[closed] i wish i could make sense of what we do

[androidvictoriam]

Who: Danse and Arcade
What: Danse's turn to suck it up and exchange backstory for help
When: Near the end of the month
Where: The medical facilities
Warnings: Moderately-detailed description of vomiting; potential mentions of human experimentation


[ Danse has never found himself needing much in the way of rations. It's always been easy to forget meals altogether when he's deeply distracted by something, and to satisfy the eventual rumbling of his stomach with a spartan meal of whatever's at hand, nutritionally balanced or not. We're all hungry, he remembers scolding Knight Worwick once as they'd camped, but we can't afford to be greedy out here, and he'd stuck by that until Haylen had slammed a medical textbook down in front of him and pointed to the minimum recommended daily calories for a man Worwick's size.

Danse remembers thinking it must have been a typo. He'd outweighed Worwick by twenty-five pounds and had two inches of height on him besides, and he'd never felt like he needed that much food--but he hadn't been about to question a trained medic's expertise, and so Worwick and Rhys had both gotten their second helpings from then on.

As the tower draws nearer, he thinks he finally understands how they must have felt. Never in his entire life has he felt this constantly ravenous, this all-consumed with thoughts of finding anything to eat--or at first anything, but as the days wear on, the cravings solidify, filling his mind with images of meat and juices that grow redder and rawer until all he can taste in his mouth is blood. (At least some of that is due to the points of his canine teeth. He hadn't consciously noticed them lengthening or sharpening, but he keeps cutting his tongue on them now whenever he isn't careful. But mostly, it's just sheer, desperate, famished imagination.)

The first time he gorges himself on something he's hunted, he can't be surprised by the violent illness that follows. He hasn't eaten the meat raw, or not as raw as he finds himself wanting to--but he hasn't cooked it as safely as he would have insisted on back home, either, and even when he's only eaten to satiety, it's three times more than he's ever eaten in one sitting in his life, even at rare celebratory feasts. He finds himself heaving the entire meal back up along the side of the road, collapsing weakly back into his truck with sweat soaking the neckline of his shirt. The next time he finds his stomach feeling gnawingly empty, he forces himself to eat something bland and vegetarian from the food car. It fills, doesn't satisfy, but at least it stays down.

That had been a week ago. He can't bring himself to look at anything that isn't meat anymore, but neither can he keep the meat down when he gives in. He swings from forcing himself to resist to binging when he no longer can, but neither extreme works or matters--even when he does discipline himself, eats what would have been a normal portion for him before all of this happened, he still finds himself vomiting it up again. His head pounds from dehydration, his muscles cramp, his stomach churns and yet still protests its hollowness at the same time, but he insists nonetheless on fighting through it by himself--until he finds himself waking up disoriented at the steering wheel of his truck, realizing he's blacked out but unaware for how long, his face ashen in the rearview mirror and his heart hammering in a way that downright frightens him.

Stubborn pride is one thing, and mistrust of a man he knows has been lying to his face throughout the entirety of their brief acquaintance is another, but this outweighs them both when his pride is now the only thing he can swallow. He makes his way to the medical facilities. ]

Are you free right now, Doctor?

[ His voice is hoarse, but for the first time all month since he finally put two and two together about the truck, not openly sneering or hostile. ]

Comments

[taediosum]

[ Arcade's been out of the med bay most of the month - most of the last month, too. But he can't bring himself to completely abandon the space, either. Not just because he feels a certain amount of responsibility to it, and to anyone who might come looking and hoping to find medical help when it's most needed where it's most likely to be found. But also because, well, he's grown accustomed to it.

It's not his lab at the Fort, but it isn't so far off. Understocked, empty most of the time except for him, and generally passed up by most passersby, too. He's made a little bit of headway on the first count, packing away whatever medical supplies he's managed to salvage that exceed the limits of even the elaborate first aid kit he prefers to keep with him. (Not nearly as good as what he had, before, but coming along somewhat, at least.) And the small, probably pointless projects he fritters away his downtime with are here, too.

