The Collision Principle

by Madammortis

Paths cross for most. For others; they converge. And the results of these collisions alter all who are swept up in it, leaving not a one unaffected by the changes that follow. Hancock/Female Sole Survivor story predominately, including a number of other random romances.

1. Prologue

DISCLAIMER: I do not own Fallout 4 or any of its characters, concepts, locations, etc. Etc. No money is made from the writing of this fanfiction, though I have since acquired quite a fetching case of carpel tunnel.

A/N: Hello, my freaky darlings! Just some background info before we get started:

I originally 'published' Collision Principle on AO3, due to the graphic nature of the story and my desire to maintain a sense of realism through not heavily censoring the work. I have since, however, made the decision to publish a very heavily edited version here on ; with much of the violence, language and sexual content removed in a very earnest attempt to respect 's strictly M rated policy.

With that being said, there do remain some mature themes in this story. This Prologue chapter is the most graphic of those which follow (at least for some time) but I have done my best to tone it back where possible. (Believe it or not!) If this still proves too much at times, I'd be happy to shave a bit more meat from its bones. So to speak. Just let me know :)

If anyone wishes to read the unedited version of Collision Principle it can be found on AO3. I'm also MadamMortis over there, so it shouldn't be too difficult to find. If all my editing tricks go to plan, that version should be significantly more graphic than this one, so discretion is naturally advised should you choose to look it up.

My aim is to post an edited chapter of CP here on once a week. It may take a little longer with some of the bigger chapters; especially those that need a lot of editing due to their content but I hope to be consistent with it.

Thanks everyone and I hope you enjoy!

Prologue: The Indestructible Nine

" He who commits injustice is ever made more wretched than he who suffers it." – Plato.

Goodneighbor - 2278 – December 24th...

The night had been cold, he remembered. Almost bitterly so, though it had taken him some time to be made aware of it. His adrenaline had been too high; his skin flush with anticipation. The air smelt crisp, like it always did just after the rain. The only sound; crickets chirruping with their merry ignorance from beyond the Eastern wall, interspersed with the drunken cackling of the even more oblivious men down below.

Water had splashed about his boots when he had landed. His ankles jarred a little and his socks had a damp ring around them from where moisture had seeped inside. The laughing had stopped abruptly. Many more pairs of feet struck a bitter staccato against the slick pavement around him. Perhaps a moments' hesitation... the splitting of a second. And then... remorseless penance.

He fired first, drew first blood, served first example. The shots came quickly after that; fast and concise – boom, boom, boom. The smell of smoke intermingled with the tangy damp of the night air. His ears rang and his head swum with static. "We fucking blitzed 'em, Hancock!" Someone yelled, their voice barely audible above the ensuing screams and spattering of bullets cutting violently through the night. He called back something supportive... at least, he was certain it had been supportive. And the killing continued.

To his right, one thug's head caved easily under Adrian Buchalter's blow; cracking beneath the merciless meeting of pavement and stone. Hancock though Adrian might have lost his guts at this; the physically imposing brute of a man possessing a rather contradictory manner of sensitivity. And he did indeed hesitate, upper back jerking as though he were trying to hold back the contents of his stomach. The goon was still alive, his arms jerking spasmodically and legs kicking in a desperate bid to rise.

Adrian had never killed anyone before, which was likely why he had pulled his full strength at the last minute. If he had applied every ounce of hulking muscle behind the blow, the man who was twitching helplessly like a Radroach on the ground beneath him, would have been dead instantaneously. Adrian clenched the blooded hunk of concrete in his hand; half of what had once been an architectural sleeper and made a clear concerted effort in his considerations towards finishing the job. He wavered such as a toy boat in the rippling tides of a child's pond; finding this moral blockade much more difficult to hurdle than the groups impassioned conversations in the Waste's had suggested it to be.

John Hancock; though his experiences with death were only marginally transgressive, had applied himself to the task with utter conviction. Vic and his boys were pitiless after all and if he and the other drifters ever hoped to see Goodneighbor into a better, more equitable future, they needed to be just as ruthless as their foes.

"Finish him off, brother! Don't let 'em see you hesitate!" Hancock called, turning at the last moment to chance one of Vic's more resilient men charging in on him; struggling to free his pistol from its' battered, leather holster. Most of the mob had been so ploughed that the work had all been but done by the time Hancock and the other rebels had dropped from the rooftops but this guy looked a hell of a lot sober than the rest.

He dropped the very same way in spite of his constitution; bending in the middle like a ridiculous doll loose from its strings. Neck, arms and legs jerking forward as Hancock fired the twin barrels close range into the big old hero's stomach. Over the sound of his ears ringing, Hancock dimly registered a splintering, sickly sounding crack, followed shortly by another. Adrian joined him at his side not a moment later, hands dripping with a meaty ichor, which looked almost black in the darkness of the main street. That bastard Vic had never bothered to have any of the lights repaired; one of his many failings as mayor.

Hancock looked over and met the Ghouls' eyes. Adrian's broad shoulders were heaving, his thick jaw heavy set and massive fist clenched resolutely around the hunk of dripping concrete. No more a fitting end for the man who had once used the butt of his rifle to smash in the face of a fellow drifter who had dared to stand up to him.

