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purkinje-effect · 4 years ago

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The Anatomy of Melancholy, 67: Albatross

Table of Contents. Second Instar, Chapter 34. Go to previous. Go to next. TWs: Digestion issues, manipulative behavior. Strokes of luck.

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“I still don’t get why you had to bring the leftover Flamer fuel.” Melancholy squirmed in the bed roll Sticks had wrapped him in to sling on his back. His stomach had churned for hours. “Are you expecting to find a replacement flamethrower?”

“Things have purposes.”

“I’m keen to overlook Mister Hawthorne bringing something frivolous, when he brought so much silt bean flour! I just might get three meals a day into you yet.”

“Getting it into me, and keeping it in me, present two different challenges.”

“You really are struggling with that Radscorpion omelette, huh.”

“I tell you, it’s not your cooking that’s got me.” ‘Choly stifled a whine and did his best to offset the rocking of Sticks’s gait. They’d cut down the Lowell Connector to follow Route 3 South, while avoiding the RobCo Towers property. “I’m sure I’d be much worse for wear if you hadn’t forced breakfast into me before we left.”

“We still have several bottles of your Melancholia, Sir, whenever you’re next in a patch you can manage to eat something.” Vigilant albeit loaded down with cargo, Angel alternated between taking the lead and taking the rear. “Sir... are you certain you’re fit to make this trip? I’m sure there’s all manner of places we could settle down. You know I do not mind looking after you, and--”

“--I’m fine.” He snorted, sinking back deeper into the ushanka to keep his eyes shut. “I just have business first.”

“Need I remind you, Mister Carey. You requested an excursion to retrieve medical grade equipment. If you’re frail enough to be on par with someone fresh off the operating table, you must be ever respectful of your limitations.”

‘Choly could feel Sticks’s shoulders bristle.

“This is a team effort, in case you’ve forgotten.”

“Wouldn’t you gentlemen rather try other nearby hospital facilities?”

“Just about every hospital I can think of has got Supers moved in, or worse. If we need this shit in tact, our best luck is probably a warehouse. I trust ‘Choly’s judgment here. He’s known about these things for months.”

Rather than question what Sticks had meant by ‘supers,’ ‘Choly leapt on the chance to reaffirm confidence in the plan.

“I worked for Walden for a year. Even though I may not have worked directly with shipping, I still handled their inbound shipments. I know how to read their directory and catalogue.”

“Exactly. I trust you to have ruled out places that wouldn’t have it.”

“Sorry it’s the location furthest out...”

“Hey, you didn’t build it there.”

‘Choly murmured, then decided to turn on his Pip-Boy radio, and it substituted for further conversation for the next half hour to Billerica.

“All right, buddy. End of the line.”

Sticks unloaded ‘Choly and helped him back to his feet, then rolled the bedding back up. The chemist smoothed at his Vault suit and coat with slow, deliberate strokes. Staring down the green, ‘Choly squared up to tug down some slack in the Vault suit, where his ammo harness had ridden it up. He continued smoothing.

“You know, I used to come here at least once weekly. Sometimes twice, after a hard day at the pharmacy. It was pretty much daily, when I was still at Chelmsford military housing. Remember how we met? In Concord?”

“Yeah, Concord...”

When Sticks ambled on to the clubhouse without another word, ‘Choly followed, still prinking all the while. Angel had zoomed on ahead, already on the porch by that time.

“I was at the malt shop. On lunch break.” He smiled to himself, straining without his cane to match Sticks’s pace. A lyric laced his voice as he somehow kept trying not to laugh. “The one next door to the Hardware Town. You sat down at my booth, and questioned how you hadn’t seen me until recently. I’d only been working at Walden for about a month by then. You asked me, what my name was. What it really was. I don’t remember people pinpointing that I’m Russian, even back then, and there you were, able to guess I’d anglicized my name. --But it was a point of fascination for you, not paranoia. The whole Mindy thing goes back to day one. You told me it’s a nickname for an American name very close to it. You remember?”

He puffed up his chest a bit, in an attempt to match his memory of Sticks’s human voice.

“‘Mindy,’ you said, ‘Mindy, I sure could use a roommate, and it sure seems like you stand to nip a lengthy daily commute. With our combined salaries, we could afford a plush new house in the suburbs. And you look like the sensible sort of fellow that wouldn’t just help with rent. You and I, we could broker a beautiful partnership.’”