He's busy with something simpler, for the moment (they can always use more bandages, and he's already used to making his own from salvaged clothing), and it gives him more opportunity to try and... Better coordinate his newer appendages. His two scaled arms are holding the faded cloth between them while he uses his other pair of hands to cut it into long strips. It's a significantly more laborious process than if he'd just use the one set of hands he's used to, but it's gotten easier as he goes. Which is sort of the point, he has to keep reminding himself— Learning to live with this and actually make use of it.

He's in the middle of another frustrated, internal pep-talk when the air suddenly turns. The convoy's little infirmary isn't always the most pleasantly atmospheric place, but it's never in his experience been overwhelmed by such a foul-tasting miasma. But Arcade doesn't have time to pinpoint it, either, before a heavy step and familiar voice startle him. He goes rigid in his seat, dropping the cloth and grabbing the counter's edge.

Is he free? That's - not how he was expecting this to go. But that horrible taste in the air is overwhelming, and somehow he doesn't even have to look at Danse to know he's distinctly unwell. ]

...Technically. Yes.

[ He's also incredibly wary. There aren't a lot of ways out of this car. ]

[androidvictoriam]

[ It isn't lost on Danse this time that his presence could easily be seen as threatening. He certainly hasn't been doing anything to discourage that over the past few weeks, either, though his suspicious observation has been intermittent and conducted mostly from a distance. But under the circumstances, intimidation would be just a bit counterproductive. It's why he's announced himself before actually entering the room, for courtesy's sake and also the sake of not getting a plasma blast to the face.

Which is why, when he does step through the door and find himself staring down a man with twice as many arms as he'd had last time Danse had counted, he recoils with visible shock. ]

My god.

[ It's only for a moment, though he's in less of a state right now to be stoic about anything than he usually is, and he doesn't relish anything that speeds his heart rate again when it's already doing unsettling things. You look like a goddamn centaur, he does not say, because even Danse isn't socially graceless enough to insult someone whose help he needs in the same breath that he asks for it. (And because it would be an unfair comparison anyway, when the rest of Arcade still looks as disgruntlingly fine as it did before.) He rallies, trying to gather his wits for the best place to start, as long as he isn't being outright told to leave. ]

You know I wouldn't be here if I had anywhere else to turn. But I don't. I don't even know if you can help someone like me, but you're the only one who might be remotely qualified.

[ It sounds more insulting than he means it to, without context. However he might doubt Arcade's trustworthiness in other respects, Danse wouldn't assume him unqualified to handle any human patient, or originally-human one. But getting to the point of a story has never been his strong suit even when he isn't feeling dizzy and dry-mouthed and distractingly worried. ]

[taediosum]

[ Arcade grimaces at that shocked interjection, his less human set of arms reflexively crossing over his stomach, back to being hidden beneath his lab coat and the shirt under it. (He's gotten pretty good at that, at least.) He knows what he looks like. He doesn't need it pointed out to him. Let alone by someone who already clearly thinks he's some kind of monster, all newly acquired, freakish traits aside.

Instead of highlighting the very thing he's done his best to keep from drawing too much attention with, he turns his gaze stoically back to the mess of cloth in front of him, and - with only the human set of hands - starts rolling up the fresh bandages he's managed to cut. ]

I don't know anything about you, actually. Except that you apparently know everything about me.

[ Bitter and perhaps a tad unfair, but Arcade has always had a small but persistent streak of vanity in him, and the first thing Danse has done here is kick it while it's already down. Intentionally or not.

Still. He is a medical professional. One who is acutely and unwillingly aware of his not-so-welcome visitor's depressed blood pressure and rapid heartrate.

With distinctly less offense, he offers, ]

You should probably sit down before you pass out. Let's start there.

