LEGENDARY!
Aug 13, 2017 20:06:20 GMT -5
Post by skirtwithaweapon on Aug 13, 2017 20:06:20 GMT -5
A work in progress, of several chapters. Post-ending and post-canon of Fallout 4. All feedback is welcomed!
!!!POTENTIAL SPOILER!!! This story is based on the premise of one of the many possible endings to Fallout 4. If you haven't beat the game in any capacity and don't want a spoiler, please don't read! (Sincere apologies to anyone who charged in without this warning)
(Vague) Summary: Eighteen months after the raid and destruction of the Institute, Jory is living in Diamond City and relatively adjusted to life on the surface. Just as the thirteen year old notorious prankster begins to dream of becoming more than a dive bar bus boy, representatives from the Railroad come in to town, describing their newest, most brutal adversary yet, and asking for his help. His chance had come.
OVERALL CONTENT WARNINGS: mature language; violence; substance use.
“Sh-sh-sh-sh-sh, stop giggling, shush, yer gonna ruin the whole thing!” Jory hissed. Rita was going to get them both caught if she couldn’t get her snickering under control. She clapped both hands over her mouth and continued to wheeze and snort, in spite of herself.
Jory rolled his eyes and turned his attention back to the slumbering Diamond City security officer, sprawled on his back and snoring loudly. His tongue poked out of the side of his mouth as Jory carefully lowered the wiggling worm into the gaping maw before him. Jory tactfully hooked the worm onto the officer’s lip, then waved himself and Rita back towards the entrance of the outdoor rest area, beyond the wall. They watched silently as the worm writhed its way into the officer’s mouth completely. He clapped his own hand on top of Rita’s mouth as the officer snored once more, drawing the worm entirely into his mouth.
Suddenly, the officer was sitting straight up, coughing, gagging, and spluttering. The worm flew out of his mouth to fly across the room and land at Jory and Rita’s feet. Both erupted into raucous laughter, the whole deal, clutching their guts with tears running down their faces.
“You brats!” the officer roared. Jory and Rita spun on their heels and dashed back down the road, following the wall, breezing past the turrets and fortifications to run through the main gate and into the stairwell. They crumpled into a heap, out of breath from running, and laughing.
“Up to your old shenanigans, are you, Jory?” drawled a familiar deep voice.
“Hi, Mr. Valentine,” Rita squeaked. She was on her feet and out of sight in a flash.
Jory, sprawled out on his back, opened his eyes to see the roughed up plastic faceplate of Diamond City’s synth P.I. glaring down at him. He smirked. “Just a little bit of fun, Nicky. Nothing more than keeping things spicy.” He propped himself up on his elbows. “Things kind of drag around in general, these days.”
“Huh. I can’t argue with that, but I can’t condone the mischief, either. That’s how raiders start, you know that, right?”
“Phbbt. I like a good prank, Nick, but I’m not into the random beheadings. Aren’t you a detective? You must know that.” Jory waved him off and made to stand up, himself.
“I know that you’re otherwise a smart kid who is probably bored. You should consider doing something more with your life, that’s all.” Valentine shrugged, turned, and made his way down the stairwell and towards the main gate. Jory watched the old synth retreat, and went the opposite direction, instead. He paused at the top of the metal walkway. The market was thriving – overrun, really. It had been like that for the past eighteen months, since the destruction of the Institute. Jory picked his way through the crowd in an attempt to cross through the market towards the radio station.
So much had changed in the past year and a half. The market, as everyone had known it for decades, would be unrecognizable by those standards. Housing expanded into the lower stands, and nearly all of the main level was dedicated to trading and other commerce. Caravans lined up outside the walls for days just to get in and trade. The market never, ever closed. The city itself no longer maintained its own crops, able to sustain itself completely by trade.
It was thriving, and hellishly boring.
Jory dove through the door of the radio station and kicked it shut behind him. He took a deep breath and slid down the door to the floor.
“Today’s weather has held, breezy and cool and sunny as all get-out. What better to chase that forecast than with one of my most favourite tunes, ‘Crazy He Calls Me’ by Billie Holiday.” Travis clicked off his mic and flicked the switch for the music playback. He swivelled in his chair and took a swig out of a canteen before addressing Jory. “Got caught again?”
“Me? Never. Old Valentine just called me on it.” Jory nodded towards the dishevelled stack of papers on Travis’ desk. “Any interesting news?”
“Interesting to you, or interesting in general?” Travis responded. “Just more of the same. The Puritans are starting to really root themselves, the Railroad is fighting back. Oh – here’s something – there was a showdown in Goodneighbor, of all places. Somehow, Puritans managed to gain a foothold, recruiting dozens of the ghoul drifters to their cause, but the Railroad swarmed in and snuffed that outpost out.”
“Holy shit!” Jory exclaimed.
“Language,” Travis chided. “But yeah, crazy stuff. Nothing’s been the same there since Hancock stepped down as mayor. The place is just a walled tent city more than anything, these days.”
Jory nodded. “What else?”
“That’s it for now. I haven’t seen Nat for a couple days, probably means she hasn’t heard anything new.” Travis turned back to his equipment. “Aren’t you late for work? I vouched for you with Vadim, you know.”
“Not really, the regulars are just waking up off their tables, now,” Jory muttered. “See you later, Travis.”