“You’re a sentimental sap,” Sticks ribbed, spotting him as he took the clubhouse steps.

“So what if I am! I was a little obtuse to recognize our chemistry for what it was. Hm.” He stopped at the front door. “I suppose, in a way, meeting you is the reason I stopped coming here every single day after work.”

“Is that a bad thing?”

‘Choly looked to him at length, and smiled broadly.

“Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

The ghoul grabbed him around the shoulder and shook him for emphasis, then held the door for him.

By the time they’d entered, Angel had already located Bogey and coaxed it from its hiding spot. The brass Handy sped up to them with a canister of water in two tendrils.

“Gentlemen! I won’t allow a single word of news until you’ve hydrated from your long trip. Come! Sit!”

The pair followed it into the dining area, where they took to a table near the center. The Handy used its pincer as a can opener for the two of them, and they accepted their water graciously. Sticks chugged the entire tin while ‘Choly sipped at his own.

“You sound like you’re feeling better, at any rate.” Sticks slouched back in the chair.

“It’s not every day I can remember anything with clarity. To remember something fondly, with that clarity... It’s good medicine, is all.”

“You, eh, seemed a bit under the weather last you came by,” Bogey agreed. “Are things all right?”

“Don’t worry about me. We’ve come back down for you. I’ll tell you, my original plan was to take you to Lowell once I could, but... --Yes, the Devils were taken care of, but robots with as good a nature as yours... Well, they just have no place there.”

Relief rippled from Bogey, and it circled them eagerly as though enthusiastic waitstaff anticipating orders.

“Oh, that is the best news I’ve heard in ages! My servos can breathe. Do go on.”

“Like I said, my plan was to take you to Lowell. There’s a settlement of folks in the Concord suburbs, Sanctuary Hills. I’m confident it’s a perfect fit, for you and them both. There’s a mechanic who can do maintenance on you. And Garvey, he’s incredibly protective of the group. The married couple, they take some getting used to, but I know you’ll warm up to each other. And Mama. Mama Murphy’s the whole reason I came out this way to begin with.”

“Concord is something of a transit from here. The thought that I could be around humans again after all this time, however. It simply has me sparking with delight.”

“We came from Lowell on foot,” Sticks reminded, using a third chair to kick up his feet as he leaned back on his arms behind his head. “We can make it to Sanctuary easy. Especially now that you and we makes four.”

“What kind of timetable do you suppose we’re on, Mister Carey?” Angel asked. It had returned to the main room after unloading the biggest cargo in the locker rooms. “It’s already noon.”

“Forgive my manners. Sticks, Bogey. Bogey, Sticks. Well,” ‘Choly thought, “we should assess what we can afford to bring along with us. It would be a shame to leave anything valuable behind, if there’s not going to be anybody here to make use of it.”

“Surely you don’t mean that you intend to loot the clubhouse,” Bogey sputtered, shrinking back.

‘Choly straightened up in his seat and made himself take another drink of water. The ghoul frowned at him.

“What he means to say is, we’re relocating the amenities--and you. Once we spruce up you n’ Angel, we can best determine who carries what. You’re still going where the things are going. That’s not a problem, is it?”

“I, I suppose not." The brass Handy stuttered. "I do apologize for the scarcity of my pantry. You wouldn’t like more peanuts, would you, Mister Carey?”

“I appreciate it, but if Sticks wants any, he can have mine, too.”

“I’m good. But." The ghoul grunted as he kicked forward to lean on the table, about to get up. "If I could use your kitchen to whip something up, we haven’t eaten since around eight, and I’ve worked up an appetite." He made his way that direction, turning a moment to finger-gun Bogey with a guttural click. "Promise not to make a mess.”

“Would you happen to like a Melancholia before we get started to the robotics shed, Sir?”

He gestured for his cane, which Angel produced.

“Let’s focus on you two first.”

The two Handies escorted him to the robotics shed adjacent to the clubhouse, where he got to working on Angel. Loaded upon the curved forks of the hydraulic robotics lift, the Handy received a fresh tank of fuel. Until that time, ‘Choly hadn’t got a genuine look at the broken metal and melted wiring up close. No wonder Angel had been weaving the whole way to Billerica. Plugging into the workbench with his Pip-Boy to run diagnostics only confirmed the repairs would prove more complicated than he’d thought. His lip soured as he let Angel loose and slouched back to sit on the stool. Angel awaited elucidation.

