Goodneighbor is home, it always was. It might smell like spoiled milk and strong liquor but it reflects its inhabitants perfectly. It isn't rare for a visitor to find a gun pointed at their head as soon as they walk into our shabby war-torn streets and then find their pockets looted for all the chems and caps on their person. Underneath the intimidating garb of Goodneighbor's atmosphere lies authentic pre-war culture and most importantly, music. Jazz is the soundtrack to my adopted hometown's daily crimes. Magnolia, that name even sounds angelic, and her ear-pleasing voice makes me wonder how someone as alluring and packed with a personality like hers even came into this hell of a world. She's a rarity that any wastelander would be hard pressed to find a dupe of. It seems that every night I always end up back in the same place, in this pisswater producing bar, getting smashed on jet and whiskey, Magnolia's melodies becoming the anthem to my not giving a shit about what happens to my chem addicted body.
I've realized by now though that the menu and music aren't what keeps me coming back, it's that old "You're only here if you're trying to forget" crowd. Talking about your past is more than taboo here, and the only thing that junkpile of a Mr. Handy running this bar wants to talk about is booze and caps, my two favorite topics. Whitechapel Charlie is what he calls himself nowadays, but the only think you could get out of him about the days before now is how many times he's smashed bottles over any overly curious drifters' heads. He's no criminal, but he sure isn't a sweetheart.
That's better than what can be said about his trigger-happy customers. Holding your cap stash close isn't just a precaution, it's a necessity. Any of these crazy mercs would pull a switchblade on you just as soon as drunkenly cry about their BS sob-worthy backstories on your metal-plated shoulder. I never leave home without my best friend, Skullcracker. He's an aluminum plated baseball bat with two razor-sharp sawblades on both sides of the end of it, crafted by yours truly. Raiders and Deathclaws alike have found their end with just a few carefully placed, rock hard hits to their person. Carrying him on my back lets everyone wanting to rob me of my honestly, ill-earned caps, know not to mess around with me just as well as a "piss off" tattoo on the back of some buff meathead's neck. Not only am I well armed, but I've racked up the closest thing to respect around here, a reputation for bashing anyone's brains out for 20 caps flat.
Sitting at the bar of The Third Rail like this brings a sense of readiness for anything that comes around, but without skills and a neverending hyperawareness, you're nothing around here but a target for heartless butchers not much unlike myself. I'm passed by a Gunner Corporal, that signature white-starred green combat armor clinging to his near disgustingly buff chest. I spot a ridiculous "A+" tattoo stamped on his obnoxiously large forehead. I let out a small scoff as he passes by. He turns abruptly to face me; a murderous scowl viciously decorates his classical "look at me I'm a douchebag" face.
"What are you laughing at, miss bitchy princess?" he snorts, slamming his calloused hand on the bar. I blink slowly and turn my head towards his face in a sarcastic no-fucks-given manner.
"What an accurate and well-deserved title, mister I eat raw eggs for breakfast in front of my jock friends but vomit them out later behind the dumpster because I'm secretly a worthless pussy." I stretch a wide grin across my face while his dumbass processes my words and get up from my rusty chair. I blow a kiss at the corporal while I start to leave the bar. I then turn towards the exit, swaying my hips widely in motion to the music. My catwalk is interrupted by those disgusting hands grasping my throat, clenching tighter and tighter with every beat of his pulse against my neck. The music stops in rhythm with his actions, and my desperate choking sounds fill the room. Everyone just stares, motionless. I struggle to knee him in the crotch, but my lightheadedness prevents any action from being more than a jerked movement. Everything starts to go black when I hear a muffled line breaking through my reality. All of a sudden the corporal's grip loosens until there's nothing but a throbbing pain encasing my throat. I fall forward into a ripped jacket detailed with lace and patriotic colors, the skin that catches my fall is near rotted and abrasively rough, but still the most comforting texture I've ever known.
"Hancock," I mutter. The old Ghoul laughs, squeezing my abused body with an almost protective embrace.
"What's wrong Judith, did you forget how to watch your ass around here?" he releases me from his comfort and stares at my bruised neck. He reaches out and softly brushes one of his radiation-ruined fingers against my wound. Those somewhat creepy pitch black eyes look into mine with worry. His face turns from sorry to angry and he releases me, turns to the bar, then uses one of the bar stools to pull himself up on the bar counter. He stands to face the crowd, "Patrons of my lowly establishment, listen up. If I catch any of you motherfuckers messing around with this woman ever again, you'll end up just like our beloved previous mayor." he flashes a cruel smile to the deplorable crowd and jumps off the bar top. The useless doorman, Ham, rushes downstairs clutching his fedora to his bald head.
"I heard a gunshot, am I too late?" he huffed, short of breath. Ham's gaze wandered towards the dead gunner's body, "Oh." he whispered, seemingly mortified.