Travis waved but spoke into his microphone, instead. “That tune is the perfect combination of melody and lyrical charm, don’t you think? Next, we’ll charge it up with Bing Crosby’s ‘Pistol Packin’ Mama’.”
Jory pulled the door shut and sulked down the stairs. Hearing that the Railroad was facing some difficult times caused a pang in his heart, but wasn’t enough to make him go crawling back to them. He brooded the entire walk to the Dugout Inn from the radio trailer. A group of Brotherhood soldiers, day drunk and carrying on, nearly trampled the young man as they burst out of the bar.
“There he is, Uncle Vadim – I told you he’d show,” Rita purred. She hung off the arm of the grizzled barkeep.
“Yes, yes, so you did!” he responded boisterously and in his thick accent. “Just in time, too, those Ironheads left quite a mess.” He gestured to a table to Jory’s left, abandoned, and covered in empties.
“I have a feeling they wouldn’t like it if they heard you calling them that,” Jory replied, drawing up to the bar. He plucked an empty tray and a damp rag from in front of Vadim and got to work. When he returned behind the bar to toss the empties into the bin, Rita had skipped off once more. Jory flopped onto his elbows on the bar, watching the patrons drink, schmooze, and carry on. He sighed.
“Something on your mind?” Vadim asked, picking up the bar rag and wiping up a spill.
“Nah. Well, kind of.” Jory watched a couple cross the room towards Yefim. “How do you get…great?”
“Great?”
“Yeah. Like, how do you become more than just…that?” Jory gestured towards the bar floor. “More than just them?”
“Ahh, I see. The young man wishes to be famous, yes? Legendary?”
“Legendary,” Jory repeated in a dreamy tone. Yes, that’s the word.
Vadim playfully slapped Jory upside the head. “Do you mean as the biggest prankster in Diamond City?”
“Eheh,” Jory chuckled. “I guess Rita told you about today’s…adventure.”
“She tells me everything, so you remember that.” Vadim clapped Jory on the back, then straightened up. “As for your question – well hello, there! Welcome, welcome!” Vadim’s full attention was turned to a lost-looking new face who happened to have made his way to the bar.
“Whatever,” Jory mumbled. A group of scavengers was vacating a table on the far side. He picked up a tray and went back to work.
Jory left the Dugout around 2AM. Vadim insisted he could handle cleaning up after the few straggler patrons, as all the rest had cleared out, or simply, passed out. He hummed a random tune and pat his pocket full of caps rhythmically to the beat of his footsteps as he meandered through the market once more. For decades, the market generally closed after sundown, but in the past handful of months, with the sheer explosion of growth, there were always at least a few vendors open, at all times. The result was there were generally people still hanging around the market no matter what time of day, rather than just the odd Diamond City security patrol. He made his way to his dwelling, a single-room apartment in what was no more than just a common house. It was the closest thing to high density residences that the city could slap together in a short period of time. The city was growing faster than it could handle and single-family dwellings quickly stopped being built in favour of long houses that could shelter several more people at once. These long houses were single level, with the outer walls and roof made of repurposed steel, but the inner walls no more than hung, heavy canvas.
Neighbours who wanted private conversations would conduct them outside and well away from home. Neighbours wanting private time, well…Jory considered it as education. He made his way down the very narrow hallway to the end of the building and slipped into his room. Jory lit his lantern and emptied the caps from his pocket onto his sleeping bag as quietly as possible. He counted fifty two. Not bad. He swept the caps off the cover and back into his pocket. Jory snuffed out his lantern, crawled into his sleeping bag, and pulled the cover over his head, falling into a deep sleep.
He was in the middle of a dream, the recurring one with the bright light, muffled voices, and low, mechanical, ambient hum. He could see nothing but the bright light, and couldn’t move any molecule of his body. Sometimes there would be a loud buzzing sound, the light changed from white to angry red, and then there would be several pinpoints of excruciating pain…but sometimes he woke up, first. He was aware of the sensation and sound of his own breathing, the thump of his pulse in his temples. The light turned red and he tensed in anticipation of what was next.
“Jory! Hey, Jory!” Rita called from the end of his sleeping bag and kicked him in the butt.
Jory jostled awake, surprised to see the cover of his sleeping bag illuminated by the sunlight coming in from a hole in the metal wall. He was disoriented, still anticipating the sharp pain that followed the red light. He muttered a string of syllables that made no discernable sense.
“Jory, it’s me, Rita. You gotta get up. Someone is here, for you – well, not here, he’s at the Dugout with my uncles. Come on.”
Jory rubbed his brown eyes and pulled the cover down just enough to expose his face. “I’ll be at work on time today, I promise.” He covered himself back up and clamped his eyes shut.
Rita pulled the cover back down and loomed very close to his face. Her big, red curls reached down to tickle his cheeks. “He said you’d try to blow it off so I have to tell you this: your Geiger counter is back from the shop.”
Oh, fucking hell. He opened his eyes and looked straight into hers. “What did he look like?”
Rita shrugged and sat back on her heels. “I dunno. He’s an older guy, like Uncle Vadim’s age, but he seems younger. Probably because he’s thinner, muscular…” Her voice drifted off for a moment.
Jory waited.
Rita blushed deeply when she realized her thoughts had wandered away. She cleared her throat, then continued. “Anyway, he didn’t say how he knew you, just that he was an old friend and had to see you right away. And if you refused to come, to tell you, er, what I already said.” She shrugged again. “So, get up.”
