That’s all Shelby thought once she was spotted by a courser just around the corner of the building. It wasn’t long before they, along with their squad of Gen-1′s, were on her trail.
She panicked, fight or flight kicking in as she turned and bolted towards the other side of the building; habitual instinct told her to fight back, but she knew better by this point.
And she was not in the mood to make a one way trip to the Institute.
Desdemona had told them this area was safe, that no one would get in the way of them and the captured synth. It pissed her off to no end to find out that wasn’t the case.
Her and Deacon had decided to split up as a faster way to find their ‘package’, finding out now that it was a horrible idea. She wasn’t as careful as him, as stealthy, She was reckless and impulsive. If it hadn’t been for her training she’d go in guns blazing; however that wasn’t the case in this situation.
Glancing to her right, she noticed Deacon poking around in another room and skitted to a stop; almost falling over. Almost. Rushing inside, she slammed and locked the door, forcing it to shut with the weight of her body and kept it shut,
“You couldn’t have told me there was a fucking courser?!”
Everything that Deacon did was a mystery—from his existence within the shambles of post-war America, to his motives and objectives, everything was pretty grey. His opinion about the Institute, however, was like a very dark ebony splatter of paint across a bleached canvas: very black, and very white.
Their objective here was straightforward and clean cut—get in, secure the target, and get out, and Deacon had a bad feeling about it right from the get go. He voiced his opinion and concerns in the way that someone like him would—riddled with dry humour and astronomically wild, cautionary tales. Oftentimes, Desdemona trusted his instinct, however she had been dead set on the information she had been given, and insisted that it was a simple catch and grab scenario. Though despite how concrete her plan had been and the hard facts she had, everything had been too easy. If they made it out of this alive, the first words out of his mouth were undoubtedly going to be ‘I told you so’.
—But judging by his companion’s urgency, those very words might be his final breath, or etched across his tombstone if he was lucky enough to have his request fulfilled.
“Oh, hell. I knew this was fishy.” He quipped back with relative ease, head dipping just enough for his dark-eyed gaze to be visible just over the rim of his sunglasses. He crouched to the ground thereafter, gesturing for her to follow suit as his voice lowered to a dull hush.
“And you know what else? Dez knows I’m not a fan of many fish dishes. Did you know that? I’m also ninety-nine percent sure that the door you slammed shut isn’t bulletproof, so I’m thinking we should, you know, skedaddle.” As his light-hearted commentary settled flatly upon the tension that seized the room, he skirted back towards foundation of the retaining wall at his back. There was no clear cut route to the exit which was likely fortified anyway, so their best bet was to find a boarded window to pry open or escape through the roof access.
“Oh, but have you tried my mirelurk salsa though? Not to toot my own horn or anything, but it’s to die for.” And ironically, their chances at survival were looking pretty slim.
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