She awoke to a young child's cries; sharp and plaintive, ringing clearly through the belly of the ship.

Shaun.

It must be him. Tearing back her blankets, she ran, barefoot on freezing metal, past the rest of the crew still asleep, somehow undisturbed by ithe haunting wail. Chasing the echo, she was drawn up the stairs and into an impossible, steep spiral circling up and up, disappearing into the darkness above. There was no landing in sight, only shadow and the ever increasing chill in her bones, the unforgiving grief gnawing at her heart as the cry became frenzied. Someone was tearing him apart but she could run no faster, strength flagging with each new flight, gravity crushing down on her.

Shaun's cries twisted into laughter, low and mocking, as she reduced to crawling on hands and knees.

"Haven't you been paying attention?"

The Survivor's head snapped up, eyes wide at the bloodied mercenary hunched down on the flight above, flesh peeled back over part of his skull, body perforated and oozing viscous red.

Kellogg's toothy, malformed smile was still piteous. "You don't find him."

Shaking off fear, she coiled and lunged, screaming, clawing for Kellogg's ghostly visage in rage, but her fingers tore through smoke and she tumbled, head first into the void below.

Her head connected with something hard, metallic, jolting her awake. Grimacing as she rubbed her scalp, the Survivor sat up on the cold floor between her bunk and neighbor, blearily assessing her situation as the hammering in her chest subsided.

The commons at this early hour were eerily quiet save for the distant thrumming of Prydwen's engines, running lights tracing the angular interior architecture. None of the other crewmen stirred from their beds. The Survivor let her head fall back against her thin mattress, closing her eyes and letting out a long breath. Kellogg's voice lingered in her mind, an oily, filthy feeling crawling over her skin. Hand trembling, she fished the dogtags out of her shirt collar, pressing them to her lips, holding them to her chest as she drifted into shallow, dreamless sleep.

The reprieve was short lived. "Get up, soldier." Danse. A soft thump near her head, on the mattress. "Need you to get changed. We've got a lot of ground to cover."

She pushed herself off the floor, blinking off sleep, her commanding officer's broad frame a blur of orange and brown. "Yes, sir," she said, biting back a yawn.

"Today, Knight," he said forcefully, but still respectful of those sleeping around them, "unless you'd prefer to spend your morning scrubbing down the hull."

Turning to find a folded olive drab flight suit atop her cot, she shook her head. "Sir, no sir," she responded quickly, pulling off her undershirt and shucking her jeans, fully intent on avoiding trouble her first full day on board. The flight suit was much like his except in color, and thankfully fairly straightforward to put on in such a hurry. It was also riddled with pockets and thin flexible tubing whose purpose escaped her at the moment.

Paladin Danse turned his head a little to one side from where he stood with his back to her, grasping his opposite wrist tightly. "We'll be...heading up to the flight deck this morning," he informed her. "Hopefully you were able to sleep."

"Yes, sir," the Survivor replied, zipping her suit up, tamping down the bile from both an empty stomach and the cheshire smile she recalled. "Best sleep of my life, sir," she added out of spite for the dead, stomping into her boots. "Ready, sir."

"Good," Danse said, clearing his throat and turning to give her a once over. "Now...let's see what I've got to work with."

After fifteen laps around the Prydwen's flight deck, and what she estimated to be half an hour later, the Survivor was feeling the burn. The predawn sky was dark and overcast, winds at their altitude laden with moisture that clung to every available surface, offering some relief for the sweat but turning the deck into a skating rink. Even with the crosshatching on her soles, she slid more than once when taking the corners, taxing her knees and lower back as she tried to keep her balance.

A couple of Scribes keeping watch from forecastle hung around their windows with passing interest in the activity, but otherwise she and Paladin Danse were alone, the latter standing at attention near the stairs, observing her progress. He'd obviously known to bring a fleece lined leather jacket. The suit she wore had lining of its own, but because of the thin construction around the joints for mobility, still allowed a measure of cold to seep through. Coming up on the stairs again for what would make sixteen, she wondered if she would be issued a coat, too, if being out in these conditions were to become routine. She was almost afraid to ask.