[androidvictoriam]

[ He bristles at that, more than he should, whether for the sake of his own health or what he'd like to think of as his moral high ground. But that unexpectedly neutral bedside manner--not exactly Haylen's cheerful tenderness, but not the vitriol he's been prepared for, either--stops his snarled I know you're a liar before it can leave his lips, though it gets far enough to bare his newly-sharpened fangs.

Even the bitterness is somehow disarming, in its way. The one and only time he'd ever tuned into the Enclave's propaganda station as a knight, feeling like he was committing treason just by listening, and half expecting to be caught and disciplined for it, he'd felt almost violated by the friendliness of the tone--the folksy, forced relatability making him feel like there was oil trapped under his uniform, the way Eden had laid the treacle on so thick that even the wastelanders hearing his speeches blared by passing eyebots would make fun of them. A lone Enclave scientist trying to bide his time and lure people into complacency here might well do it by providing free medical care, but surely it would be more out of their playbook to supplement that with a false air of positivity than to undermine it with snapping and sarcasm.

Maybe that is how Arcade interacts with other patients who don't already know to suspect him. Danse has no idea. It still gives him more to think about now than he wants to have. He can't argue with the medical advice, anyway, and he doesn't protest as he sits heavily down in a chair and rubs at his eyes with both hands. ]

I haven't been able to keep anything down for--I don't even know how long it's been. Days. It's been a problem since we started approaching that tower; I feel like I need to eat more than my stomach can handle, but--

[ It's embarrassing just to say that, like he's admitting to some hedonistic lack of self-control, like it's worthy of judgment and he wouldn't really blame Arcade for just telling him to stop doing that and sending him on his way. But he has an idea now of why he can't handle it, and he needs to not be the only one here who knows his body works like this. ]

--I need to start at the beginning here. There's too much I'm not used to having to explain to people from outside the Commonwealth.

[taediosum]

[ Arcade is still profoundly uneasy, but at least having something to think about other than how carelessly and easily this man would most likely kill him, if he weren't so specifically useful, gives him somewhere else to focus his energy. Stop doing that isn't the medical advice that crosses his mind first, as those symptoms (or perhaps just the bad air in the room) immediately make him think of worse possibilities than a simple lack of self-control. (He'd doubt if that would ever be enough for Danse to come asking his professional opinion, anyway.)

But he doesn't get quite as far as trying to narrow down a diagnosis when Danse just - keeps talking. And it doesn't seem to be about his condition (the beginning of what?). But interrupting him to cut to the chase doesn't feel like the right move, either. Not if he wants things to remain basically civil here. (Or close enough.)

Arcade pushes his chair back and stands, picking up the bottle across from him and offering it to Danse. The label is sun-faded and half torn away, but it doesn't matter what was originally served from it. It's only water, now. ]

What's so different about people from the Commonwealth that you'd need to explain?

[androidvictoriam]

[ Danse takes the water with only a brief moment of hesitation, because if he's here asking for help in the first place, he has to at least trust that he'll be given it and not deliberately poisoned or something--the same principle on which Arcade is trusting Danse not to shoot him in cold blood. He does squint at the bottle and examine it before drinking, but that's more to gauge whether he thinks he can drink it without retching or not. He takes a sip, small and measured, eyes closed and breathing deliberately steady.

The same tricks he's using to fight back the nausea are calming the last of that brief temper flare, too, though Arcade's not giving him anything else he feels like he needs to snap back at, either. ]

They're already familiar with...the kind of being I am, and the organization that made me. I suppose everyone understands the general concept of an android, but--it's not exactly that simple.

I was created in a place called the Institute. They're what you get when pre-war researchers spend centuries stewing underground in their own hubris and decide to "redefine mankind," in their own words. And technological overreaches like me are how they intend to do it.

The problem here for me is that they're nothing if not protective of their proprietary data. Such as how exactly my physiology works. There's only so much I can tell you.