“All right,” Jory grumbled, rubbing his eyes again, and yawning. He slid out of the sleeping bag, then rummaged through a tote of his things to produce a fresh shirt. He quickly changed then gestured for Rita to lead the way.
It was still early enough that most of the city hadn’t yet begun to stir. The sun was hung in the east, just beginning to rise over the wall. Jory took a deep breath of the fresh morning air. It smelled damp, yet musty, with a slight hint of pack animal dung. Sewage processing remained a challenge for the city, especially now that so many people were in, out, and lived in it.
Rita held the door to the Dugout Inn open for Jory, who winked at her as he walked through. The smell of stale beer and raunchy body odour was carried on the humid stuffiness of the air inside. More than a few of the regulars were still asleep at their tables when he walked in.
“Aha, there he is, the lad of the hour,” Vadim bellowed, gesturing dramatically towards Jory as he approached the bar. “Jory, this man was insistent we fetch you immediately.”
Jory’s attention was pushed towards a middle-aged man perched on a stool just down the bar. He was dressed in road leathers embellished by pieces of mismatched armour, a pair of dark sunglasses, and an ascot that looked completely out of place. “Hey, kid,” the man smiled.
Jory swallowed and offered an iota of a nod. “Deacon.”
“Must be one hell of a special Geiger counter, to make you get up before noon,” Vadim cawed.
“It sure was, eh, Jory? Let’s take a walk.” Deacon stood and nodded towards the door. Suddenly he jerked to a stop, then flicked a cap into the air towards Rita, who caught it, surprised. “Thanks, little lady.” Rita’s face turned the colour of crimson and she took off to cower behind her uncle Vadim.
The two emerged back into the sunshine. Jory yawned and stretched his arms straight up above his head. “Can you make this quick? I’d like to try and nap some more before I have to come back here for work.”
Deacon’s head tilted to the side, but didn’t immediately respond. He waved Jory to follow and simply began walking down the alley, his boots clicking along the boardwalk. They made their way to the edge of the lake. The Diamond City Civic Council, a group of five people elected to work together and manage the city after it was decided that trusting a single governmental figurehead was simply irresponsible, had designated the land surrounding the lake remain “recreation area,” thus protecting it from the exponential growth in development. “Watch your step, there, we’ve got a floater.” Deacon pulled Jory aside, who looked down to see a drifter had stumbled in the mud and fallen face-down in the lake and drowned. “We’ll tell security to clean that up, later. Come on, they’re waiting just over there.”
Jory’s stomach flipped upside-down at the sight of the bloated corpse. He covered his mouth and gave it a wide berth, then trot to join Deacon once more. He glanced up and around Deacon to see they were approaching a group of three adults gathered against the wall, next to the lake.
Deacon reached down to pat Jory gently on the shoulder. “Don’t be shy. You remember Desdemona, I’m sure?”
Jory followed Deacon’s gaze. One of the figures was most certainly the head of the Railroad, though she hid her hair under a scarf and seemed to be missing a couple of fingers on her smoking hand since he had last seen her. The other two, he didn’t recognize at all. Deacon waved at them. All three turned to look at the approaching two. Desdemona gasped, dropped her cigarette, and in a completely uncharacteristic show of emotion, took three steps towards Jory, bent, and flung her arms around him.
“H-hey, Dez,” Jory choked out, awkwardly.
“When we found out you were still alive, and living here, I had to come and get you, myself.” She pulled away and looked him in the eyes. “How are you doing? Been taking care of yourself?”
“Better than that, Dez. Rumour has it that Jory is quickly climbing the ladder towards Supreme Prankster of All Time.”
Can’t Vadim just shut up, sometimes? Jory chose to simply answer Desdemona’s question, himself. “I’m fine, I’ve been fine. I have an apartment and a job.”
“He shut down the whole market for a week after he managed to reroute a dozen caravans to march around in circles, making them all think they were lining up for the same thing but in different places. Can you believe that?” Deacon continued.
“No, but none of us believe anything you say, big D,” replied one of the two strangers. She had Asian facial features and long, dark hair, tied in a ponytail. She wore road leathers matching to Deacon and carried a sniper rifle on her back.
“We tracked you for a couple months, but eventually we had to stop because we couldn’t afford the extra resources with the surge in Puritan activity. I’m so sorry, kid. I wanted to bring you back, sooner.” Desdemona straightened and wiped a tear from the corner of her eye.
Jory blinked, and looked between Deacon and Desdemona. “I…ran away. You knew that, didn’t you? I didn’t, like, wander off, or get lost. I left.” He looked back at Deacon. “You knew that.”
“Of course we did,” Desdemona replied. “Doesn’t mean we would stop caring about you. We’re your family.”
Jory sighed. “I don’t want to go back. I want to just live my own life, do my own thing. I know you’re fighting pretty hard, and I’m sorry things are, like, not good, but –“
“Our intel had found you here just over six months ago. Both Deacon and Desdemona insisted we just keep tabs on you. They wanted you to have your privacy.” Responded the second figure, a tall, dark skinned man, dressed in plain clothes. He put his hands in his pockets and shrugged. “If that doesn’t mean something to you…” He trailed off.
It sort of did. Jory blinked and once again looked between Deacon and Desdemona. “What’s going on? Did…did you find out more?”