“Bogey, would I be able to bother you to do something somewhat gruesome for me?" When it watched him, he looked up to it. "Mister Handy ocular lens wiring functions with a certain amount of, how to put it. Each position, it bears a load. Missing one causes circuitry misfires in the others. I can’t just rewire the ocular socket to bypass the missing lens hardware, like I thought I would. I know there were still some parts leftover from when your coworkers, erm. I hate to ask, but would you two go find an in tact ocular lens on the green that I could use to repair Angel?”

“Is that entirely--”

“--Something of a transplant, then! Ha-ha!" Angel encouraged Bogey to come with it on the chore. "Humans have to do this all the time, chap. Don’t you rattle your nuts and bolts over it!”

“I suppose, if it helps.”

‘Choly worked at finishing off his water, and watched the clubhouse out the open roll-up door.

Sure would’ve been nice if Jacob had come out here to help. Things would go much more quickly. But I guess he deserves a break after carrying me all this way. Hopefully he won’t have to carry me home. He bit his lip. "...Or to Nashua.”

“Here we are, then, Sir!”

‘Choly jerked out of his daze, presented a full brass Handy ocular lens.

“Thank you, Bogey," he thanked.

Angel loaded itself back into the robotics bench, while its friend held the component.

“Angel calmed me over the whole notion. It’s still a piece from General Atomics, and a piece from a Mister Handy, at that. And I trust you’ll be delicate with my friend.”

“I’ll port all four colorations, after this repair takes," Angel beamed. "To think--I’ll even be part brass! Bogey, I’m most confident in Mister Carey’s capabilities.”

“I’ll do my best. Just having the part makes me much more likely to succeed.”

“I hope Mister Sticks doesn’t take exception to how long we’ve left him alone in the clubhouse," Bogey fretted. "Should I go to check on him, do you think?”

“I’m sure he’s fine. I’d rather you stayed here. I have to power Angel off to work on it, so it won’t be able to assist me." This didn’t entirely reassure the brass Handy, so he added, "Once I’ve got the firmware repair sequence initiated, you can go check on him.”

Bogey liked that much better.

“Before we start on anything, though. Angel, could I bum a Berry?”

Fueled by the nootropic, the chemist worked on his robot, with his robot’s friend fetching tools and holding up the component to latch into the bench’s series of hydraulic pulleys. The moment the Pip-Boy had executed the bench’s scan, Bogey zipped off like its vitality depended on it.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d think Bogey’s more worried about the clubhouse than Sticks.”

The remark soaked in a ways, and he petrified in guilt. Of course Bogey was preoccupied with tending its clubhouse. For the past year, the Billerica Golf Course had been its sole responsibility once the Devils had felled all its fellow robots.

He checked the time and wiped at his face.

Five already. We burned the whole day just getting here and managing this one task. Even if we could head out right now, the sun would set on us before we got to Sanctuary. Maybe I’ll get lucky, and Jacob’s been taking inventory of the clubhouse while I was repairing Angel.

Once Angel came back online, he ran a second series of diagnostics to guarantee the optical lens had installed correctly. The two took a skimming survey of the repair shed, making note of the various tools and materials not too large or heavy to transport, before returning inside.

On the way up the back steps, ‘Choly recalled that Olivia had forbidden the Deenwood robots to let Sticks go unchaperoned. Between that and remembering how the ghoul had rummaged his own secretary the night before, uncertain queasiness overtook him. Angel held the door open for him, and he swallowed in anticipation of something unbecoming.

The door shut behind him, and he found that Sticks had in fact put his time to use. Rather than laze about like he probably would have wished to, on the bar and tables he’d organized the cookware and serveware from the kitchen, the toiletries and clothing from the locker rooms, and even the cleaning supplies from the utility closet. The ghoul sat back at a table, tapping the end of a golf pencil at a clipboard.

“Oh, good. Maybe Bogey can help you two." He snorted hollowly. "Everything go well?”

“It will be some time before I’m sure of my sensors," Angel said, "but I’m certainly in one piece again, thank you.”

“Did you need any tune-ups?" ‘Choly asked Bogey. "I think it’s too late to expect to leave out tonight, but I could take a look at you tomorrow before we leave.”