"Fashionably," Hancock responded in his raspy voice, mimicking my earlier sarcastic tone with the now dead corporal. "Why don't you take out the trash while you're here, it seems distasteful to enjoy a drink next to a fresh corpse." he winks and nods at Ham, the bouncer nods back in mutual understanding, moving over to the cadaver in cautious strides. He picks up the gunner's body, moving one arm under his legs, and the other under his armpits. He lifts the dead man with a single "harrumph" and carries him upstairs out of sight, everyone's eyes following his journey. Hancock looks towards Magnolia and shouts "Is this a bar or a funeral home? Start up the music and let our fine drinkers have their peace in drowning their sorrows!" The singer nods to Whitechapel to start up the music and the jazzy atmosphere is restored.
Hancock leans towards me and whispers, "Why don't we get out of this shit-show and get some chems in your system?"
I smile and laugh just a little, "I'd love that."
Hancock and I leave The Third Rail and my recent incident behind. We make our way to the Hotel Rexford and right as he opens the door, that choking stale Rexford air penetrates my nostrils. I can still smell the obnoxious scent burnt hair from Fred Allen's last experimental chem creations. Directly in front of me, there's my best Protectron friend, Drinkin' Buddy. He might be rusted and every step he takes makes the room echo with his hard mechanical clunks, but he still makes the most warming yet ice cold Gwinnett Pale this side of the apocalypse, and unfortunately, the most horrible puns to ever grace my ears. About a year ago some Vault-Dweller brought him in for Rufus Rubins, the guy in charge of drinks at the hotel. The washed up jackass said he found him in some basement of an old taphouse, and he was asking to be delivered to the Hotel Rexford. Rufus took Buddy off his hands for only 300 caps, ridiculous. I'd have kept him for myself at that price, more free booze for me. The pre-war robot slowly turns towards me,
"Greetings, Bud-dy, would you like to wet your whis-tle or did you come for a laugh?" he says in his broken monotone voice. No matter how annoying that line is, it's always my favorite.
"I'll take a beer." I place my hand on my hip as he dishes out a Pilsner. The noise as it hits the metal serving tray always satisfied me. He relays his programmed dialog with an "Enjoy" and clanks away back to his messy little corner bar. I stare down the neck of the bottle, some guy ripping off Hancock's outfit but with long greasy hair is right in the center of the label. I pop open the drink with my handy belt and hold it up to my ear. The delicate fizz fills my body with a desire to chug the whole thing in one sitting, so I do. Glugging down the last drops of the perfectly balanced between sweet and malt drink I can't help but let out a small, "Ahh". Hancock stares and asks with a light tone,
"Thirsty?"
"You have no idea how much I needed that." he chortles softly and walks over to Fred and hands him a bag of caps, soon there's another larger bag in his hand, and I know exactly what that means. I saunter over to the front desk and retrieve my key from the proprietor. I don't have to pay for my room being the Mayor's closest friend and all. I make my way upstairs, and Hancock follows suit. I reach my door right next to the horrifically broken elevator and I'm soon greeted by my nearly hairless cat, Cappy, of course, named after the famed Nuka World mascot. He brushes his soft, fluffy head against my rough, dirt-covered legs.
"What've you been doing while I was gone, my little troublemaker?" I say in a babying tone. He meows and I get down on one knee to pet him. He purrs and my hand makes contact with his fur-less back.
"You still got that rat?" Hancock bitches from behind me.
"He isn't a rat, he's a waste-hardened kitty," I joke, hugging his body."Isn't he so rude?" I coddle. Hancock rolls his eyes and enters my room, flopping onto my sheet-less, moldy bed. He takes out a cigarette and lights it. "Hey, don't go having fun without me just because I have a crazy cat lady streak." I flop just as he did right next to him. I slightly cuddle his welcoming body, leaning all my stress on him, he raises a brow,
"Ghouls don't make good pillows you know."
"Today was particularly shitty, and every once and a while you just gotta get those hardcore cuddles while on hardcore drugs." laughing, he scoots closer and places his cigarette in front of my mouth, signaling an offer of a hit, I lean forward and inhale the warm smoke, letting it go deep into my lungs until finally blowing out a large stream as Hancock tapped the ash onto my floor, classy. There're some nights where I feel like overdosing is a pretty good option, maybe just shoot up so much psycho that I forget who I am and everything that ever happened to me and become some crazed violent lunatic, or inhale enough jet to make time stop forever. Every time I try to get over some event another one comes up to punch me in the face, sometimes literally. I'm not without my scars but I'd rather avoid making new ones. Living in hell every day makes horrors difficult to get away from.
Just as my depressed self-monologue ends Hancock hands me something that always makes life better, Day-Tripper. That drug makes you lose sight of everything that ever hurt you, sending you into a state of "just be". I rip the bottle of happy pills from his hand and twist off the cap furiously. Popping five in my mouth I chase them down with a swig of whiskey off my nightstand. I lay back and wait for the effect to set in. There's a certain rush waiting for your life to fall apart. The drug fills my body with an ultimate calm, every muscle relaxes, every bad thought leaves, I am free. Hancock takes the bottle out of my hand and takes some himself without thinking. We sat there, totally fucked up, without a care in the world. It feels good and for the first time in years, it feels like I can finally be at peace. I close my eyes for just a second as the day turns into night, and fall into a deep sleep unlike any other I've ever experienced.