From the look on Adrian's face, Hancock knew that this was what had compelled him to finish the miserable bastard off and he gave him a small nod of approval.

"Dry your eyes," he instructed and Adrian jerked his chin back in response, using his shirt sleeve to wipe away the wetness that had pooled in the curve of his eye sockets. "They see you gettin' soft, they'll make a target of you. Don't give 'em a reason. Remember," He added, tapping the back of his fist against the big Ghoul's barrel shaped chest. "This ain't just for all of us. It's for Thomas too."

This had obviously been the right thing to say, because Adrian raised his head with a look of steely determination; tossing the blooded lump of concrete into the air before catching it again. The memory of the friend who could not be there with them weighed heavy on all their minds. Every drop of blood spilled in this righteous massacre was rent from flesh in his name. Every soul rendered from body was hurled into the depths of hell in his honor. Even someone as innocent as Adrian could be compelled to act in a way he might never had done when the memory of a friend's violent death sat at the forefront of his mind.

There was a choking sound from nearby. The man Hancock had shot was still just barely clinging on. Not an easy thing to accomplish after taking a point-blank shot from a side by side, though Hancock felt he might have been mostly to blame for this, if not directly. Whilst training out in the Wasteland, he had developed a little technique which he thought might serve well as a scare tactic when squaring off against Vic's goons. Though not practical, it looked suitably badass, so long as it was executed correctly. This was, in effect, firing the double off one handed; right hand for the right barrel, left hand for the left barrel. Being ambidextrous helped, as Hancock was confident using either hand for a range of tasks but of course the recoil proved a bit of a hassle. He had worked for months to strengthen up the correct muscles in his arms, core and legs respectively, so that each could absorb the massive recoil from the gun without doing an insane amount of damage.

He had learned very quickly that pulling off more than one shot was enough, especially in a combat situation. It was just blatant showing off and now his shoulders were going to pay for it, if he hadn't already dislocated them. Not to mention that a shotgun blast converged upon itself, so the direction of the pellet spray would disperse the further away your target was. Vic's goon had been about ten yards and if Hancock had aimed at him two handed as he was supposed to have done, the guy most likely would have been dead right away and not splayed upon the ground; rent with suffering.

Hancock's gaff had not come through hesitation however; only scare tactics. He had only needed to fire one handed twice and the look in the other men's faces had said it all. A mark to his name that all future enemies would whisper about; just as surely as Adrian would be remembered as the hulking brute who took down guys with guns by smashing their heads in with a brick.

Hancock drew a sharp breath, slinging the strap of the shotgun around his shoulders as he approached the fallen thug. He felt a great deal calmer than he had fifteen minutes ago; (Jesus, is that all it took? Fifteen minutes?) though his heart still hammered in his chest, questioning whether it could have been that easy. He slid the thick ten-inch knife out of his belt, wondering even as he clutched the hilt determinedly whether he would have the balls to use it.

Turns out, he did.

Geoff... that had been his name. Kind of unremarkable, like his own first name really. But Geoff had been one of the very worst of all Vic's boys, namely for the kind of perversions and indulgences his voracious, apparently unquenchable appetite drove him to. Hancock had seen him come staggering drunkenly into their street shelter on more than one occasion, yank up a girl from her bedroll and drag her into the nearby alley to fuck against a wall. If he and Adrian had been able to hear him coming in time, they would pull the girls into their own beds, literally laying on top of them in order to keep them out of harms way. Geoff wasn't exactly choosey when he was thwarted though; sometimes he would grab a child and this would cause everyone to react, revealing the girls from their hiding places and sending them to the metaphorical slaughterhouse instead.

Once, in one of his more Chem induced episodes, he had even grabbed Hancock. Back in the days when he had been a damn sight prettier than he was now. Hancock hadn't exactly relished the thought of becoming one of Vic's boys little 'backdoor bitches' and had put up one hell of a fight, aided and abetted by Adrian, Thomas and one of the girls whom they had previously protected. The four of them had succeeded in preserving Hancock's virtue in this instance but they had paid for it dearly later, when Geoff and a few of the boys came back in the light of day. They had had the shit beaten out of them, stripped of their clothes and tied then to poles in the main street, where they had remained, unprotected and suffering through one of the coldest, most inhospitable nights of the year.

Of course, Geoff and some of the others came back around to mess with them during the night, only to find that they had been encircled by six of their fellow drifters, who had untied them, clothed them and were in the process of binding their wounds. Of course, the threat of being shot was a major deterrent to unarmed, malnourished civilians and they had been forced to step aside. All but one. That had been Thomas. He had refused to let the three of them be further brutalized and not three days later, he had lost his life because of it.

Geoff had accrued a number of victims in his time but none so hateful as that young girl he had abused alongside Adrian and Hancock. She appeared now, booted feet splashing in the puddled mixtures of water and blood as she made her way to Hancock's side, reaching down to seize his wrist, halting his rampage. Her hazel eyes looked almost as though they were sparkling with delight as she used her spare hand to pluck the blooded knife from his grasp.