“I’m right as rain, after all you did for me last week, Sir.”

“Bogey says it’s pretty sure it can carry about 150 pounds," Sticks remarked coolly, looking over everything he’d written down. "Now that it’s been serviced, Angel can take about 200. And I can carry about 100, 125. So uh. About 400 between us? But, gotta to take ‘Choly into consideration... Anything he carries will count toward Angel’s limit... Help me out here.”

“Let’s just call me 125, if that’s what you’re asking. So... what, 325, split between us? What all do you think we need to take to Sanctuary? The Quincy survivors don’t have much beyond what’s been left there.”

Sticks stared at his paper with a difficult brow.

“You rattled off five people earlier, so at least one good set of pans. I’d say at least one good cup, bowl, and plate for each of ’em, too. The clothes shouldn’t weigh too much. Anything they don’t wear, they can scrap for fabric. Bogey wasn’t kidding, either. All I found in the way of food was eleven Nuka-Colas and about ten pounds of expired peanuts.”

“Oh dear, they’re expired!" Bogey fretted. "Are the pops all right?”

“Oh I had a Nuka-Cola, and a bag of peanuts, and was fine," ‘Choly reassured. He refused to let Sticks slight Bogey’s hospitality over things it couldn’t help.

“I do agree that we should take our time being picky here." Sticks set down the clipboard. "If we rush, we might miss something useful.”

“I don’t see any golfing paraphernalia," ‘Choly observed, finally sitting, one table over. "I’d at least like to comb the green for a replacement bag, even if I don’t find more clubs.”

“I didn’t have a chance yet, to scout the sports stock. I can’t expect too much, considering the Devils hit it. I mean, they left next to nothing. I’m surprised you managed to pull together a playable set of clubs, really. They mowed down so many robots. There’s probably not even a full golf cart’s worth of parts left. I mean no disrespect to you, Bogey, or your buddies, but I legit had not directly witnessed what the Devils were capable of until walking up to this clubhouse today.”

“Mm!" Angel snipped in indignation. "Yes, and aren’t you glad they’re GONE now! An absolute scourge!”

‘Choly caught himself almost gawking at Sticks, and he slouched in grief.

“So we’re in agreement that we’re not going to try to rush out of here tonight?”

“We’re here for the night, Mindy.”

“Oh, do let me help inventory it all," Bogey insisted. "They are, in a way, my things, after all.”

“Of course, pal." Sticks shot it a grin. "Don’t sweat a thing.”

By nightfall, they had everything prepared to pack up. Sticks made himself a reconstituted cream stew for dinner while ‘Choly finally relented to a Melancholia for himself. They made use of the locker room to wash their faces and brush their teeth. ‘Choly stripped down to just his Vault suit, and Sticks took off everything but his jeans and tee.

“Are you sure you’re all right with me sleeping on the couch?”

‘Choly could hear Sticks fidgeting in his bedroll in the floor next to him. He made a face in the dark.

“I’d be more all right if you’d get down here with me, if we’re honest.”

“Are you just being like that because you’d rather have the couch?”

“It’s just, we can’t both fit on the couch.”

“I’m not up here because I think I deserve it more or anything.”

“That’s not what this is." Sticks huffed. "You’ve got me liking having a warm body next to me.”

“Would you sleep better if I got down there?”

“Won’t you?”

‘Choly stifled the reflex to object to sleeping in the floor, but he remembered aching all the same waking from the couch last week.

He shoved the bedding off onto Sticks, who sputtered into a chuckle, and got up to help push the bedrolls together. Once they had amassed their pile, Sticks spooned him. They lay there comfortably for some time, but ‘Choly remained awake.

“Could I ask you something, Jacob?”

“Mhh.”

“It’s just, I’m still having trouble with the whole Magnetizer double-dose mess. Everything about that felt... I don’t know. It felt off." He pulled Sticks’s hand around him tighter. "You got something out of that, didn’t you?”

Sticks ran his hand along ‘Choly’s thigh.

“I got you. I guess I can be candid with you, since you’re clearly on board even without me relying on a chem boost. You asked me why I didn’t bank on the effect of Magnetizer with the Gen or the Furriers. I needed to bank on it with you. I couldn’t risk you turning down my proposition. Not until you had a chance to really warm up to the whole idea. You have warmed up to me, haven’t you? Warmed up to us actually giving this ’us’ thing a shot?”