[taediosum]

[ Arcade doesn't particularly enjoy the feeling of standing over someone (let alone at his height), so he retreats as soon as Danse reluctantly accepts his offering. It's a good thing, too, because he should be sitting down when someone tells him they aren't actually human, really, but the product of some insane collective of underground visionaries (derogatory).

No wonder the Enclave is such a hair trigger point of contention for him, Arcade thinks, visibly shaken as he stares at him, wide-eyed. As if he could pick out some tell, somewhere, that he hadn't noticed, before. Humanoid robots are not exactly a staple of the Mojave Wasteland, though - even an Assaultron would be shockingly out of place. So to be confronted with the notion that he could, possibly, be looking at an android so human-like as to be completely indiscernible in difference is... a lot to take in. ]

You're telling me you were made in a lab?

[ It's not absurd so much as just - horrifying, but the feeling sort of hits the same, and he almost-laughs as he scrubs a hand over his face, pushing up his glasses. ]

Well, I guess that explains the— [ He half-gestures to Danse with the same hand, before dropping it abruptly into his lap and turning his gaze pointedly elsewhere. Yeah, no, definitely don't finish that thought aloud, Gannon. ]

...Okay. Uh, I can't diagnose machinery - but I'm assuming you being here at all means you're much more organic than our recent visitors?

[androidvictoriam]

[ The part of Danse that might long for human connection is still fiercely at war these days with the part that believes the Brotherhood is right about him--and even if not about him specifically, after all his years of faithful service, then still about the rest of synthkind. The shock and horror on Arcade's face is--not gratifying, exactly, but still somehow validating, more so than hurtful or offensive.

(But baffling, too, if he truly is Enclave. Danse had half expected some kind of...professional jealousy, maybe. Not what seems to be the kind of genuine dismay a revelation like this merits. He watches this reaction with narrowed, pensive eyes.) ]

On an assembly line, to hear witnesses tell it. Component by component.

[ Whatever Arcade's half-finished thought would have been, Danse assumes it would have been the same kind of remark he hears around Sanctuary now when people think he's out of earshot, or else don't care whether he is or not. ("Can you believe Danse was a synth? I mean, I can. Because, you know, I've heard him speak.") He frowns at it, but he doesn't begrudge it right now. He supposes he deserves that much.

He's expected on some level to be told he's out of luck, too, for precisely the reason Arcade gives, but the fact that he isn't being bundled out the door is encouraging too. He isn't sure exactly how to answer that, but he feels at least like he's being given a chance to try and sort it out aloud. ]

That's the thing. In theory, yes; it's not like any part of me is made of metal. [ Silicon and plastic are a different matter, but even those are a pretty small fraction of the whole. ]

Ordinary medical exams never turned up anything remarkable. Synths aren't meant to be detectable. I spent my whole damn life thinking I was human. But if the bastards who designed me can be believed, I'm not even supposed to need food to survive. I don't know if that's hyperbole or truth. I don't even have any information that isn't secondhand.

A friend managed to copy some internal memos indicating that we're not capable of gaining or losing weight regardless of diet, and I guess that tracks with my experience, but it just sounds...impossible.

[taediosum]

You're right about that.

[ It does sound impossible. All of this does, to be honest. But - he has no reason not to believe it, still. Danse doesn't strike him as the type to waste time mincing words, let alone spin up elaborate fabrications for... no apparent reason. Let alone to waste those absurdist fantasies on someone he doesn't stand to gain much of anything from, and would still probably rather see dead.

So. The truth it is, apparently. ]

I guess it makes a... sick kind of sense, though. If you were looking to improve on the average Homo sapiens, needing food and water just for basic upkeep is a pretty big vulnerability of ours.

[ From a purely utilitarian standpoint, anyway. Arcade can't say it without a distinct twist of distaste in his expression, though, as if the mere idea leaves a film on the words in his mouth. Revolting.

He'd rather not dwell on it. ]

What other symptoms are you experiencing? Vomiting, obviously. Hunger. But nothing else preceded this?