“The second part’s been a total dead end for a long time, sorry to say,” Deacon leaned against the wall and crossed his arms. “If we come across something useful, we’ll let you know, but that kind of recon has been on the back burner since this business with the Puritans.”
“So, what? What do you want?” He looked directly into Desdemona’s eyes, knowing she would be direct with him.
“We need your help,” was her short reply. “You’re right that things are not going well for us in the fight, right now. In the last few months, we’ve lost two of our best intelligence agents. Recruitment has slowed significantly, while people are flocking to the Puritans in droves.”
“Some of that is the anti-synths continue to surface with the establishment of a group just for them. The other part is that people, drifters, anyone who thinks a faction can provide a better life, join what they think is the winning team.” The Asian woman spoke once more.
“I still don’t understand. I’m just a kid, that’s the opposite of helpful.” Jory scanned each of their faces.
“We all know that isn’t true,” Desdemona replied cryptically.
“We wouldn’t set you up to fail, Jory. Besides, what was it you were saying last night, about wanting to be great? Or…legendary?” Deacon smirked.
“Well yeah, I – wait. Were you in the bar last night?” Jory interrupted himself.
“Me? Noooo, no. Though, a close friend of mine named Fernando might have been. I’m also gonna start calling them ‘Ironheads’ from now on.”
“Calling who, what?” Desdemona asked.
Jory’s face turned bright red, feeling duped by one of Deacon’s disguises. “Whatever. I still don’t see how I can help. You need someone to bus tables at HQ, is that it?”
“You might have been pulling pranks, but what you were really doing was practicing stealth and manipulation,” the other man replied seriously.
“You’re young, smart, and skilled. You’re our ringer, kid. We always wanted you to come home, but right now…we need you to,” Desdemona added softly.
Jory looked between each of them, once more. Part of him could hardly believe that it was happening. Just a few hours ago, he was crawling into his sleeping bag to prepare for yet another day as a bus boy. Suddenly, he was standing face to face with the head of the Railroad, being collected for their cause. He swallowed. “Well, let me go get my things.”
Desdemona visibly relaxed. “Excellent. We should move out as soon as possible. Deacon, go with him, and we’ll all meet you outside the gate.”
Deacon motioned for Jory to lead. Instead of turning around, Jory instead continued to follow the path around the lake, to the far side. “Don’t you need your things from your apartment?”
“Yeah, but my valuable stuff is buried out here. If people know you’re leaving caps in a canvas walled room, they’re just gonna steal it when you’re not there to sleep on it.” Jory deftly hopped between the banks and tiptoed into some brush next to the lake. He took a deliberate path before kneeling down and clearing some rocks aside. He pulled out a jar of caps and a leather sling purse, then stood.
“You still have that, huh?” Deacon asked softly, referring to the purse.
“Yeah. This is all. My spare clothes and bedroll are in my place. Are you coming?”
Within twenty minutes, Jory had amassed all of his worldly possessions and was making his way towards the main gate. Rita materialized from behind Publick Occurrences and jumped into the middle of the path. Jory and Deacon both stopped.
“Uh oh,” Deacon breathed.
“Jory, what’s going on? Are you leaving? You weren’t even gonna say goodbye?” Rita’s clear, blue, nearly irresistible eyes were narrowed and angry. She tossed some curls behind her head in a quick, aggravated motion.
Jory looked to Deacon, but the older man merely shook his head. Not gonna get any help from you, eh? He swallowed and looked back to his friend. “It’s…kind of complicated. The leaving. Not the, uh, ‘no goodbye.’”
“Is that so?”
“C’mon, Rita,” Jory sighed. “You’re being unfair. I was gonna come back in and say goodbye to you, you know, without an audience?” He made an elaborate nod towards Deacon.
Rita sniffed. “For real?”
“Sure.”
“Listen, Rita,” Deacon purred, suddenly coming to life, “it’s not that he wasn’t going to tell you, but he just couldn’t. Jory’s special ops from a super secret, extra epic organization that we can’t even name for your own, personal safety.” He leaned down and took one of her hands in his, and bumped his sunglasses down just enough to be able to look her in the eye. “We’re basically jeopardizing the whole front by even talking to non-operatives, you know? But I wanted to make sure he got out safe so he could come back here, to you.”
Her attention was completely rapt. “Oh…really?” she breathed, her cheeks becoming flushed.
“You bet. He didn’t want to, you know, bring harm to you and your family with knowing the truth. So, listen. You head back to the Dugout and tell your uncles that Jory had to go home with his ‘cousin’ – that’s me – to get that Geiger counter and visit a sick family member. For the trouble,” Deacon reached over and took Jory’s jar of caps from his arms and placed it in Rita’s, “take these. I’m sure Vadim will understand.” He winked.
Rita nearly swooned. Jory had to bite his tongue, feeling nauseous. “I…I understand! Jory, I’m sorry for my behaviour. Hurry back safely, okay.” She leaned to peck him on the cheek before scampering off, yet again.
Jory watched her retreat, feeling far more upset about his lost caps. When she was totally out of sight, he turned and grabbed Deacon by the arm. “What the hell, dude?! Those were my life’s savings!”
“Phbbt. A whole six months of caps, you mean? You don’t need them, now, anyways. We both know Dez is gonna coddle you to the point of smothering.”
Jory frowned. “I’m not a baby.”
“It’s not about that.”
“Then what?”