The inside of ‘Choly’s face burned.

“...And the sex before the Unfolding?”

“Icing on the cake.”

“Everything’s a transaction with you. You certainly bought me.”

Sticks pulled him closer, to sleepily nuzzle in the crook of his neck.

“For you, no price is too high.”

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#fallout 4 #fo4 #fallout 4 fanfic #fo4 fanfic #sole survivor #the anatomy of melancholy #melancholy #sticks #ghoul oc #angel #bogey #mister handy

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garagedoor47-blog · 6 years ago

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rentahomeinmalaysia · 4 years ago

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racingtoaredlight · 8 years ago

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On This Day...

On this day in 1879, a small British Army garrison successfully defended a fortified mission station and hospital at a location called Rorke’s Drift against a much larger Zulu force. For their part in the defense of the mission station, eleven British soldiers were awarded the Victoria Cross, the highest award for valor in the British military and still the most VC’s awarded for a single action. This action formed the basis for the 1964 movie Zulu, which launched the career of actor Michael Caine.

The Battle of Rorke’s Drift occurred in the early stages of the Anglo-Zulu War of 1879. Following their capture of the Dutch colony of Capetown during the Napoleonic Wars earlier in the nineteenth century, Britain gradually expanded into adjacent regions, forcing the migration of the Dutch Boers further north--which itself would lead to later conflict with Britain, which I’ve written about here before--and absorbed native kingdoms and principalities. In order to ensure social and political control over these newly conquered territories, and to add their influence into nearby lands still not captured, such as Zululand, a system of federation of these territories was suggested. Such a pattern of political organization had been successfully implemented by British officials and Canada and so the pattern was more or less repeated in south Africa.

In 1878, the British High Commissioner in South Africa, Sir Henry Frere, London’s representative in the region, undertook on his own initiative to impose a confederation in the region by force. In December, he presented an ultimatum to the Zulu king Cetshwayo which essentially ordered the Zulu to comply with Frere’s plans. The Zulu refused and Frere, without seeking authorization from London, dispatched a British Army column January 11, 1879, into Zulu lands to subjugate the Zulu.

The British force was armed with state of the art rifles and artillery, but was small. This problem was compounded when it was further divided into three columns in order to cover more territory. The main column, commanded by Lord Chelmsford, occupied the area around the mission station at Rorke’s Drift within days of crossing the frontier. Leaving a small force behind, he pushed further inland. On January 22, Chelmsford set up a camp several miles away from Rorke’s Drift, left behind a small force of 1,800 soldiers to defend it, and pushed further into Zulu territory in order to force battle upon their main army. The Zulu, however, evaded Chelmsford and fell upon the British camp at Isandlwana. In the subsequent battle, which allegedly took place under a partial solar eclipse, virtually the entire British force was killed and the camp plundered of supplies by the Zulu. Less than 300 British and native soldiers (members of the Natal Native Contingent) escaped the massacre.

The few survivors fled back towards Rorke’s Drift. Meanwhile, a party of Royal Engineers had arrived at the mission station in order to repair the pontoon bridge that crossed the river that ran adjacent to the mission station. This force, commanded by Lt. John Chard, joined the British and native garrison at Rorke’s Drift under Lt. Gonville Bromhead, together numbered approximately 400 men. There was also a handful of civilians, mostly workers in the hospital on the mission station’s grounds. A large number of the British soldiers at the station were recuperating from wounds in the hospital, but were counted among the garrison’s effectives because their injuries did not prevent them from standing in the firing line, if needed; they were “walking wounded.”

As Chard and his engineers prepared to repair the bridge, the survivors of Isandlwana appeared over the horizon, including a troop of Natal Native Cavalry, and warned that a large Zulu force was headed in their direction. Chard and Bromhead were the same rank, but as he had a few months of seniority on Bromhead, Chard assumed overall command. He immediately abandoned the bridge project and set the garrison to fortifying the mission station. Doors were barred with furniture, boxes and crates used to create walls with firing steps, other enclosures were linked together to form one cohesive wall. In some buildings, holes were cut through the walls in order allow soldiers to fire outside from inside the relative safety of the structure.