"You hogging all the fun for yourself, Hancock?" She purred, her dark red hair almost indistinguishable from the blood covering her upper torso. Hancock smiled, shifting up onto his knee and slipping slightly in the wet muck on the street. Jesus, they'd left a hell of a mess to clean up.

"Looks like you've been having enough fun for the two of us, Mel." He quipped back, finally finding his feet and taking a step back, allowing the girl to move in closer. There were some fights that rightfully belonged to other people and this was one of those times. "I mighta... softened him up for you. Just a little bit."

She gave her short, barking laugh at this. How different she was from that self-doubting, insecure girl from a few months back; who had accustomed herself to being used as a human toilet and plaything to the unfeeling attentions of the repulsive men of the town.

"Oh, I think it's safe to see we all want a piece of Geoff for ourselves," She murmured, placing one hand on her hip as she bent at the waist, placing her rose dappled face very close to Geoff's. She smiled, though there was nothing friendly in the gesture and said as she played the tip of the knife over the dying mans' nose. "Hello Geoff. It's Melanie. Do you remember me? I sure as shit remember you. I remember those eyes staring at me in all the dark places I crawled into, trying to hide where you couldn't find me." Her own eyes narrowed with spite at the memory and she poised the tip of the knife blade to the centre of the mans' forehead, her lip curling with contempt. "Those eyes... I hate those fucking eyes!"

It took less than a minute to exact that which ultimately satisfied her and left many of the surrounding rebels looking rather sick and uncertain for the meagre act in witnessing it. As Geoff lay curled in a fetal position on the ground, palm creating a halo about his now empty eye socket; Melanie flipped the knife over and held it out to Adrian with a purely beatific smile.

"You want a piece of this asshole before I scrap him for parts, Addy?"

The Ghoul shook his head, though there was no hint of mercy in his refusal to partake. Sweet though the man was, his gaze was unforgiving as he stared down at Geoff, the scars of his condition rendering his expression ever the more severe. Adrian had been in Goodneighbor longer than just about anyone and during that time, he had watched helpless as Vic's boys victimized, robbed and raped whomever they wanted. That was a long time to build up a shit ton of resentment, to say the least.

"Much as I'd like to give this ol' shit heel a good curb stompin', I'm thinkin' we got us other fish to fry," he said, looking pointedly to Hancock and then jerking his head off to the side, towards the Old Statehouse. Hancock got the hint and leaning down, gave Melanie a parting squeeze on the shoulder.

"As the man said, got some business to take care of. Try not to have too much fun here, sister," he said, giving her what he hoped was a supportive smile, tempered with mild caution. The girl seemed to be in control of her faculties but she was still barely past her teens and had already experienced some of the very worst of humanity that was on offer. Now, she was liberally dismembering her previous tormentors with perverse glee and though she couldn't be blamed for taking pleasure in the act, Hancock could only hope she would not become the same as the monsters they were persecuting. They had to be better than that if they hoped for a better future.

Melanie's expression shifted slightly, just enough to assure Hancock that she had gotten his message. She must not have been happy about it but like the others, she followed the unspoken chain of command. It was Hancock after all who had guided them to this much-desired eventuation and the respect he had earned during the time he had trained them in the Wasteland was not so delicate as to be compromised or questioned.

"Can't promise it'll be too quick," She said, showing just the slightest hint of defiance as she turned back to her sobbing, writhing victim. She tossed the knife lazily from hand to hand. "Bastard gave it to me up the ass one night. Didn't stop even though I was bleeding and screaming. Fucker laughed at me. He laughed at me, John!"

Hancock narrowed his eyes, wondering if it was possible to hate a person more than he hated this... creature already. That sort of hatred felt sharp, like it was searing a hole through his guts. Geoff had nearly done the same to him; would have done, if Adrian and Melanie hadn't been there to help fight him off. As far as he was concerned, there was nothing worse than taking someone's liberty. Whatever form that kidnapping came in.

Pain twinged in his lower back; a constant reminder of the mark that had been lain to his own flesh and soul. Residue burnt eternally through the layers of hastily corroding skin. A scream rose up in his mind, almost drowning out the sound of the night around him. His own voice, begging and pleading for mercy... calling out for a father long since wrought from this world, whilst fingernails scratched trenches through the grime that lay thick upon the floor. His breath caught in his throat as he remembered the restriction once tight against his neck... and the pain... the pain... All the places he had felt the pain... that pain that had burrowed as deeply within his body as his now dreadfully sober mind...

He pulled back his leg and kicked Geoff in the side, hard, rolling the dying guard onto his buckshot riddled gut. The man was coughing up blood, pleading for mercy. Hancock turned the sound to static in his own ears, refusing to let it form any semblance of words that might evoke an emotional response. He reached down, clamping his hand over the back of Geoff's skull, pushing his face into the wet pavement and hissed so that he could hear;

"Give him a taste of his own medicine. Let him know what it feels like to bleed and scream."

He released his hold on Geoff's head, taking some satisfaction at how the pleading came the thicker and faster. Hancock wasn't squeamish in the least but he took mercy for Adrian's sake and led him and some of the others away to their next task. Some of the other more vindictive fellows stayed to watch and judging from the screaming that followed, Melanie had made good on settling the score. Fitting justice for a man whose entire life seemed to revolve around sticking his dick into whoever seemed to want it the least.

