[ Just about nobody could actually be faulted for deep, ominous wariness of the kind of forces that can teleport a person unexpectedly from one place to another, unfamiliar one. Danse would like to think he has a little more reason to feel threatened than most.

All of his memory-wiped speculation about what the Institute would look like has involved a lot more gleaming sterile scientific apparatus, though, and a lot less of...well, what just looks like the wasteland he's already accustomed to, give or take a little more weird occult flair. The sparks are ominous in their own right, but not in the difficult-to-comprehend kind of way. ]

Watch your step. I don't know how much voltage is still flowing, but all this ill-repaired junk is a terrible accident waiting to happen.

[ This to anyone within earshot, spoken with the cadence of someone long accustomed to giving orders and assuming that everyone around him will be of a rank that has to listen. He doesn't always realize he's doing it. ]

Someone managed to strew this cultist nonsense around without getting electrocuted, anyway. I wonder why.

[ At first glance, Danse would seem to be in his element, no matter how much of a fixer-upper the tough orange truck he's found himself in possession of might be. He's already wearing a set of slightly-too-small olive-drab mechanic's coveralls, when he would ordinarily be wearing a skintight flightsuit as orange as the truck--go figure, he'd be abducted and dragged here on laundry day.

He clearly knows what he's doing with a wrench, at least. He's just trying to apply an existing skillset to the kind of vehicle he's never actually used or seen in working condition. It's a frustrating business that has him rapidly losing his usually-reasonable temper, as he tries to replace the flat tire and finds something hopelessly stuck somewhere. ]

Son of a bitch.

[ He glances over his shoulder, as if hoping nobody else has heard this uncharacteristic and undecorous display of spicy language. ]

This is ludicrous. They don't have a single suit of T-60 around here. Do any of these vehicles even run on a fusion core?

[ Danse does not historically fight well in wet conditions. It's a silver lining (amid the many, many angry storm clouds out there) that he doesn't have to worry about rust right now, but at first glance, it very nearly looks like he does. He doesn't know what else could possibly account for that vivid copperhead snakeskin, oranger than his truck or his left-behind Brotherhood uniform, that lines the slash from broken glass along his cheek and his forearms. ]

What the hell? That's disgusting.

[ Someone's not a reptile guy.]

[ This is not the first, second or two hundredth time Danse has wished since he got here that he had his power armor with him, because he's positive he could weather anything short of a tornado in it and make himself all the more useful to the convoy at a time like this.

But anyone finding themselves caught up and whipped against him will be held onto as safely and securely as he can manage, while he anchors himself and makes a solid, brawny windbreak for them until the gust passes. ]

[ Anything else you want to play around with, hit me up at layonmacduff! ]