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As afternoon turned into evening, the Zulu appeared. Numbering almost 4,000 strong, they outnumbered the garrison 10-1. The Natal Cavalry of 100 troopers briefly skirmished with the Zulu before they retreated in order to avoid being overwhelmed. At this moment, approximately 250 members of the Natal Native Contingent in Rorke’s Drift fled from their posts and followed the cavalry. Some British soldiers, furious at being abandoned in the face of the enemy, fired at the NNC soldiers as they fled. The garrison had suddenly been reduced to approximately 140 men.

The Zulu attacked in waves. Armed mostly with large cowhide shields and short spears, they did not have the firepower of the British, but they used their numbers to their advantage. While unable to reach over the wall the British had hastily constructed, they climbed on top of each other at the base of the wall to reach the top. Fighting was fierce and often became hand to hand as the Zulu would push over into a section of the mission only to be forced back by British reinforcements from another part of the wall. Both Chard and Bromhead were in the thick of the fighting along with their men. The Zulu used sophisticated tactics in which an attack upon one section of the wall would force the British to shift men away from another part of the mission only then for another Zulu column to attack the now weakened section of the wall. Throughout the night Chard to had constantly move his exhausted men back and forth across the compound.

The fighting lasted approximately ten hours until after 4am, when the Zulu, having suffered heavy losses, fell back and resorted to using their few rifles and musket to shoot harassing fire into the garrison. Eventually they withdrew, worried about the approach of Chelmsford’s column, leaving behind 350 dead and 500 wounded. British losses included 17 dead and 15 severely wounded, though virtually every member of the garrison suffered at least some sort of wound due to the intense hand-to-hand fighting.

Despite lackluster leadership at times, the British ultimately prevailed over the Zulu five months later. Zulu lands became a part of British territory in South Africa. Frere, who instigated the entire war, was recalled to London and convicted of exceeding his authority, completely ending his diplomatic career. Bromhead and Chard both received the Victoria Cross and continued on in their military careers. They died just a few years apart two decades later; Chard of cancer and Bromhead of typhus while stationed in India. Their defense of Rorke’s Drift has become an iconic part of British colonial history in Africa among both viewers in the West and in African cultural traditions. Though they were defeated at Rorke’s Drift, the Zulu demonstrated a military prowess which has only recently come to be appreciated again.

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#On This Day #RTARLAD #history #British Empire #South Africa #Zulu #Anglo-Zulu War #Isandlwana #Rorke's Drift #war #colonialism #Africa #imperialism #Victorian Era

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purkinje-effect · 5 years ago

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The Anatomy of Melancholy, 41

Table of Contents. Second Instar, Chapter 8. Go to previous. Go to next. In a wasteland survival fic, does this chapter constitute schmoop?

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Locked up in his head as they walked along the modular concrete hallways of the Research and Development wing, ‘Choly had just shared with Angel what Olivia had described of the base, and their plans for the next day. He wanted to avoid this building as much as possible.

“Sir, allow me to take you across grounds,” Angel insisted alongside him. “You just installed these handles and footrests on me, and you should--”

“--I’m fhhine,” he slurred, waving a hand at the Handy. “Just trying to draft the order of... how to go about settling back in. How to cover the least distance. Optimize the path to a bed, if I can.”

“You don’t seem fine, but I won’t press it... Perhaps you’d like to start with the enlisted barracks, and work your way over to the officers’ barracks? You could... start things off with a nice, hot shower? Hm-hm?”

He stuttered awe under his breath in Russian, and tried to ignore any suggestion that he looked as inebriated as he felt.

“They have hot water?” he mouthed at Angel.

“Deenwood hosts so many things! Come along now. It’s already past nineteenth hour, and you’ve told Miss Olivia that we’ll rejoin at sixth tomorrow. We must get you washed and dressed and fed.” It chortled anxiously. “Thank you, for at least letting me escort you.”

“There’s just something about being on base again that’s making me feel... right,” he defended, implicitly begging that it let him enjoy the moment. “You’re more than just my mobility, Angel. So much more.”

Halfway across the courtyard, a Mister Gutsy intercepted them.

“Captain,” it grunted in affirmative. “I’ve been tasked with running errands for you tonight. Give the order.”

“Ah, yes... Green Three?” he fielded, gauging by the white lettering on its dull green side. He’d never really noticed non-personnel G.A. robots went by designations, but it made sense. “I... I suppose it’s gauche for me to be on base in anything but uniform, all things considered. Could you outfit me fresh?”