[androidvictoriam]

[ The seething distaste is what Danse might expect from some kind of genocidal mad-scientist type, if it were directed at the notion of human weakness rather than the thought of forcibly correcting it, and if he'd heard it fifteen minutes ago, he would have thought nothing of mentally twisting the words to let it further his own suspicions. Listening to it without quite such deliberate bad faith, though, it's clear how Arcade actually means it. It's not adding up. It doesn't sound like a lie, all the less so when he does know what lying sounds like from this man. And if it's not, it's more concurrence than he expected from any aspect of this conversation. ]

Yeah. The "why" isn't in nearly as much question as the "how." They don't seem to have ironed out the "needing water" glitch yet, though.

[ The gallows humor surprises even him once it's out of his mouth, because even with this uneasy truce, it's not the sort of thing he says to people he hasn't ruled out the idea of killing. He's resolved not to do that without actual evidence of a crime, though, and not only has Arcade thus far failed to give him that, he's starting to give Danse reason to doubt he wants to commit one at all.

It makes him falter a little, though he's already eased off on the raised hackles and the growl--both of those mostly metaphorical, though the next question is unsettling in its relevance to lupine qualities that are more tangible these days. He's been avoiding the mental connection on purpose, not oblivious to it, but that's been easier to do when not so obviously confronted with the changes in other people. ]

Nothing except the change in weather. Except that something's been going on with my teeth.

[ The length and sharpness of both sets of canines is decidedly visible now, and slightly audible--though the change had been just gradual enough, and he'd already had just enough of a slur around his S's, that only someone who's spoken to him for longer would probably notice a difference. Saying it out loud as if unaware of the origin, in conjunction with the other symptoms he's detailed, makes him sound more clueless than he really is, and he sighs. ]

I probably got off easy with that, compared to-- [ Compared to you, he's about to say, glancing back at where he knows the extra arms to be, and then realizes he should find a more tactful way to phrase it if he's going to. ] To some other people around here.

[taediosum]

That's too bad.

[ He does not sound like he thinks that's a bad thing, at all. Though it certainly might've been more convenient, for Danse's sake, as pale and drawn as he looks, now. Of course, as soon as they wind up somewhere so much like the Mojave, the first medical case he's hit with is so heavily bent toward dehydration and exhaustion. It's almost enough to make a man homesick. (As if he wasn't, already.)

Arcade leans forward in his chair, a (human) hand on his chin as he takes a closer look at Danse's mouth. Sure enough, that... doesn't look entirely natural. Not that he can talk (and when he does, it might be more apparent, now, that his tongue is darker and slimmer and decidedly more forked than it should be - though at least he's gotten off without any strange shifts in his speech, miraculously).

His eyes flit up to meet Danse's again, at that cut-off remark, and a flat, sarcastic smile crosses his face. ]

Compared to me, you mean. [ If Danse won't say it aloud, he will. Arcade shrugs, his less human arms shrugging out from beneath his shirt (one of them primly pulling down the hem) and coat again as he relaxes somewhat. If gallows humor is the order of the hour, though, far be it from him to not rise to the occasion. ] You know, it's not so bad, actually. If I can figure out how to manage four hands at once, I'll be able to assist at all my own surgeries.

[androidvictoriam]

[ He doesn't catch a good glimpse of the tongue, and only notices it at all for the first time when Arcade leans in close to examine the fangs. It's still a startling little jolt, but not to the point of comment this time, at least. Growing up in the wasteland is a double-edged sword Danse imagines they both understand, where mutations are concerned--they're a fact of life, expected, unavoidable, but the reaction can be all the more visceral when the possibility of it happening to you isn't hypothetical.