Deacon clapped him on the back and made to ascend the walkway towards the exit. “Maybe you’ll understand when you’re older. Now, come on. They’re waiting.”
(Continue to Chapters 2 and 3, here!)
!!!POTENTIAL SPOILER!!! This story is based on the premise of one of the many possible endings to Fallout 4. If you haven't beat the game in any capacity and don't want a spoiler, please don't read! (Sincere apologies to anyone who charged in without this warning)
(Vague) Summary: Eighteen months after the raid and destruction of the Institute, Jory is living in Diamond City and relatively adjusted to life on the surface. Just as the thirteen year old notorious prankster begins to dream of becoming more than a dive bar bus boy, representatives from the Railroad come in to town, describing their newest, most brutal adversary yet, and asking for his help. His chance had come.
OVERALL CONTENT WARNINGS: mature language; violence; substance use.
1.
“Sh-sh-sh-sh-sh, stop giggling, shush, yer gonna ruin the whole thing!” Jory hissed. Rita was going to get them both caught if she couldn’t get her snickering under control. She clapped both hands over her mouth and continued to wheeze and snort, in spite of herself.
Jory rolled his eyes and turned his attention back to the slumbering Diamond City security officer, sprawled on his back and snoring loudly. His tongue poked out of the side of his mouth as Jory carefully lowered the wiggling worm into the gaping maw before him. Jory tactfully hooked the worm onto the officer’s lip, then waved himself and Rita back towards the entrance of the outdoor rest area, beyond the wall. They watched silently as the worm writhed its way into the officer’s mouth completely. He clapped his own hand on top of Rita’s mouth as the officer snored once more, drawing the worm entirely into his mouth.
Suddenly, the officer was sitting straight up, coughing, gagging, and spluttering. The worm flew out of his mouth to fly across the room and land at Jory and Rita’s feet. Both erupted into raucous laughter, the whole deal, clutching their guts with tears running down their faces.
“You brats!” the officer roared. Jory and Rita spun on their heels and dashed back down the road, following the wall, breezing past the turrets and fortifications to run through the main gate and into the stairwell. They crumpled into a heap, out of breath from running, and laughing.
“Up to your old shenanigans, are you, Jory?” drawled a familiar deep voice.
“Hi, Mr. Valentine,” Rita squeaked. She was on her feet and out of sight in a flash.
Jory, sprawled out on his back, opened his eyes to see the roughed up plastic faceplate of Diamond City’s synth P.I. glaring down at him. He smirked. “Just a little bit of fun, Nicky. Nothing more than keeping things spicy.” He propped himself up on his elbows. “Things kind of drag around in general, these days.”
“Huh. I can’t argue with that, but I can’t condone the mischief, either. That’s how raiders start, you know that, right?”
“Phbbt. I like a good prank, Nick, but I’m not into the random beheadings. Aren’t you a detective? You must know that.” Jory waved him off and made to stand up, himself.
“I know that you’re otherwise a smart kid who is probably bored. You should consider doing something more with your life, that’s all.” Valentine shrugged, turned, and made his way down the stairwell and towards the main gate. Jory watched the old synth retreat, and went the opposite direction, instead. He paused at the top of the metal walkway. The market was thriving – overrun, really. It had been like that for the past eighteen months, since the destruction of the Institute. Jory picked his way through the crowd in an attempt to cross through the market towards the radio station.
So much had changed in the past year and a half. The market, as everyone had known it for decades, would be unrecognizable by those standards. Housing expanded into the lower stands, and nearly all of the main level was dedicated to trading and other commerce. Caravans lined up outside the walls for days just to get in and trade. The market never, ever closed. The city itself no longer maintained its own crops, able to sustain itself completely by trade.
It was thriving, and hellishly boring.
Jory dove through the door of the radio station and kicked it shut behind him. He took a deep breath and slid down the door to the floor.
“Today’s weather has held, breezy and cool and sunny as all get-out. What better to chase that forecast than with one of my most favourite tunes, ‘Crazy He Calls Me’ by Billie Holiday.” Travis clicked off his mic and flicked the switch for the music playback. He swivelled in his chair and took a swig out of a canteen before addressing Jory. “Got caught again?”
“Me? Never. Old Valentine just called me on it.” Jory nodded towards the dishevelled stack of papers on Travis’ desk. “Any interesting news?”
“Interesting to you, or interesting in general?” Travis responded. “Just more of the same. The Puritans are starting to really root themselves, the Railroad is fighting back. Oh – here’s something – there was a showdown in Goodneighbor, of all places. Somehow, Puritans managed to gain a foothold, recruiting dozens of the ghoul drifters to their cause, but the Railroad swarmed in and snuffed that outpost out.”
“Holy shit!” Jory exclaimed.
“Language,” Travis chided. “But yeah, crazy stuff. Nothing’s been the same there since Hancock stepped down as mayor. The place is just a walled tent city more than anything, these days.”
Jory nodded. “What else?”
“That’s it for now. I haven’t seen Nat for a couple days, probably means she hasn’t heard anything new.” Travis turned back to his equipment. “Aren’t you late for work? I vouched for you with Vadim, you know.”
“Not really, the regulars are just waking up off their tables, now,” Jory muttered. “See you later, Travis.”
Travis waved but spoke into his microphone, instead. “That tune is the perfect combination of melody and lyrical charm, don’t you think? Next, we’ll charge it up with Bing Crosby’s ‘Pistol Packin’ Mama’.”