Where Vic was to be found through this entire bloodbath was no small secret. The spineless bastard had holed himself up in the Statehouse; his glorified little castle from where he could look down on all the struggling wretches below. Hancock imagined he fancied himself quite the feudal lord from this vantage point. Living it up like a great, fat cat, spooning cream into its egotistical, undeserving little mouth and then sending out his goon squad to squeeze whatever he could from the people he was supposed to be caring for. It wasn't much different from what that lardball McDonough was doing over in Diamond City and Hancock was getting just the slightest bit sick of all these assholes sitting pretty in their ivory towers, brutalizing everyone at their own discretion. Maybe McDonough was out of his reach but Vic sure as hell wasn't. Not anymore. He couldn't wait to get his hands on the mother fucker; the trunk of the rotten tree that had wended its sickly roots through Goodneighbor and was slowly sucking it dry from within.

Vic didn't plan on making it easy for them, however. Bastard never did; without his goons on point, he had the backbone density of a Wasteland omelet. He had locked all the doors into the Statehouse and had most likely retreated as far into the building as possible, like a Radroach scurrying from a far more oppressive predator.

Despite the Statehouse being more than six hundred years old, the renovations of only two hundred years prior had been good and solid. Both doors refused to give, despite a few determined members of the Nine working on each with the assistance of some pluckier members of the community. Hancock made his way over to Ryan; a tough bastard that he had nonetheless charged with the protection of the collective sum of Goodneighbor's innocent, unknowing citizens. He was chatting with the owner of the junk store; Daisy. Hancock had always gotten along well with the old girl; she was a sweet natured woman, with a teasing, cheery natured that defied her age. At two hundred years old, (give or take a decade) she was one of the few pre-war Ghouls living in the town and had always been a strong advocate for overthrowing Vic and his cruel regime.

Her lined face broke into a smile at the sight of Hancock and he sighed with relief, glad to see that she was okay. He made his way over, leaning around Ryan to plant a kiss to her cheek, which she returned.

"Oh John, you silly, brave boy. I still can't believe you've gone and done it." She said, running one hand down over his cheek. He took her fingers in his own and squeezed them reassuringly, wishing that he wasn't so bloodied up whilst speaking to her. Daisy had this way of making you feel like you should always be well presented and respectful; not because she asked for it but because you truly felt she deserved it. He did his best to wipe his face with the sleeve of his jacket, which Daisy took as a sign to pass over a handkerchief she must have had spare. Hancock used it to mop his face as best he could. He was especially careful around his nose, which was a little tender, though that wasn't on account of any injuries sustained in the fight, of course.

"It ain't done yet, sister. Still gotta get in there and break the big mans' neck," He said, glancing up at the State House balcony, curling his lip with irritation. "I'm just glad you're okay, Daisy. Would've had to kick my own ass if you or any of the others got caught up in this shit. Speaking of which?" He looked to Ryan for clarification, who gave that familiar one-sided smirk which creased up into his tanned cheek. A good sign.

"Went off like a charm, honey. All Nine are still kicking. KLEO pitched in and took a bullet to the side for her efforts but she bounced back like no one's business." He gestured with his head to the street side of the Statehouse. "She's round there now, workin' with some of the others to try and bring the door down."

"That's our girl," Hancock said with a smirk, pocketing the bloodied handkerchief after Daisy had indicated that he keep it. He used the opportunity to break open the shotgun and reload the empty chamber in the breach, wondering if his hands might ever be steady again. He needed to keep cool and calm, less the others see him falter and lose confidence. Regardless, he still couldn't seem to shake that one tiny little tremor that ran pervasively under his skin. "Any of those doors look more likely to give?"

Ryan shrugged. "Two to one odds, I'd say the one KLEO's workin' on. Girls got a head of steam up." They all had a laugh at this, which must have been the first laugh any of them had had in... some time, actually.

"Great. Well, let's head around there and get Adrian into it," Hancock said, clamping the shotgun closed and slinging the leather strap back over his shoulder. He gave Daisy another kiss on the cheek. "Put the kettle on for us, mama. Back in a bit."

"Idiot boy," She said, giving him a small smile as he and Adrian turned and jogged off around the corner. Sure enough, there was KLEO along with Jack, Pattie and Rob, working in tandem to repeatedly kick, shoulder and shove the street side door to the Statehouse.

"Hey kids, you thought about blowing the lock out yet?" Hancock asked as he reached them, hoping it didn't sound too patronizing but feeling that it was the more obvious of solutions. He flashed a quick smile in KLEO's direction. "Hey beautiful. How you holdin' up? Ryan said you copped one in the side?"

The Assaultron turned her dark face and focused the piercing red orb on her forehead in Hancock's direction. Despite being on their side in this circumstance, Hancock always preserved doubt as to whether the robotic weapons dealer could be entirely trusted; she had a strange manner of predicting and planning for all eventuation's. She had told him, quite blatantly during one of their negotiations for weapons, that she would quite happily kill him if the need ever arose to do so. Being a particularly vigilant person himself, Hancock countered that he would never be so important as to require the effort and attention necessary for her to take his life. KLEO had just sort of 'hmmmed' at this and said "We'll see." Perhaps those robotic projections were worth paying closer attention to, considering just what was happening here and now.

