that this wasn't a waste of scarce time and resources. New whirring signaled the ascent of the elevator and Deacon slowly drew his gun.
He wasn't sure what he'd expected to crawl out of that hole. Synths? A courser? Maybe Tinker Tom in a party hat yelling, "Surprise!". Perhaps the last thing he expected was the most obvious; a lone soaking wet Vault-blue woman shaking in her boots, pale as a ghost and eyes wide like dinner plates. Under different circumstances she might have looked like one of those pre-war models on the billboards, billowy brown hair, clear skin, hot red lips. But then, she'd looked to Deacon more like a newborn radstag.
She glanced around before turning to stare south off the hill into the singed trees bordering the neighborhood below. Through the scope Deacon could see her chest beginning to heave, and the trembling in her shoulders and legs worsened. The vice grip she had on the baton opened, letting it clatter onto the faded Vault 111 paint. She tentatively stepped forward, gangling, clumsy, and weak. She'd collapsed into the gravel lot the same way once she'd made it to the wire fencing. Knees knocking, listless and waning, as though those few first steps were all she had left.
It solidified as truth to Deacon that light traveled faster than sound when he observed her body violently heave, and then was startled by keening whines. Deacon lowered his scope to look at her in full, vulnerable wounded prey splayed on the ground with a bright blue target on its back. She had looked so small on the platform amongst the withered skeletons and abandoned crates, shivering with sobs turning to cries, which turned to wails, crescendoing siren-like until her diminished form was wracked with pained screams.
Deacon had packed his things by now, quickly taking a page from the wildlife that fled the scene. He wasn't going to be around when the scourges of the Commonwealth made their appearance at the sound of a dinner bell. Agonized screaming covered Deacons footfalls while he crept from the shack into the dry woods, hand rubbing the back of his neck where the shame and adrenaline prickled at his skin. He probably wouldn't be writing that into his report to Des. It could have been empathy or pity, but it was definitely against his better judgment when he turned back to take one last glimpse of the lone Vault dweller.
Her head was thrown back when she hiccuped mid scream, and Deacon grimaced as she threw herself forward onto hands and knees and vomited onto the gravel.