"No, there are." Never has Danse sounded more long-suffering than he does right now. "The music is ungodly. I don't know where they even found it. And don't get me started on the stuff they've painted on one of their vans."
Honestly, he really should be fine with big-titty pinup art, as he is with most proud old military traditions, but he is mildly scandalized nonetheless. Even if it's good art.
He doesn't know any of the rowdy teens around here well enough to consider them part of a family unit, dysfunctional or otherwise, and he suspects they wouldn't want his particular type of buzzkill around either--but Deacon's phrasing strikes a chord anyway, and not because Danse has ever been near enough Railroad HQ to hear it said about them. He does feel that kind of frequently-grudging kinship with the people here who understand the hardships of the wasteland, the increasing sense that none of their conflicts--political, ideological, interpersonal--really mean much anymore. It doesn't even matter if he likes them or not. There are bigger things at play.
It doesn't really strike him as all that strange that Deacon has effortlessly insinuated himself into this idea within a span of hours, such that Danse is already wondering idly what he'd make of the others as if the entire dynamic is important to consider. They're already accustomed to sharing a common enemy. It's just an altogether different one here, if not that much more inscrutable or unpredictable than the Institute.
(Or the Enclave. But even if Danse had a reason to think Deacon knew the Capital Wasteland like he does, he's learned his lesson about judging a truck by its paint job.)
He brings the chain over to assess what Deacon's assembled, and nods approvingly as if he knows what he's doing, which he...sort of does. Well enough. It'll probably work. "All right. You get that attached and I'll go get my truck. Rendezvous in five."
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Honestly, he really should be fine with big-titty pinup art, as he is with most proud old military traditions, but he is mildly scandalized nonetheless. Even if it's good art.
He doesn't know any of the rowdy teens around here well enough to consider them part of a family unit, dysfunctional or otherwise, and he suspects they wouldn't want his particular type of buzzkill around either--but Deacon's phrasing strikes a chord anyway, and not because Danse has ever been near enough Railroad HQ to hear it said about them. He does feel that kind of frequently-grudging kinship with the people here who understand the hardships of the wasteland, the increasing sense that none of their conflicts--political, ideological, interpersonal--really mean much anymore. It doesn't even matter if he likes them or not. There are bigger things at play.
It doesn't really strike him as all that strange that Deacon has effortlessly insinuated himself into this idea within a span of hours, such that Danse is already wondering idly what he'd make of the others as if the entire dynamic is important to consider. They're already accustomed to sharing a common enemy. It's just an altogether different one here, if not that much more inscrutable or unpredictable than the Institute.
(Or the Enclave. But even if Danse had a reason to think Deacon knew the Capital Wasteland like he does, he's learned his lesson about judging a truck by its paint job.)
He brings the chain over to assess what Deacon's assembled, and nods approvingly as if he knows what he's doing, which he...sort of does. Well enough. It'll probably work. "All right. You get that attached and I'll go get my truck. Rendezvous in five."