Danse is accustomed to reacting to these things with thought-terminating, Brotherhood-approved disgust. But in the absence of anything to enforce it, he finds himself actually taking the arms in with real curiosity, a little fascinated in spite of himself now that he sees them in motion together, and strangely captivated by that prim little tug (though he averts his eyes from the glimpse of skin visible before the hemline covers it again.) Even the scales have a kind of aesthetic grace to them, when Danse's primary frame of reference for this sort of thing is thick, ugly deathclaw leather. He doesn't mean to stare, but his gaze lingers with less subtlety than he wants it to before he looks away.

There's still enough Brotherhood moralism left in his mind to tell him he should be ashamed of himself for thinking of any of this as anything but repulsive, but when this entire conversation is already a minefield of that to begin with, he feels something like a sense of outrage fatigue about it. There are worse things in the world than forked tongues and extra arms. Especially this world. And the joke fits well enough into that context to have Danse responding without a thought like he would if it came from Haylen or Rhys. ]

That's handy.

[ A pause, as he realizes what he's actually said, and looks duly mortified. ]

...uh, no pun intended.

[ Vague and very monotone sarcasm, sure. Puns? He'd sooner shoot himself in the foot. ]

[taediosum]

[ Arcade does not laugh. Obviously, the truncated huff of breath that poorly phrased response nets from him is... something else. What, exactly, he couldn't say, but definitely not a laugh.

Probably.

Sadly, the look on his face - a mix of similar mortification and unfortunate amusement - is not helping his case. ]

The Brotherhood's enhanced interrogation techniques certainly are creative.

[ Okay, it wasn't that bad of a joke, intentional or not. But if Danse expects to get away without at least a little sarcastic ribbing, he's being far too optimistic.

Though on that note, they probably should stay on track. ]

I can give you something for your nausea - and a mild calmative, if you think it would help. You're going to need as much water and rest as you can get, in this heat. But if this change is related to... further transformations, there isn't much I can do to actually treat it.

[androidvictoriam]

And you'd know?

[ He has to get it in there, can't quite let it go without challenge if Arcade is going to go there first rather than keep tiptoeing around the elephant. He can't let it be this easy. He can't get this complacent, laughing and joking and relaxing, when nothing has actually been settled. This is a truce, not a surrender, and neither loneliness nor homesickness is an excuse to let his guard down this much. The question isn't asked in deadly earnest, not like it could have been before--but it's too pointed to be banter, a sharp you're not off the hook yet.

It's perhaps not the best idea to remind Arcade of this before accepting medicine from him, but Danse is at least nothing if not honest about where he stands. ]

I don't need the calmative. Or the rest, for that matter.

[ This is partly literal, in that sleep is theoretically supposed to be as optional as food, but most of it is the same stubbornness that had kept him out in the field when every Brotherhood medic from the Prydwen CMO on down was trying to put him on leave, and now it has the additional incentive of wanting to make up for the vulnerability he's already shown.

And however much he might have dreaded hearing it, it's true--laying all the details out like he has, and taking into account the meat-specific nature of the cravings, it's unfortunately all too obvious that this has to do with whatever he's turning into. All he can do is ride out the symptoms. ]

If I can just keep the water down, I'll manage everything else on my own.

[taediosum]

Luckily not. The Brotherhood I'm familiar with typically reserves that sort of treatment for people who've actually done something, though.

[ Is that strictly true? Not exactly. Petty grudges and interpersonal squabbles count as "something," too, by that definition. Not to mention simple, unwitting trespass. But Danse seems like the type to actually believe there was (or is) some sort of honor in the ranks, and not just more needless warmongering and meaningless exceptionalism.

Then again, maybe that's just Arcade being optimistic, again.

Danse's immediate dismissal of pretty much every bit of his recommendation certainly leads him to believe so. Which begs the question. ]

I understand you don't trust me, but if you don't trust my medical advice either, why confide any of this in me? Why come here at all?

[ There's a sharp note of exasperation creeping into his tone, that frustration bleeding through. ]

If you don't care about yourself enough to do the bare minimum for your own wellbeing, you could at least care about the people around you. Why insist on pushing yourself until someone gets hurt?