"How are you feeling, solider?" Paladin Danse asked right as she passed him, wind pressing his jacket collar to his chin and ruffling though his black hair.

The Survivor let herself come to rest, breathing through her mouth. "F-Feeling okay...sir," she panted, hands to her knees.

"I asked you a question, Knight," Danse said with a sharp frown, "I didn't say 'stop'. Get moving."

By the time she'd made it an even twenty laps around the flight deck, she was ready to eat her words. Mercifully, her sponsor called her back inside to eat actual food, leading her to the mess hall and waiting behind her while she took double helpings of everything on the chow line that morning. When her plate was stacked high, she jammed a slice of toast between her teeth, following Danse to a table. They were two of a handful of crewmen seated; either at the end of their shifts, or up with the sun and nursing along coffee, with more soldiers forming a column leading out the doorway. There was definitely an advantage to being an early riser, she thought, slouching into her seat and cramming the toast into her mouth.

Unaware she was being scrutinized, the Survivor dug into the egg and pinkish colored home fries, surprised but not repulsed by the acidic aftertaste. After a day without food, it was glorious and warm, its novelty a restorative. The weird fruit on the side was passibly bland, but edible, and disappeared with the rest of her meal in short order, while Danse still chipped away at his own. He watched her for a moment, chewing thoughtfully, before apparently deciding he'd eaten enough and took their plates back.

It wasn't until she was back on deck, switching between endurance tests, that she realized her mistake.

"And time," Paladin Danse announced, clicking the stopwatch in his gloved hand.

The Survivor didn't bother completing the last push up, sitting with her back against the railing and grimacing at the fullness in her stomach. Burning behind her tonsils filled her with urgency, hoping for dismissal. Instead, she watched in horror as Danse took a knee in front of her.

He must've misinterpreted her anxious expression. "Last one. Sit ups, two minutes as before," he said, rugged features softening as he encouraged her. "You're doing well so far."

"Thank you, sir," she responded, shifting herself from the railing and laying back on the deck. The cool, solid metal beneath her provided some relief for her upset stomach and aching muscles, eyes closing. She didn't care to get back up, but then Danse's hand was wrapped firmly around her ankle, stopwatch clicking again as he called for her to start. Keeping her jaw firmly shut, she concentrated on his voice as he counted. As soon as he called time, she scrambled to her feet and vomited over the railing.

"There are people working down there," Danse said at her shoulder, irritated.

The Survivor took a deep breath, letting her head hang. The airport below appeared to rock and sway, nausea rising sharply from her belly. "S-Sorry, sir," she managed to cough out before retching again, cheeks flush.

He sighed. "Next time, don't try to eat so much, so fast," he advised, leaning on the rail beside her. "And...it may help you to look at the horizon, when you start to feel nauseous. The Prydwen might be airborne but she's still a ship. Some of us required an adjustment period," he admitted, alleviating a small measure of her embarrassment.

Mortified into an uneasy silence as she followed Danse back inside, hydrating in the mess hall before traversing the maze of corridors to the common sleeping quarters. It wasn't as though either of them could've actually heard one another over the noise of a hundred other soldiers trampling one another in the halls, still working to get supplies to their new forward bases in the airport and Cambridge police station, establish patrol routes. She would've liked to have apologized for ArcJet, at the least, or simply talked to prove to herself he wasn't disappointed with her so far. Or approach the subject of her pre-war origin. But she stayed quiet, following behind him in an anxious tangle of thought.

The existence of shared, gender-specific showers behind privacy walls just past her bunk was a welcome revelation.

"That was all I needed today, so go ahead and get cleaned up," he told her, staying well behind the division between sleeping and washing areas. "From now on, I expect you to be ready and waiting for me topside, same time every morning. We'll train on lower deck in case of weather, so pay attention to the previous night's forecast. I won't come looking for you, understood?"

"Yes, sir," she mumbled, bitter taste still lingering in her throat.