"Well, I thank you for your concern, John... or, is it Hancock you are now referring to yourself as? My my, it is hard for a lady to keep track these days." The Assaultron verily purred, pausing in her high-powered efforts to rent the wooden doorway from its frame. Hancock had to wonder just what the good folks at Rob-Co had been thinking when they gave such a damn sultry sounding voice to a robot. It was a wonder that soldiers in the opposing army had been able to stand up straight with one of these babies running at them, proclaiming in a sexually fueled tone that they were 'Going to destroy you.' "I do admit that I rather like the outfit. How does the old saying go? "The clothes maketh the man?"'

Hancock gave her a little smile, raising his hand to tip the foremost peak of the tricorner hat that now adorned his head. "What can I say, KLEO? Something about it just spoke to me. More importantly though, how we going with that door fella's? Surprised you big brutes haven't knocked it in yet."

Pattie gave a grunt of annoyance as he bounced back off of the door for the umpteenth time. "Woulda shot the lock off boss but we didn't want to mess the place up too much... gotta clean this shit up later, you know?"

Hancock chuckled a little at this, though he silently agreed, thinking that the least amount of damage they inflicted the better. This was already traumatic enough for the citizens with the amount of blood and guts splattered about the place; cleaning up that shit would take forever, never mind patching up repairs on a building that someone was surely going to make use of.

The question still presented itself however; how the hell were they supposed to get themselves inside? If push came to shove, Hancock had no reservations about taking the door off of the hinges (it would only take a few twists of a screwdriver after all) but Vic was a consummate coward with a veritable ton of firepower to aim at either doorway, depending on which caved. He definitely wasn't going anywhere anytime soon and Hancock gathered that the instant someone came through either one of those doors, he would unload Holy Hell on their ass. There was no back exit to the Statehouse; they had checked all this shit out before instigating the coup.

Hancock paused for a moment, glancing off to the side as a truly dark thought wormed into his mind from some unrepressed corner of his subconsciousness. He wondered if their present conundrum in fact marked a golden opportunity to really throw the scare into Vic; to make him well and truly fearful for his life before they ripped it out of him. And he knew just the way to do it.

Adrian was making a full-bodied effort at the door and it looked as though he might have gotten through on his own merits; if it hadn't been for the furniture that had been piled up behind it. Reaching through the gap that he had made, Adrian grunted in annoyance as his dabbing hand slapped uselessly at what was most likely the glass lid of the display cabinet.

"Gosh darnitt, he's only gone and barricaded himself in, the spineless chump! Ugh - I can probably still get through though if I push really hard..." He demonstrated by leaning his shoulder against the door and with the support of the others, strained with all his might. Hancock could hear the creaking of the cabinet as it started to move across the floor but he already knew what was going to happen, based on the measurements he had taken previously in the Statehouse and the accurate prediction he had made as to Vic's actions. The furniture hit up against the side of the spiral stairwell and refused to go any further.

"Figured that would happen," Hancock muttered to himself, as the other three men looked completely despondent with their efforts. "If I coulda gotten in there and made rid of the fucking thing I would of... ah well, Plan B it is. Adrian, you're with me, brother."

"And uh... what's Plan B exactly, boss?" Adrian queried, scurrying to keep up with the much shorter man, despite his having the advantage of a considerably longer stride. When Hancock got going, it was easy to forget that he was not exactly a towering colossus such as his personality might have otherwise indicated.

"We're going to get up there in that room with Vic. Right after we scare the ever-loving crap outta him," Hancock said, hoping his smile wasn't too vindictive as he said it. They were all running on an adrenaline high at the moment and though it felt damn good to get their vengeance at last, it wouldn't do to get too carried away.

Still, this was just one little hubris he felt he would grant himself; a personal 'fuck you' to the man who had made the lives of so many a miserable hell, in a world where just drawing breath was hard enough.

He marched back over to where he had left Melanie. Geoff had since departed the mortal coil, though Hancock doubted it had been for very long.

"You done with that?" Hancock asked, reaching out to help Melanie to her feet. She was struggling a little, trembling but looking ultimately satisfied.

"What... that?" She said, still reeling from what had just happened and perhaps wondering what further use Hancock could have derived from a mutilated corpse. "Yeah but... what exactly are you gonna..."

"Thanks darlin'," He replied, giving her a pet on the side of her neck before making his way over to Meyer Scalice, the one of the Nine who had taken it upon himself to enforce a melee weapon in his attacks; a fire axe. This brutality would have him perpetually dubbed as the 'Fireman' for the rest of his days in Goodneighbor and it was a title he was only too keen to take on. (He was next to useless in the event of an actual fire, ironically but he could swing that axe like a sonofabitch).