“Yes, Sir!” G-3′s triplicate golden ocular lenses scrutinized his form before stiffening in place. “Measurements taken.”

“That’s all for now. Angel and I are headed to the showers at the enlisted barracks.”

“Deliver the uniform to Mister Handy nicknamed Angel, at the enlisted barracks’ baths. Roger.” It sped off toward the storage building which stood between the R&D wing they’d just exited and the Robotics wing--the only three hangar-like concrete structures on the property.

The two of them arrived at the enlisted barracks at the North end of the property. To the left lay the soldiers’ quarters, while to the right lay the community showers. The enlisted mess hall stood separate from this building behind it. Without hesitation he turned right, then right again into the men’s side, and handed Angel his cane so that he could disrobe. He deposited his Pip-Boy, visor, orthotics, hairpins, and clothing on a bench in the changing area. The notion of a working shower possessed him, carrying one step in front of the last, and before he knew it, he was turning the handle and standing directly under the water without even testing the temperature first, or checking that he was, in fact, all alone with Angel keeping watch.

Soon both the water and his relieved bliss ran hot down his cheeks. He shut his trembling eyes and lifted his face to the apparent water pressure. He left his mouth open a moment to trap water, which he squirted out for effect. After some time his head dipped, to let the hot water stream down his aching neck and back. Angel eventually interrupted his detachment from reality. Being handed his toiletries got him crying like at a wedding.

Lathering his hair, ‘Choly thought to his initial impression to encountering Olivia again like this. Her smart style with one side shaved that apparently compensated for a balding patch, her thick phlegmatic voice, her exposed turbinates, her... her... He really was attracted to ghouls now, wasn’t he? He remembered his promise to Angel--use Rad-X--and ribald notions of both Olivia and Hawthorne alike melted him apart where he stood.

He stood. Angel was right. He didn’t remember standing this much in a day, in months. His blood pressure didn’t feel like it had dipped or spiked. His posture didn’t feel especially infirm. He still ached, and the cane still made the going easier... but he didn’t quite feel himself.

I should be crumpled over by now, bathing on a folding chair, he reasoned. I spent my morning repairing Bogey. It told me about the Rust Devils. I blew an hour on a bucket of golf balls. I traveled nearly two hours atop Angel without stopping, and avoided a Rust Devil attack right when we got to Chelmsford. I found out one of my coworkers survived and is still alive, and we got drunk... “And now I’m standing in the first hot shower I’ve had in two hundred years, waiting for the water to run cold and slap me in the face so I wake up. Too much for one day. Too much in so many ways.”

When he finally turned the water off, he dried himself and sat on the bench in the changing area. The Gutsy had brought a folded khaki uniform and a set of skivvies to match, combat boots in his size, and also a navy bathrobe. He slipped on the tee, underwear, and robe once his skin was dry enough, but didn’t tie the waist. His eyes widened as he toweled at his hair.

“Or maybe the problem is, I feel exactly like myself.”

He favored the ankle stability of a boot, over low quarters like his oxfords. Lacking confirmation that any living persons but Olivia and himself existed on this base, he remained in the bathrobe for the rest of the night. As he put his Pip-Boy back on, he noticed his orthotics, Vault Suit, and Pharm Corps coat had gone missing, only because his nameplate and bars lay on the bench atop the folded fresh uniform.

“Did G-3 take my effects, Angel?” he called.

“G-3 said that it waited until you had a convenient time to change clothes, to take them. It boasted that it knew a thing or two about getting out blood stains. As do I ! I tried to tell it that I could operate laundry equipment with my sensors disabled, but it insisted that I stay by you, as your escort.” Angel reentered the baths to hover before him. “My word, Sir. I... I have to say how good it is to be back at Deenwood. We robots might have our exceptions with one another, but we were a complex and thriving network of chums. Just as you befriended your colleagues.”

‘Choly stared at the rectangular brooch of metal and brightly dyed embroidered ribbon, signifying ten years of stripes and pips mounted together. What did he really have to show for his decade of service? His throat caught at length, until he pinned his nameplate and bars to the robe in lieu of his coat.