Jory pulled the door shut and sulked down the stairs. Hearing that the Railroad was facing some difficult times caused a pang in his heart, but wasn’t enough to make him go crawling back to them. He brooded the entire walk to the Dugout Inn from the radio trailer. A group of Brotherhood soldiers, day drunk and carrying on, nearly trampled the young man as they burst out of the bar.
“There he is, Uncle Vadim – I told you he’d show,” Rita purred. She hung off the arm of the grizzled barkeep.
“Yes, yes, so you did!” he responded boisterously and in his thick accent. “Just in time, too, those Ironheads left quite a mess.” He gestured to a table to Jory’s left, abandoned, and covered in empties.
“I have a feeling they wouldn’t like it if they heard you calling them that,” Jory replied, drawing up to the bar. He plucked an empty tray and a damp rag from in front of Vadim and got to work. When he returned behind the bar to toss the empties into the bin, Rita had skipped off once more. Jory flopped onto his elbows on the bar, watching the patrons drink, schmooze, and carry on. He sighed.
“Something on your mind?” Vadim asked, picking up the bar rag and wiping up a spill.
“Nah. Well, kind of.” Jory watched a couple cross the room towards Yefim. “How do you get…great?”
“Great?”
“Yeah. Like, how do you become more than just…that?” Jory gestured towards the bar floor. “More than just them?”
“Ahh, I see. The young man wishes to be famous, yes? Legendary?”
“Legendary,” Jory repeated in a dreamy tone. Yes, that’s the word.
Vadim playfully slapped Jory upside the head. “Do you mean as the biggest prankster in Diamond City?”
“Eheh,” Jory chuckled. “I guess Rita told you about today’s…adventure.”
“She tells me everything, so you remember that.” Vadim clapped Jory on the back, then straightened up. “As for your question – well hello, there! Welcome, welcome!” Vadim’s full attention was turned to a lost-looking new face who happened to have made his way to the bar.
“Whatever,” Jory mumbled. A group of scavengers was vacating a table on the far side. He picked up a tray and went back to work.
Jory left the Dugout around 2AM. Vadim insisted he could handle cleaning up after the few straggler patrons, as all the rest had cleared out, or simply, passed out. He hummed a random tune and pat his pocket full of caps rhythmically to the beat of his footsteps as he meandered through the market once more. For decades, the market generally closed after sundown, but in the past handful of months, with the sheer explosion of growth, there were always at least a few vendors open, at all times. The result was there were generally people still hanging around the market no matter what time of day, rather than just the odd Diamond City security patrol. He made his way to his dwelling, a single-room apartment in what was no more than just a common house. It was the closest thing to high density residences that the city could slap together in a short period of time. The city was growing faster than it could handle and single-family dwellings quickly stopped being built in favour of long houses that could shelter several more people at once. These long houses were single level, with the outer walls and roof made of repurposed steel, but the inner walls no more than hung, heavy canvas.
Neighbours who wanted private conversations would conduct them outside and well away from home. Neighbours wanting private time, well…Jory considered it as education. He made his way down the very narrow hallway to the end of the building and slipped into his room. Jory lit his lantern and emptied the caps from his pocket onto his sleeping bag as quietly as possible. He counted fifty two. Not bad. He swept the caps off the cover and back into his pocket. Jory snuffed out his lantern, crawled into his sleeping bag, and pulled the cover over his head, falling into a deep sleep.
He was in the middle of a dream, the recurring one with the bright light, muffled voices, and low, mechanical, ambient hum. He could see nothing but the bright light, and couldn’t move any molecule of his body. Sometimes there would be a loud buzzing sound, the light changed from white to angry red, and then there would be several pinpoints of excruciating pain…but sometimes he woke up, first. He was aware of the sensation and sound of his own breathing, the thump of his pulse in his temples. The light turned red and he tensed in anticipation of what was next.
“Jory! Hey, Jory!” Rita called from the end of his sleeping bag and kicked him in the butt.
Jory jostled awake, surprised to see the cover of his sleeping bag illuminated by the sunlight coming in from a hole in the metal wall. He was disoriented, still anticipating the sharp pain that followed the red light. He muttered a string of syllables that made no discernable sense.
“Jory, it’s me, Rita. You gotta get up. Someone is here, for you – well, not here, he’s at the Dugout with my uncles. Come on.”
Jory rubbed his brown eyes and pulled the cover down just enough to expose his face. “I’ll be at work on time today, I promise.” He covered himself back up and clamped his eyes shut.
Rita pulled the cover back down and loomed very close to his face. Her big, red curls reached down to tickle his cheeks. “He said you’d try to blow it off so I have to tell you this: your Geiger counter is back from the shop.”
Oh, fucking hell. He opened his eyes and looked straight into hers. “What did he look like?”
Rita shrugged and sat back on her heels. “I dunno. He’s an older guy, like Uncle Vadim’s age, but he seems younger. Probably because he’s thinner, muscular…” Her voice drifted off for a moment.
Jory waited.
Rita blushed deeply when she realized her thoughts had wandered away. She cleared her throat, then continued. “Anyway, he didn’t say how he knew you, just that he was an old friend and had to see you right away. And if you refused to come, to tell you, er, what I already said.” She shrugged again. “So, get up.”
“All right,” Jory grumbled, rubbing his eyes again, and yawning. He slid out of the sleeping bag, then rummaged through a tote of his things to produce a fresh shirt. He quickly changed then gestured for Rita to lead the way.