[androidvictoriam]

[ It's an expected sort of response, except for being somewhat surprisingly charitable toward the Brotherhood. It still gets them nowhere if Danse isn't willing to believe him. Arcade can't be altogether unaffiliated with the Enclave, or he wouldn't have felt the need to lie and misdirect about the truck at all, and maybe he's even done some manner of hideous research back home that deserves punishment--but Danse still has no reason to think he's done anything of the sort here. Or could if he wanted to, with a setup like this. What's the worst that could possibly come of giving him the benefit of the doubt?

Right now, he just sounds like every other medic Danse has ever pissed off in his life. And Arcade demonstrably wants to keep him alive and probably un-vivisected a hell of a lot more than the Brotherhood ones do now, Haylen excepted. Danse should be grateful. ]

It's not about not trusting you.

[ It's a little bit about not trusting him. ]

Who the hell else is going to get hurt? There's nobody counting on me here. How is making myself even less useful going to help me, let alone the rest of the convoy? What the hell is the point of being a goddamn machine if I can't even use it to anyone's benefit?

[ He's worked himself up enough to feel lightheaded again, and he slumps back into the chair with a mutinous scowl and another drink of the water he's been neglecting. ]

This kind of crap doesn't happen to the one with the...arm guns. [ He assumes. He does not actually have a clue whether SecUnit has problems like this or not. ]

[taediosum]

'The one with the arm guns' probably wouldn't balk at the most basic of medical necessities.

[ He assumes. To be honest, he also has no clue whether or not SecUnit cares quite as much about its own wellbeing as that of those around it. The logic of connecting those two dots is relatively sound, though, at least.

That dry sarcasm is short-lived, this time, though, quickly evaporating as Arcade continues. ]

You're not a machine, though. Not entirely. [ Maybe not even mostly, from how he's explained it. A few machine parts in an otherwise organic whole does not a soulless robot make. And even if he were all metal, he still has a human enough mind. Not to mention plenty of the other drawbacks. ]

...And I'm willing to bet you wouldn't treat an actual machine as poorly as you're treating yourself, anyway. How are you going to keep driving, in this condition? How will you be able to protect yourself, let alone the people around you, if you run yourself into the ground?

[ The people around him will get hurt, that's who, if he can't keep himself together. Arcade wouldn't believe for a second that Danse plans on just leaving it to the rest of them to take care of themselves, when they run into trouble again. That he'll simply self-segregate to rust away on his own. He wouldn't care nearly as much about Arcade's supposed Enclave ties if he didn't give a damn about anyone else. ]

[androidvictoriam]

[ Danse has to concede this, and makes a noise of vaguely annoyed agreement about it. Unimpressed as SecUnit had been by Danse's ignoring a broken wrist just to avoid Arcade, Danse will do it the courtesy of not believing it to be a hypocrite.

Arcade is not the first person to tell Danse he isn't a machine, and even that firm tone is enough to give him deja vu--but much as it might have helped to hear it from Nora, it's a message that takes repetition to stick. There's something even more believable, honestly, about hearing it from someone with every reason to dislike him and virtually no reason to care about smoothing over his existential crisis. It makes him shut up and listen, gives him reason to take the rest of it to heart too.

He doesn't want to think too hard about the notion that he wouldn't treat a machine this badly. It makes him squirm a little inside, but he knows he'll find himself thinking more on it later. Now, the practical concerns alone are enough to occupy him. He's already blacked out at the wheel once, and only by sheer luck been parked at the time. What if it were to happen again, making him run someone over in the big hulking thing they have him driving? Hell, what if the raiders do come back for another round? There's no reason to think there can't be more of them out there. ]

...you're right.

[ The concession comes without irritation, this time. Of all the things Danse can be brahmin-stubborn about, admitting when he's wrong is rarely one of them. And this is an issue on which he wants to be wrong, in a way that outweighs his pride now. ]

I suppose if I do have to rest, now's the best time to do it, when there's a lull in the danger. I just never find it easy. [ Thus the offer of medicine, which he probably should not have rejected out of hand. ] I...maybe it wouldn't kill me to take something for it. Just the once.