On this day, he had done more than his fair share of vacillating and hacking and was now enjoying a justly earned cigarette whilst debriefing with some of the locals. Despite his sordid history of antisocialist acts and brooding misanthropy, Meyer had in fact a surprisingly affable nature which was most often observed when speaking to children and beautiful women. (Meaghan Rodriguez being of particular consideration). He had placed the bloodied axe out of sight of the married couple to whom he was currently speaking, sharing his pack of cigarettes with them and patting their shoulders with his usual 'Ah, forged- about- it' routine. Hancock groaned softly to himself as he came in range of the cigarette smoke, dying for a hit himself (of more than just a cigarette mind you) but steadfast in his conviction to not touch anything until the final deed was dealt.

"Hey Meyer, you finished with the axe, brother?" He asked, making good and certain to pat the other man on the back in a comradely gesture. Everyone needed support to get through this and he was a little worried that they were all starting to wind down simply because Vic's henchman had been dealt with. Vic may have been a slovenly old cretin but he was still dangerous; as were all cornered animals.

Meyer turned and gave a lazy little wave, clearly content in his exchange. He was one of the few Ghouls whose eyes had not changed along with the rest of his body and this surprisingly made others feel less comfortable with him than they seemed to be with other Ghouls. They were blue of a very pale type; so bright as to cast an intense contrast with the tanned skin of his face. Hancock could imagine them being just as unsettling when he'd been a Smoothskin, for they had a clear, sharp look about them that brought to mind the jagged rigids of winter frost.

"Yeah boss, she's all yours. Hey, try to keep it clean huh?" He joked, laughing ironically as Hancock hefted the axe up from around the side of the shanty where it had been leaning. The once carefully honed and sharpened blade was now thick with congealed blood and assorted cranial matter, so much so that not even a shine of the original silver could be discerned from amongst the mess.

"Oh, I'll have it back in like new condition," Hancock said, smiling and then touching his fingers to the brim of his hat towards the young couple. This was becoming quite the set gesture, he realized and hoped to God that it didn't look pretentious.

Adrian and Melanie looked to Hancock curiously as he made his way back with the filthy axe over his shoulder and used his foot to roll Geoff over. They looked all the more astonished when, with no warning whatsoever, he drew the axe behind him and then heaved it over his ruined shoulders with as much strength as the surely torn muscle could muster. The blade hit off centre of Geoff's neck, sinking deep into his upper chest with a horrible wet cracking noise; all too much like it would have made if striking a tree.

Adrian drew in a sharp breath to the accompaniment of a rather peculiar sounding yelp; it reminded Hancock of an old bike horn he had found once whilst exploring the ruins with his father. Melanie remained silent, though her eyes widened somewhat and her brow quirked up. Not disapproving so much as curious.

"Um... Hancock, much as I love seeing this dirty old bastard being hacked into pieces... is there any particular point to this? Only that times a wasting and all..."

Hancock sighed, using all the strength he could martial to yank the axe back out of the dead henchman's chest. "You'll see in a second if I can just get the-" His second blow struck gold and he retrieved the blade, with some mild maneuvering and hefted it once more. "-angle right!"

The final blow delivered that which he had intended; separating the head from the remaining grip of the neck. Hancock recalled how books and radio dramas spoke such lines as 'the head separated cleanly from his shoulders'. He can't imagine who might have ever fooled themselves into believing such a thing, for the act had been anything but 'neat' and 'clean'.

Adrian's lips had wrinkled to form a long agitated worm; his black eyes unreadable as always but the lines in his face clearly reflecting his feelings on the subject matter. "Oh man... you are nasty, boss." He enunciated, putting his hands on his hips and taking a few deep breaths. He did his utmost to salvage a joke from the situation, saying shortly after, "If you needed head that badly, I'm sure we could have both shut our eyes and pretended while I got my knees dirty."

Of all things that had transpired that night, it was this comment that turned Melanie's stomach and she elbowed the towering Ghoul in the abdomen so hard that he almost keeled in half. "Oh gross, really? You had to put those sorts of images in my head?"

"Hey, don't ask, don't tell." Adrian remarked, clenching his stomach tightly where she had struck him. Hancock responded with a slight smile as he reached down, winding his fingers through Geoff's hair and lifting the blood encrusted head from the pavement.

"He's never looked better." Melanie noted, though her eyes didn't show a great deal of humor as her remark might have entailed. Someone being dead didn't exactly change what they got away with doing to you in life after all. A good drink at the end of the night might help that but in the meantime...

"You got a grenade left?" Hancock asked, knowing full well that she did. They had decided just before dropping from the rooftops not to use any grenades, as it would possibly endanger innocent, uninvolved civilians.

"Sure," Melanie replied, reaching down and unhooking one of the small, indented orbs from her belt. She passed it to Hancock, who took it with the hand that wasn't currently holding the severed head. "What's the go? You gonna take down the door with that or what?"

Hancock proffered up a mysterious smirk as he made his way towards the entry to the Third Rail, situated directly below the balcony of the Statehouse. The door up there had been left open, he had earlier observed, because Vic had most likely been too arrogant or too stupid to think that anyone could have made their way up there. It would have been difficult for certain but where there was a bunch of angry, messed up drifters to contend with, there was a way.