It was still early enough that most of the city hadn’t yet begun to stir. The sun was hung in the east, just beginning to rise over the wall. Jory took a deep breath of the fresh morning air. It smelled damp, yet musty, with a slight hint of pack animal dung. Sewage processing remained a challenge for the city, especially now that so many people were in, out, and lived in it.
Rita held the door to the Dugout Inn open for Jory, who winked at her as he walked through. The smell of stale beer and raunchy body odour was carried on the humid stuffiness of the air inside. More than a few of the regulars were still asleep at their tables when he walked in.
“Aha, there he is, the lad of the hour,” Vadim bellowed, gesturing dramatically towards Jory as he approached the bar. “Jory, this man was insistent we fetch you immediately.”
Jory’s attention was pushed towards a middle-aged man perched on a stool just down the bar. He was dressed in road leathers embellished by pieces of mismatched armour, a pair of dark sunglasses, and an ascot that looked completely out of place. “Hey, kid,” the man smiled.
Jory swallowed and offered an iota of a nod. “Deacon.”
“Must be one hell of a special Geiger counter, to make you get up before noon,” Vadim cawed.
“It sure was, eh, Jory? Let’s take a walk.” Deacon stood and nodded towards the door. Suddenly he jerked to a stop, then flicked a cap into the air towards Rita, who caught it, surprised. “Thanks, little lady.” Rita’s face turned the colour of crimson and she took off to cower behind her uncle Vadim.
The two emerged back into the sunshine. Jory yawned and stretched his arms straight up above his head. “Can you make this quick? I’d like to try and nap some more before I have to come back here for work.”
Deacon’s head tilted to the side, but didn’t immediately respond. He waved Jory to follow and simply began walking down the alley, his boots clicking along the boardwalk. They made their way to the edge of the lake. The Diamond City Civic Council, a group of five people elected to work together and manage the city after it was decided that trusting a single governmental figurehead was simply irresponsible, had designated the land surrounding the lake remain “recreation area,” thus protecting it from the exponential growth in development. “Watch your step, there, we’ve got a floater.” Deacon pulled Jory aside, who looked down to see a drifter had stumbled in the mud and fallen face-down in the lake and drowned. “We’ll tell security to clean that up, later. Come on, they’re waiting just over there.”
Jory’s stomach flipped upside-down at the sight of the bloated corpse. He covered his mouth and gave it a wide berth, then trot to join Deacon once more. He glanced up and around Deacon to see they were approaching a group of three adults gathered against the wall, next to the lake.
Deacon reached down to pat Jory gently on the shoulder. “Don’t be shy. You remember Desdemona, I’m sure?”
Jory followed Deacon’s gaze. One of the figures was most certainly the head of the Railroad, though she hid her hair under a scarf and seemed to be missing a couple of fingers on her smoking hand since he had last seen her. The other two, he didn’t recognize at all. Deacon waved at them. All three turned to look at the approaching two. Desdemona gasped, dropped her cigarette, and in a completely uncharacteristic show of emotion, took three steps towards Jory, bent, and flung her arms around him.
“H-hey, Dez,” Jory choked out, awkwardly.
“When we found out you were still alive, and living here, I had to come and get you, myself.” She pulled away and looked him in the eyes. “How are you doing? Been taking care of yourself?”
“Better than that, Dez. Rumour has it that Jory is quickly climbing the ladder towards Supreme Prankster of All Time.”
Can’t Vadim just shut up, sometimes? Jory chose to simply answer Desdemona’s question, himself. “I’m fine, I’ve been fine. I have an apartment and a job.”
“He shut down the whole market for a week after he managed to reroute a dozen caravans to march around in circles, making them all think they were lining up for the same thing but in different places. Can you believe that?” Deacon continued.
“No, but none of us believe anything you say, big D,” replied one of the two strangers. She had Asian facial features and long, dark hair, tied in a ponytail. She wore road leathers matching to Deacon and carried a sniper rifle on her back.
“We tracked you for a couple months, but eventually we had to stop because we couldn’t afford the extra resources with the surge in Puritan activity. I’m so sorry, kid. I wanted to bring you back, sooner.” Desdemona straightened and wiped a tear from the corner of her eye.
Jory blinked, and looked between Deacon and Desdemona. “I…ran away. You knew that, didn’t you? I didn’t, like, wander off, or get lost. I left.” He looked back at Deacon. “You knew that.”
“Of course we did,” Desdemona replied. “Doesn’t mean we would stop caring about you. We’re your family.”
Jory sighed. “I don’t want to go back. I want to just live my own life, do my own thing. I know you’re fighting pretty hard, and I’m sorry things are, like, not good, but –“
“Our intel had found you here just over six months ago. Both Deacon and Desdemona insisted we just keep tabs on you. They wanted you to have your privacy.” Responded the second figure, a tall, dark skinned man, dressed in plain clothes. He put his hands in his pockets and shrugged. “If that doesn’t mean something to you…” He trailed off.
It sort of did. Jory blinked and once again looked between Deacon and Desdemona. “What’s going on? Did…did you find out more?”
“The second part’s been a total dead end for a long time, sorry to say,” Deacon leaned against the wall and crossed his arms. “If we come across something useful, we’ll let you know, but that kind of recon has been on the back burner since this business with the Puritans.”