I am rudely awakened by the sound of gunshots, my small body shakes with every breath. My first thought goes to my parents, are they alive and safe? I jump out from under my covers to see fire consuming all my family ever created, every crop, every hour spent trying to pull our life together, gone. I waste no time on tears and look to my door. My mother screams, every window shatters, and the soulless pounding of heavy metal enters my family farmhouse. Frantic shrieks echo around the building as I rush into the hallway, nobody's there. I run into the entranceway to see a man seemingly made completely out of iron, tubes protruded out of his face leading to his chest which housed a large emblem of a sword and gears, encased in wings, his metal arms lifting my father by the collar. Without a single thought, I rush to his aid, slamming my foot the metal man's legs with all the strength I could muster screaming,
"Leave my father alone!" he kicks me in the rib, sending me flying and causing a slight cracking noise, I grasp my side, the intense pain disabling any action other than crying. and my father hits the ground, soon a gun is pointed right at his temple, "No!" I attempt to shout, but the bullet has already hit its target. All I can do is stare until I begin to lose consciousness and everything goes black as the fire blazes around me.
I am wrenched back into reality, drenched in sweat, breathing heavily, my vision clears and I look to my right. Hancock is leaning over me, staring at me with a caring expression.
"I-I wasn't watching you sleep or anything you were just shaking and I-."
"What? No, I don't care I have to kill every single Brotherhood Knight in the Commonwealth." Hancock's expression turns from caring so slightly melancholy, to melancholy to worried, and from worried to somewhat confused.
"What the hell? I might not have ears but I hope I haven't lost my hearing, you want to kill every. Single. Brotherhood Knight in the Commonwealth? Have all those chems rotted your brain?"
I huff like an edgy teen and roll my eyes, "This is serious, I've been trying to forget all this time without doing a single thing to get revenge. They killed my father, Hancock." His browbone raises,
"Well shit." is all he can find to say.
"I need to find some way to get them all at once, to lower the chances of being hunted down." Hancock pauses and places his hand on his chin while pondering my words.
"You could go after the Prydwen."
"What? That's ridi-wait, that's genius! I'd need to find a set of-" my words drift off to thoughts as I jump off the bed, pacing around my ruined room. "Hmm, yeah." I mutter, walking out the door, grabbing my gun and making my way downstairs, Hancock's "Wait, where are you going?" echoing at the top of the steps. I hear a quick rushing down the stairs as he runs up next to me.
"You're not serious about this, are you? They'll be tracking you down for life."
"I'm definitely serious, and I'm going to the Atom Cats Garage to get a set of power armor." I shove open the door to the hotel and fast walk to the entrance of Goodneighbor. Just as I'm about to open the door I hear,
"Wait!" Hancock is by my side again, he looks in my eyes and says "Just don't get killed, okay?" I scoff and flip my ponytail, "I was born to die." and slam the door in his face before he can reply. The neon signs of Goodneighbor beckon me to come back and stay, forget any of this ever happened, but I can't, this is too important. I rush into the wastes, skeletal structures of long ruined buildings and desolation decorating my path. I'd really like to avoid getting blown apart by a super mutant suicider so I hide every so often, listening to my surroundings, dodging any meat sacks lingering about the commons. My new life starts now. I rush past the many piles of debris and scrap metal, never looking back for one second. I hear a group of particularly villainous group of mercs talking about their daily misdeeds,
"She bled like a stuck pig, got all over my jacket too. It was worth it, though, a thousand caps, all just for some revenge story." why pay someone to do your dirty work for you when you can do it better yourself? Seems dumb to me.
"Lucky bastard, I couldn't get that many caps even if I stood out on a corner and sold myself." the creeps laugh, I roll my eyes and avoid their voices.
Their vantage point is west, so I head north, even if the quickest way to the Cats' garage is south, it also happens to be the most dangerous route. I walk carelessly through the open; nobody would ambush me at night in the middle of one of the heaviest crime areas of the Commonwealth, right? I begin to walk even slower; something scurries in the distance to my right, and I let out a small but way too loud squeal. Idiot. A branch snaps directly behind me, and I realize something I should really be afraid of is lurking, I've been stalked my entire short journey, and I know I am about to become the victim of a kidnapping. I feel a hot sensation travel down my neck, breath. I know I shouldn't dare to turn around, but my curiosity gets the better of me, and I move my neck and torso at a snail's pace to my left. Soon I am face to face with a sick grin, the grin turns into a man, then a wooden board, he lifts it over his head quickly, inhaling rapidly, then exhaling and bringing it down over my skull. His grin becomes even wider, and my body becomes detached from all voluntary movement. I close my eyes and fall back as everything goes black.