"Nah, sister. We're gonna give our friend Vic a nice little Christmas present. Being the season of giving and all." Hancock whistled between his teeth, gesturing towards Adrian. The big Ghoul lumbered over, ready for whatever instruction came next. "Need your help, my man. Want ya to hoist me in the air, like I'm a pretty little cheerleader. Reckon you can do that?"

Adrian mulled on this for a moment and then his lips curled up into a roguish smile, cottoning on to what Hancock had planned. "Hey, you got it, boss. Can't make ya pretty mind but I could throw your tiny ass around like you a dame, no sweat."

"Yeah, yeah, just try and resist from grabbing it while you're whipping me around," Hancock quipped, steading his hand on the other mans' shoulder as he moved in close. Adrian went to grab him around the middle but a stout shove sent him reeling back with a confused look. "I said throw me in the air, not grind up on me! We're not on a date, for fucks sake! Just grab me under the foot, hoist me and then catch me when I come down."

"You'll be lucky if I do catch you after that smart remark," Adrian grumbled, though they had known one another long enough to banter as they did without either taking true offense. He knelt on one knee, as though proposing and braced both large hands with fingers intertwined, creating a platform for Hancock to sink his boot into.

Hancock got himself into position, sliding his foot down against Adrian's still bloodied palms and paused there. He jammed the grenade into the mouth of the severed head, pushing it past the teeth with some difficulty (some had to be knocked out to achieve this) and then (as he fought back nausea) lowered his face to Geoff's and used his own teeth to rip out the protruding ring that poked from between the dead mans' lips.

"Now!" He yelled and without further ado, Adrian launched him ceremoniously upwards, as though he were indeed a cheerleader, celebrating the victory of his assigned football team in the days before the Great War. Performing more in the manner of a pitcher than a cheerleader however, Hancock forcefully willed his aching muscles to comply, knowing he had the bare tiniest opportunity to make this work and hurled the severed head as hard as he could through the open balcony door. It sailed through, though only barely, bouncing once, twice before coming to a rest somewhere inside. Before Hancock came plunging back to earth, he saw a shadowy figure highlighted against the far south windows. They must have gotten a good look at the improvised projectile, as it had bounced in right in front of them.

"Merry Christmas, mother fucker!" Hancock yelled, before then whistling downward (almost gracefully) through the air. Adrian was strong enough to have lifted him high enough to reach the edge of the balcony and in spite of his damaged muscles, Hancock knew he would need to act quickly. A thunderous BOOOOM echoed from the room above and wood chips and dust exploded out through the doorway and Hancock smacked Adrian smartly in the chest as he collapsed into his arms, not wanting to waste a second now that he had the idea.

"Throw me up again. I'm gonna climb through the door." He said, raising his voice to be heard over the resounding echo of the explosion. To his credit, Adrian didn't hesitate but as usual, he trusted. He adjusted Hancock so that he was bracing his foot again and then hurled him upward with as much strength as he could surely muster, grunting and almost leaving the ground himself in the effort.

Of course, he could not fling him directly atop the balcony but only so that his hands were flush with it. Hancock snagged his fingers about the rim of the balcony floor, feeling the jagged concrete sinking into the crevices of his fingers as he hung on for dear life. He could hear the voices of the Goodneighbor citizens all echoing as one below him, urging him on, begging him not to fall and hurt himself. It made him feel all the more determined. And it would not be too long before Vic realized that the grenade was merely a flamboyant distraction so that he would not hurry over and stamp the fingers of anyone attempting to climb the balcony.

Hancock could feel his muscles straining and he was more than convinced now that one in his shoulder was torn, for the pain was almost unbearable. It was stupid to have been showing off like that, when preserving his body was the most important thing to ensure that they would emerge victorious from this. Lamenting about what had been done would do no good now though, so he instead focused every ounce of strength on pulling himself up onto the railing. Out in the Wasteland, he had encouraged all the Drifters to do chin ups every day, to develop their upper body strength should they find themselves in a situation like this. Now he was relieved, more than ever, that he had come down hard on this particular exercise. If it had not been for the development of his lats, he would never have been able to pull himself up with such limited leverage.

The railings were constructed of wood and difficult to find purchase on. Hancock was forced to slip his fingers around them as best he could and then clench his core muscles and pull upward with every inch focused on his biceps and deltoids. They strained and burned, especially as they were required to perform the entirety of the work until Hancock was able to bring his hips into alignment with the floor level of the balcony. Sweat was pooling down his face and his adrenaline levels were spiking out of control, sending his heart into a maddening, desperate rhythm as he jabbed his right leg urgently at the stone floor, trying to find enough surface to brace it upon so that he could securely lift with his entire body. He trusted that Adrian would catch him if he fell but he surely could not afford to fail when so many people were depending on him! They had to keep trusting, they needed to see him succeed! And yet... more than that... he needed to succeed. For once in his miserable, wishy washy life he would not fall flat.

After what seemed like a dreadful eternity, Hancock's foot hit the wall and he was able to ground it securely enough to apply some extra pressure through his body. He pushed hard against the wall, using the muscles now in his thighs, back and arms to swing himself upward, almost like a pendulum. It hurt like hell, given the damage he had already done but he bit it down, knowing that Vic was close now. Using one hand at a time he pulled himself further up the railing, alternating his balance with pushes from his core and little hops of his body until long last, he was able to bring his torso up over the railing and clutch it tightly as though it were the last and only life raft of the Titanic.