"And, for future reference," Danse added, rubbing at his neck and looking aside, "it's...not regulation for you to..." He trailed off, voice thin. "Well, there should be room back there for you to change into your uniform," he corrected himself, clasping his hands at his back. "Especially if you're responsible about being awake on time."

The Survivor forced her hands to remain balled at her sides, heat creeping over her face, swallowing. "Th-Thank you, sir, I will keep that in mind," she said, keeping her chin up.

Paladin Danse nodded, seemingly relieved that he need not elaborate. "Five sharp," he reiterated with a nod.

The second day unfolded much like the first, spectre of Kellogg included. Muffled but insistent beeping of the Pip-Boy's alarm from under her pillow broke the cycle of never ending stair climbing, ensuring she got dressed and up to the flight deck on schedule, if not groggy. If her sponsor was pleased she'd been on time or completed all twenty laps, he said nothing. He kept his communication with her throughout the day to a minimum, only speaking to correct or instruct her. Although Paladin Danse was never rude, she began to wonder into the afternoon if she'd inadvertently offended him, but couldn't figure what, if anything at all. Perhaps it was part of his method of training. Her insight into basic was poor, other than what she remembered of her father's stories.

Rather than dismissing her after physical training, Danse escorted her to the office across from Cade's sick bay, gesturing for her to enter first. She gave Danse a questioning look, but proceeded inside, finding herself surrounded by shelves and boxes stacked high with books and scrolls, odd bits of paper stashed here and there around the room. Several of the older, leather bound tomes aligned behind the cluttered desk were familiar from her studies at Harvard, but the collection at large was seemingly disjointed. Among them, a handbook on home robotic repairs for those not electronically inclined, partially complete encyclopedias, blueprints of the Citadel in Washington, and a paperback entitled '1001 Grognak Facts for True Fans' caught her eye. Seated behind the desk was a slight, middle aged man wearing Scribe's robes, poring over a stack of manifests, a round, gray striped cat settled into a ball at his elbow. Paperweight, she thought with a smile.

"Proctor Quinlan?" Danse called from the doorway.

Without averting his eyes from his work, Quinlan replied, "Ah...yes, do set any books or technical documents down where space is available, carefully, of course, and see yourself out. Thank you." The Scribe was soft spoken, possessing a distinct, stereotypical learned English accent much like several of her instructors had. In particular, her socioeconomic professor, who suffered many, many Revolutionary War jokes at the hands of freshmen, especially around finals.

Danse moved to her side. "Quinlan," he tried again. "I'm here regarding the request I'd sent you?"

Adjusting his black rimmed glasses, Proctor Quinlan lifted his head, narrowing his eyes a moment. "Goodness, Paladin," he said, rising from his chair, "my apologies, I was..." Waving his hand over the haphazard piles of paper and books that encroached upon his position, "Attempting to...catch up on paperwork. Quiet moments have been at a premium, you understand. Of course I received your message, but haven't had the opportunity to reply."

"It's fine, Proctor," Danse reassured him. "Your function takes precedence in this situation. Not to increase your workload, but I've brought your new student." The Survivor glanced up at him, and back to Quinlan, apologetic. This was the first she'd heard of any such arrangement.

Quinlan shook his head, coming around the desk to meet her. "No, no trouble at all," he said. "Welcome, Knight. It's a pleasure to have you join us."

"It's nice to meet you, too," she murmured.

"Proctor Quinlan is responsible for assigning Scribes, collecting and preserving information," Danse explained to her, eye contact fleeting. "Among other things, he's the best resource we have in the field for Brotherhood history and protocols. You'll be reporting to him for an hour after we're done training, from here on out. If he's available."

"As woefully behind in assigning research patrols and answering requests for documentation as I may currently find myself," Quinlan said, "there is always time to be found for learning."

"Thank you," Danse said, before turning to face his charge. "You're dismissed once Quinlan finishes for today," he told her, moving past her shoulder into the corridor beyond.