[ If he thinks it would, it's only because he doesn't want to be caught groggy and unawares if the convoy runs into a threat again. He can't tell himself anymore that Arcade is just bullshitting this kind of concern for his patients. Even the best liar would have difficulty faking the sincerity here, and while Danse is not exactly a connoisseur, when he thinks about their first couple conversations with the clarity of hindsight, he does not think Arcade is up there among the best.

He may, he realizes, need to start drafting another apology. ]

[taediosum]

[ Ordinarily, Arcade would think nothing of arguing with a patient - berating them, even, which is a large part of why he doesn't normally see patients, himself, back at the Fort. But this is a... delicate situation, already. And he doesn't really think that even if the context were purely well-meaning, launching into a full blown rant would go over all that well.

So it's (visibly) a relief when Danse relents, with only a little additional pushing. ]

Great.

[ Levering himself up out of his chair (with all four of his arms), Arcade dips briefly into one of the med bay cabinets, pulling down a bottle of pills. It's small, there are few - but no one has had to take any yet, as far as he's aware. So it's probably not a huge imposition on their meager supplies. ]

Technically, these are for motion sickness. ...Pretty appropriate, don't you think? But they should work on any residual nausea you're feeling. Hopefully.

[androidvictoriam]

[ It wouldn't be the worst bedside manner Danse has ever seen, given the years he spent getting patched up by a resentful Mr. Gutsy, but his standards for these things are low regardless of context. He keeps working his way through the water bottle, finding that he can manage it if he goes slowly, and beginning to feel less physically shitty as he does.

The state of the medical supplies is more dire than he's accustomed to seeing when he's not trapped in a besieged police station. Given a different medical dilemma, he might backtrack and try to be stoic again rather than use up what little is there. But he recognizes now that if the nausea medication is for anything, it's for a situation like this. He manages a little snort at the commentary, even. ]

Makes sense. Frankly, it's the least our captors should be providing us.

[ He hadn't really been objecting to the notion of medicating the nausea to begin with, but he takes the out and doesn't ask about the sedative again. For all he knows, it would be even less likely to work on him. He's already taken up enough of Arcade's time, in any case, and he gets up too once he feels he can stand without any dizziness, setting the empty water bottle back onto the desk. ]

I'll see if they do anything. I... [ He falters a bit. ] Thank you.

[taediosum]

[ Arcade resumes his seat as Danse stands, pulling himself up to the counter to start taking back up his handful of half-rolled bandages. He isn't exactly brusque in his dismissal, but there's no lingering warmth, either. (Not that there was any, really, to begin with.) ]

Don't thank me. Drink more water and try to eat something when you're feeling up to it.

[ Ideally sooner rather than later, because Arcade doubts if recommending he also take a few days off from driving and pair up with someone in better shape is a suggestion he can get away with tagging on. He isn't even sure how Danse has agreed to the absolute bare minimum.

He does add, after a momentary pause, a considerably less dismissive: ]

And if those don't help... We'll figure something else out.

[androidvictoriam]

Roger that.

[ Danse is already halfway to the door with a curt nod, back to his usual brisk military efficiency (or about 80 percent of it, anyway) before that addendum.

He hasn't really thought far enough ahead to worry about what he'll do if the pills don't help. He certainly hopes they will; the nausea itself is not as mysterious in nature as the transformation, and other medications have worked normally enough on him in the past, but it's still possible this won't make enough of a dent.

Whatever half-formed contingency plan does exist in his mind, it does involve finding his own solution somehow. It has not occurred to him that coming back and asking for further help if he has to is actually an option, and that's felt perfectly reasonable. But apparently unnecessary, in this worst-case scenario. ]

Sure. All right.

[ Visibly taken aback, and with more to think about now, he leaves without further ado. ]