“So, what? What do you want?” He looked directly into Desdemona’s eyes, knowing she would be direct with him.
“We need your help,” was her short reply. “You’re right that things are not going well for us in the fight, right now. In the last few months, we’ve lost two of our best intelligence agents. Recruitment has slowed significantly, while people are flocking to the Puritans in droves.”
“Some of that is the anti-synths continue to surface with the establishment of a group just for them. The other part is that people, drifters, anyone who thinks a faction can provide a better life, join what they think is the winning team.” The Asian woman spoke once more.
“I still don’t understand. I’m just a kid, that’s the opposite of helpful.” Jory scanned each of their faces.
“We all know that isn’t true,” Desdemona replied cryptically.
“We wouldn’t set you up to fail, Jory. Besides, what was it you were saying last night, about wanting to be great? Or…legendary?” Deacon smirked.
“Well yeah, I – wait. Were you in the bar last night?” Jory interrupted himself.
“Me? Noooo, no. Though, a close friend of mine named Fernando might have been. I’m also gonna start calling them ‘Ironheads’ from now on.”
“Calling who, what?” Desdemona asked.
Jory’s face turned bright red, feeling duped by one of Deacon’s disguises. “Whatever. I still don’t see how I can help. You need someone to bus tables at HQ, is that it?”
“You might have been pulling pranks, but what you were really doing was practicing stealth and manipulation,” the other man replied seriously.
“You’re young, smart, and skilled. You’re our ringer, kid. We always wanted you to come home, but right now…we need you to,” Desdemona added softly.
Jory looked between each of them, once more. Part of him could hardly believe that it was happening. Just a few hours ago, he was crawling into his sleeping bag to prepare for yet another day as a bus boy. Suddenly, he was standing face to face with the head of the Railroad, being collected for their cause. He swallowed. “Well, let me go get my things.”
Desdemona visibly relaxed. “Excellent. We should move out as soon as possible. Deacon, go with him, and we’ll all meet you outside the gate.”
Deacon motioned for Jory to lead. Instead of turning around, Jory instead continued to follow the path around the lake, to the far side. “Don’t you need your things from your apartment?”
“Yeah, but my valuable stuff is buried out here. If people know you’re leaving caps in a canvas walled room, they’re just gonna steal it when you’re not there to sleep on it.” Jory deftly hopped between the banks and tiptoed into some brush next to the lake. He took a deliberate path before kneeling down and clearing some rocks aside. He pulled out a jar of caps and a leather sling purse, then stood.
“You still have that, huh?” Deacon asked softly, referring to the purse.
“Yeah. This is all. My spare clothes and bedroll are in my place. Are you coming?”
Within twenty minutes, Jory had amassed all of his worldly possessions and was making his way towards the main gate. Rita materialized from behind Publick Occurrences and jumped into the middle of the path. Jory and Deacon both stopped.
“Uh oh,” Deacon breathed.
“Jory, what’s going on? Are you leaving? You weren’t even gonna say goodbye?” Rita’s clear, blue, nearly irresistible eyes were narrowed and angry. She tossed some curls behind her head in a quick, aggravated motion.
Jory looked to Deacon, but the older man merely shook his head. Not gonna get any help from you, eh? He swallowed and looked back to his friend. “It’s…kind of complicated. The leaving. Not the, uh, ‘no goodbye.’”
“Is that so?”
“C’mon, Rita,” Jory sighed. “You’re being unfair. I was gonna come back in and say goodbye to you, you know, without an audience?” He made an elaborate nod towards Deacon.
Rita sniffed. “For real?”
“Sure.”
“Listen, Rita,” Deacon purred, suddenly coming to life, “it’s not that he wasn’t going to tell you, but he just couldn’t. Jory’s special ops from a super secret, extra epic organization that we can’t even name for your own, personal safety.” He leaned down and took one of her hands in his, and bumped his sunglasses down just enough to be able to look her in the eye. “We’re basically jeopardizing the whole front by even talking to non-operatives, you know? But I wanted to make sure he got out safe so he could come back here, to you.”
Her attention was completely rapt. “Oh…really?” she breathed, her cheeks becoming flushed.
“You bet. He didn’t want to, you know, bring harm to you and your family with knowing the truth. So, listen. You head back to the Dugout and tell your uncles that Jory had to go home with his ‘cousin’ – that’s me – to get that Geiger counter and visit a sick family member. For the trouble,” Deacon reached over and took Jory’s jar of caps from his arms and placed it in Rita’s, “take these. I’m sure Vadim will understand.” He winked.
Rita nearly swooned. Jory had to bite his tongue, feeling nauseous. “I…I understand! Jory, I’m sorry for my behaviour. Hurry back safely, okay.” She leaned to peck him on the cheek before scampering off, yet again.
Jory watched her retreat, feeling far more upset about his lost caps. When she was totally out of sight, he turned and grabbed Deacon by the arm. “What the hell, dude?! Those were my life’s savings!”
“Phbbt. A whole six months of caps, you mean? You don’t need them, now, anyways. We both know Dez is gonna coddle you to the point of smothering.”
Jory frowned. “I’m not a baby.”
“It’s not about that.”
“Then what?”
Deacon clapped him on the back and made to ascend the walkway towards the exit. “Maybe you’ll understand when you’re older. Now, come on. They’re waiting.”
(Continue to Chapters 2 and 3, here!)