“I... didn’t have friends,” he finally said in passing, starting toward the front door. “I haven’t eaten since breakfast. Finally hungry enough to do something about it. Shall we see if the officers’ mess hall’s furnished?”

They crossed South to the officers’ side of the property in the brisk night air. Entering the mess hall, he encountered a modestly cozy arrangement of vinyl-upholstered chrome chairs in sets of four at eight round tables. Large fake potted plants tucked themselves to each corner, and beside each support column. To one side of the space, he’d have found the beverage offerings, while to the other, he found an à la carte window winged by a pair of Eat-O-Tronic machines. In one, he found MREs, and in the other, he would have found desserts. After his experience with the pharmacy break room, it relieved him to find no moldy remains in the vending slots; in the same stroke, he praised the base’s stockpile of perfectly preserved rations. He eagerly selected the beef tips and mashed potatoes package, but before he could get it open, the Mister Handy at the window hemmed and held out a pincer.

“Monsieur, if I could get that for you,” it began, in a French accent.

“...Yes, of course.” He handed it over dumbly. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure!” In a flash, it produced a tray with the now-heated contents of the MRE on a plate, including the instant cocoa packet. “Bon appetit!”

“...I could have... Oh, no matter.” Angel zipped over to at least pull the chair for ‘Choly. “Sir, while you dine, I’d love the chance to catch up with Louis, if I may. I’ll be within earshot.” It didn’t await confirmation before darting behind the swinging door in the far corner.

The potatoes couldn’t help tasting like cardboard two hundred years later, but the beef tendered up like it had never been preserved in a jerky-like state, and the gravy had him lolling back in the chair to savor it. The soy-based cocoa struck him as an innocent indulgence amid the options he’d had in prior months. The hot mug in his hands comforted him, and he couldn’t help but smile dopily at hearing the two Mister Handies in the kitchen chatting and laughing unintelligibly.

Angel’s not lonely here.

'Choly took his tray back to the window once he was done, and he and Angel thanked Louis and bid it goodnight. The walk from the mess hall was short, but was incumbent of the most anticipated part of the night for him. The officers’ residential block was a set of three identical rows of twelve two-story rowhouses apiece. Habitually, he walked up the three steps of the second row’s third door, like always, and opened the front door on bated breath. Standing in the entryway, he flicked on the light switch to find the electricity worked, and he smiled in distraction as he took in the thick layer of dust on every surface. The dark green velour couch and armchair were still there, as were the hanging floor lamp, the coffee table, and the kitchen table and chairs.

“I have my work cut out for me,” Angel beamed. It shut the door behind them and immediately set to dusting off the living room.

Compulsion seized him again, and he mounted the creaking stairs at a persistent, lurching pace until he stood in the doorway of what had once been his bedroom. The queen size mattress lay bare before him, in tact. His throat caught again, aghast, and he slumped against the door frame to gawk. It took a few tries before he successfully swallowed. Angel came up behind him after a spell.

“Oh Sir, are you all right?”

He looked to it with a haunted desperation.

“Nothing has felt this right since I thawed.”

He sniffed, and leveraged with his cane to stand fully again. He requested a canister of water, his toothbrush and toothpaste, mouthwash, and hairbrush, which Angel obliged, and he vanished into the upstairs bathroom closing the door behind him.

As he brushed his teeth, he stared at himself in the hoary glass mounted on the wall. A single crack ran from one corner to the other, right through the middle, but for the most part, the mirror functioned like a mirror. He nearly felt like the whole base had been transfigured by some perverse stasis just like he had, all but sheltered from the end of the world and here awaiting him all this time. He shivered and cinched his robe, then spat and moved on to the mouthwash.

Simple hygiene really is a luxury now, isn’t it? he thought to himself as he rinsed his face.

He came out of the bathroom to find that Angel had made his bed with the hospital blanket and pillows before vanishing back downstairs. He sat on the edge of the bed to remove his boots and socks, and brushed out his hair which had finally dried by then. The brush went to the nightstand, and he hung the robe on the hook on the bathroom door. He turned out the lights, and passed out face-down in anticipation of the first quality sleep he’d gotten in two hundred years.

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#fallout 4 #fallout 4 fanfic #fo4 fanfic #fo4 #chase r&d #sole survivor #mister handy #mister gutsy #louis sounds like rene auberjonois fight me #melancholy #angel #louis #g-3 #the anatomy of melancholy

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