Fawkes

It had to be done that way. Fawkes tries, truly he does, but he's physically incapable of an indoor voice. They would have heard him.

He nods, and grins as far as the stiffly overmuscled structure of his face will allow, and shuffle-steps sideways to give himself room to fire on the enemies' heads.

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Going low isn't something Teresa usually does - and avoiding friendly fire is completely alien to her. She's more of a casual-stroll-and-suddenly-slash killer.

But she can still rocket forward, holding her body horizontal at no more than two feet above the ground. She blurs, again, and slices through the centaur before it can even start reacting, and spins on the other side, turning to watch Fawkes finish the others, her legs wide and her head still low.

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For the very first time in its miserable existence since crawling out of the FEV vats, the centaur is- however briefly- once again two separate bodies with two separate nervous systems. It's all over in a few instants, of course. As long as it takes for the upper torso to slide to the floor and topple over.

As for the others? Well.

The Gatling laser's not meant as a precision weapon. That's just fine with Fawkes. Head, neck, shoulders- any part of the other two greenskins that will burn, he'll take. And when it's all done he'll realize that he's bleeding in several paces, and maybe even sit down later to dig the bullets out... but for now he's really quite happy to be blasting them apart.

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In the seconds it takes for the mutants to trying to stand upright in that hail of laser, Teresa glances down at her uniform. The armor is dented in a couple of places, and the white clothing underneath splattered with tears and holes where bullets have gone straight through. But none have hit her vital areas, and her body has healed the wounds when she wasn't even noticing.

When it's done, she stands, and smiles at Fawkes.

"Is that the last?"

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"I wish it were," says Fawkes. "Consider it the end of the first phase. Now I have to plant the explosive devices I've been carrying so that this place can be purged with fire. We've destroyed enough of their forces that I should meet no resistance- or none worth mentioning. When it's done, we'll need to flee, quickly, before the devices can be set off."

"But even with this door shut, there's a chance the seal may be broken. We ought to warn the children who live in the caves on the other side."

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Teresa considers this. Then she nods.

"Yes, it would be best to warn them so they can get away."

This is obvious. Someone should warn them. While Fawkes is planting the...

While Fawkes is...

Startled by the realisation: "me?"

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"I know this Vault as well as I know my own skin," says Fawkes. "You might survive any others of my kind lurking in here, but you wouldn't know the turns and twists of its passages, or where the weakest points are. If you did, I'd ask you to set the bombs and warn the children myself."

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Teresa tries not to seem like she's more scared of this prospect than of slicing through giant mutants.

But... he has a point, so she puts her sword away and indicates the door. "Through here?"

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Fawkes nods. "They may call you a mungo," he says. "It's a name they give any adult. If they give you trouble, tell them Fawkes sent you, the one who came to take Dogmeat home. They'll recognize that."

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"I will," Teresa says.

She nods, her way of acknowledging that he's got a job to do of his own, and if she were someone else, she'd wish him luck.

Then she turns towards the door.

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He raises a hand in farewell, and heaves with all his strength against the lever that holds the door shut. Beyond lies a high-ceilinged, dimly lit cave that smells of damp and coolness. The light is enough to show a few wrecked things of human manufacture- old bits of fencing, shopping carts pilfered from the surface, things like that. And footprints. Not many; all small.

He'll close the door behind her as quickly as he can. She'll come to the children soon enough.

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As she waits for the door to open and steps through, Teresa reflects that she could have opened it herself, but it's not that important.

She steps through into the cool, dim tunnel and heads off, her sword at her back and her hands by her side, just the tmp tmp tmp of her gentle pace.

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It was a matter of manners more than anything else. Fawkes owes Teresa courtesy, for all her aid.

The tunnel here is high-ceilinged, a good fifteen or twenty feet overhead, and the ground underfoot is stone. As she approaches a greater cavern, though, she comes upon the ruin of a wire fence that formerly spanned the cavern-mouth, and may see in the dimness ahead a kind of jury-rigged watchtower, cobbled together from old remnants and ruins. A shadow huddles warily in the tower window, watching.

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Teresa stops, just this side of the wire fence, far enough away from the watchtower that she can look up at the window without making the angle uncomfortable.

She raises a hand to around shoulder height, in greeting.

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"Hold it right there," snarls the voice of a boy who can't be more than about nine. "I've got you in my sights, so don't try anything funny. What are you doing coming out of Murder Pass, mungo?"

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"I've come to warn you," she says, as pleasantly as if she's doing him a great favor, "that there will shortly be a big explosion in the building at the other end of the pass."

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There's a pause.

"You're joking. People don't come out of there alive."

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"Oh?"

Teresa smiles up at him.

"I did. And my companion Fawkes is now setting the devices that will explode, and destroy it at last."

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"Fawkes," says the boy cautiously. "Another mungo?"

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"Yes," says Teresa. "he came to take Dogmeat home, he told me."

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"... just a second. Don't try anything funny."

There is some scrambling and some whispering, and then a child running off into the rest of the caves. A little while later, the sound of several children's feet comes pattering out of the darkness: first a short pale-skinned boy in a coat far too big for him and an adult's army helmet, then a taller, brown-skinned boy in a jacket and short pants, and then a girl a little taller than the helmeted boy, wearing a tattered pink dress and a positively murderous look.

"Tell them what you told me," says the boy in the watchtower. "And don't try anything, they're all armed too."

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Teresa smiles at them, like any adult might smile at any child, weapons notwithstanding.

"There is about to be an explosion in the building I have just left," she says. "You might want to know, in case you want to get out."

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"Building? You mean where the monsters come from?" says the helmeted boy. "You're shitting me. Nobody ever goes in there for as long as I've been living here, now people are just wandering in with explosives twice in the space of four months?"

"I don't think she's kidding, Mayor," says the dark boy. He's got his eyes on Teresa, and a dead sober expression. "You don't look like you're from around here. Did you bring the explosives yourself, or are you working for somebody?"

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"Well spotted," she says, brightly.

"I've been working with a man called Fawkes. He says you know him from bringing Dogmeat home? Anyway, he's bringing the explosives, and I came down here to talk to you. He should be nearly done by now."

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