She watched him leave the office, staring long after he'd gone. The explanation had been the most Danse had said to her all day and it bothered her, perhaps more than it really should have. Apart from Haylen, whom she saw the other day, and Cade, with his relatively easy manner and sympathetic ear, she realized Paladin Danse was the only other human aboard she'd had any meaningful, extended interaction with. Certainly, the only person she'd engaged in combat beside. Of course she'd experience some feeling of separation, she told herself. Maybe tomorrow, she could find out the reason for his behavior.

"Under normal circumstances," Proctor Quinlan began, snapping the Survivor out of her thoughts, "this is where I'd provide you with a detailed, proper orientation of my department, and familiarize you with the various duties associated with my title, but...as you've heard, the journey north has proven disastrous to my otherwise efficient organization. With our expanded mission, and so few Scribes, I'm afraid I've had little free time to prepare for your arrival, and find myself with no concrete lesson plan for today." He lifted one thin brow. "Perhaps we could begin with any questions you might have?"

"I'm...at a loss," the Survivor admitted, smiling and spreading her fingers. "I've had so many questions over the last week but now...where to start?"

"Where, indeed," Quinlan mused, rubbing his chin. His lips upturned slightly with amusement. "Ah, I understand you speak Latin," he said to her mild surprise, walking to a shelf containing hand bound manuscripts, running a finger along the tops of the spines. "Once upon a time, when our founder penned what would become the Codex of the Brotherhood of Steel, many of our basic tenets and early histories were recorded in Latin. Can you guess why?"

"Law," she replied, confident with where they were headed. "Many countries modeled their justice system after the Romans. Rome eventually fell, but their language and law remained with the disparate tribes the Romans conquered. It was in common use in higher education right up until the last war."

"Very perceptive," Quinlan remarked, tugging free one of the manuscripts. "As it turns out, several of those who would go on to bear the title 'Scribe' were well versed in the language and had no difficulty reading what the others had previously written down. Roger Maxson, our founder, ordered copies in English be made available so everyone would be equally fluent in our law, but the first Codex, the core of it, is in Latin. Unfortunately, few speak or read Latin these days. The Brotherhood's focus has always been on acquiring lost or new technology, not on history or what it deems 'lesser' sciences, such as linguistics or psychology. I've made a case for formal teaching before, as we've recovered medical journals rife with it." There was a hint of disappointment to his voice at that, but his features lightened once more as he looked at her. "May I ask how you came by your education?"

The Survivor paused. "I studied pre-war law," she replied after some thought. When, not if, she approached Danse about her background, she wanted him to hear it from her. He needed to be first. "Latin was a...hobby of mine."

"I must confess, that does strike me as unusual," Quinlan admitted with a nod. "Organized government and court systems haven't existed in almost two centuries, as I'm aware. Outside of the Republic, but...well. In any event, you are only the second recruit to express an interest in law. There are few books in this collection with either as the main subject, but you are welcome to borrow them. Or, there's several crewmen on board that have studied Latin in their spare time, if you find yourself wanting to practice. Myself included, of course."

"I might," she said slowly. "Thank you, sir."

"You're quite welcome, Knight," Quinlan said, holding out his manuscript. "Here, in lieu of lesson plans for the afternoon." As she took it from him, "It isn't the original text, of course. That remained behind. I've transcribed a majority of the passages pertaining to regulations and early history from the Codex into bound copies, both in original Latin and translated English. Based on what you've told me...I'd suspect you would prefer the Latin?"

The Survivor thumbed through the first few pages. Slogging through the Latin would be an undertaking, but more rewarding having translated it herself. She'd know for sure how accurate it was. "I...yes, actually," she replied, closing it and holding it to her chest. "Thank you, sir."

"You may repay me by continuing to take after him," Proctor Quinlan said vaguely, hand to her shoulder. "Go enjoy your evening, Knight. I'll see you tomorrow."

(Been having health issues the last few days, but sorry for the delay and size of this chapter. As always, your follows, favorites, and reviews are so supportive and greatly appreciated. I also post to my tumblr ( blog/hoshigumo) with update information and notes for future chapters, even if I'm not able to sit at a computer and write. Hope to have another one for you soon. -Meg)