[ The look Danse turns to give him is faintly incredulous, when he finally tears his eyes away from the truck--reluctantly, as if half expecting some smug fuck in a tan uniform to step out of it at any moment and give him the chance for a headshot if he keeps paying attention, but he does anyway. ]

You wouldn't say that if you recognized it.

[ Whatever giveaways there might be here that Arcade's ignorance is feigned, Danse's mind doesn't latch onto them yet. He should, maybe, pay closer attention to that obvious blanching, but it seems otherwise understandable that a doctor or someone medic-adjacent would want to prevent bloodshed if he didn't understand why it was necessary. Danse might lack patience for it, but with a moment's thought, he doesn't find it surprising. ]

You wanted to know what kind of people would travel all the way from your side of the country to mine, and why. I've known two kinds. Soldiers from western chapters of the Brotherhood of Steel, sent to reinforce our ranks--and war criminals fleeing justice with the intention of branding that loathsome symbol all over the face of the Capital Wasteland, after slaughtering everyone there who wasn't one of their own.

Nobody who would go out of their way to paint that emblem on their vehicle here can be negotiated with. That symbol is a dare.