He could hear the crowd below cheering in support but he didn't allow himself to be carried away with the small success of this (admittedly fucking exhausting) endeavor. 'I can die later', he reassured himself, swinging his body over the railing and collapsing gracelessly onto his ass. He shuffled quickly to the side, anticipating that Vic might have recovered enough from his little 'Christmas gift' to pull a swift response and sure enough, three shots were fired in quick succession in his direction. Hancock used the right-hand wall to shield himself, waiting until he heard the Mayors gun click on empty before he made his move, climbing to his feet and sauntering around the door as though he hadn't a care in the world.

Sure, he was in pain. Sure, he was exhausted, sad and homicidally impatient for a cigarette. But he didn't let a nuance of this show, permitting Vic to see only that which would make his last few moments in this world as miserable and terrifying as possible.

Hancock let him see the anger, the pure uncensored hatred, which would have rent his face unsightly if the radiation Chem had not already done that. Vic had not seen him since before that time and there was no way now that he was able to fathom or indeed recognize who was standing before him.

Perhaps it was the fact that he was only in the process of transitioning into a Ghoul that made him look all the more horrifying and Hancock was happy to use this to his advantage. Vic stared at him in shock; perhaps taking in those dark blue eyes that were speckled with spots of black like a Robins egg. Perhaps revolted by the insidious tears that were running through his cheeks, some still red and sore from the fresh splitting of the wounds. Maybe even drawing a conclusion upon seeing the strands of curly blond hair which had escaped from under the signature tricorn hat; the same hat that he must have seen many a time since passing by it at the lower levels of the Statehouse.

Hancock smirked, thinking that the putrescent bastard looked even uglier than he himself now did. If only for the fact that his very girth was suggestive of the pampered lifestyle in which he indulged at the expense of others. He was big and slovenly, and though Hancock was not the type to judge a person on their appearance, it was difficult not to despise this man for his size, given that the rest of Goodneighbor was starving on fresh air and dying hopes. His narrow eyes were surmounted by thin brows, his chin quivering above the loose knot of his tie. Even the pinstriped suit he wore was a living affront; the only business this man was interested in was sucking the life out of others and living on the bare dregs he had exsanguinated.

He didn't look so composed now; sitting on the floor like a dropped bag of overripe Tato's, legs spread and mouth gaping uselessly. His once clean and proud suit was speckled with blood and hair and every other little piece of god knows what else that had exploded out of Geoff's head when the grenade had gone off. A jagged, smoking hole in the floor, rimmed with splintery wooden teeth and tatters of flesh was all that remained of this little 'gift'. It was clear that the only reason Vic had survived the explosion, was because of the sofa that had rested between himself and the balcony doors. Hancock was no expert in the area of fabric detailing (that was a question for the aforementioned town haberdasher, Meaghan) but he doubted there was a professional in the Commonwealth with skills enough to restore that sofa to its former standard; it looked as though an autopsy had been performed on top of it by a very angry and substandard medical practitioner.

Hancock smiled, sweeping his hat majestically from his near balding head and offering a sanctimonious bow to the current reigning mayor of Goodneighbor. "Hey there, Viccy-boy. Just thought I'd drop in for a little chat. Been a while since we've seen each other." He swept his hat back onto his head with a twirl of his hand, kneeling so that he was eye to eye with the other man. "Guess I look a bit different from the last time you saw me though."

He could see that it was running through Vic's head; that he was still trying to make sense of it all. His lips flapped pointlessly for a moment before finally, that little spark of acknowledgement flared to life in his eyes.

"Jesus fucking Christ... it's you. You of all people!" He laughed then and this was infuriating to Hancock because it was a laugh of relief; as though he had just swanned in and revealed the entire thing to be some elaborate April Fool's joke. "Johnny-boy! Well… look at you in those old duds... playing dress up with the big boys." He continued to laugh in that mocking, demeaning manner as he climbed slowly to his feet, wiping a hand at his knee as though there were some point to cleaning himself off. "Jesus... you... what the fuck have you gone and done to your face, pretty boy? Hope you didn't do that shit just to throw a scare into me because I hate to tell ya-" He looked Hancock up and done and snorted derisively, pressing the hand that held the pistol over the second of his innumerable chins. "Ya wasted your fucking time. Ya look... fuckin' ridiculous, Shortstop."

What would have been his next chuckle was transformed violently into a ferocious exhaust of air as Hancock, face rendered grotesque in his rage, lurched forward, slamming his boot into Vic's chest. He felt a rib snap beneath his assault but this wasn't enough compensation for the pure unfiltered anger the mayor had set to curdling in his veins. His brain was swarmed with a sickening buzzing sound and he could have snapped his teeth for how hard he was grinding them together. What would it take for this asshole to take him seriously? What would it take for anyone to ever take him seriously, to ever be afraid of what he could do to them? Hancock wasn't sure what the formula for people's fear was but he was sure as shit prepared to take a stab at it and see what came out the other side.

Vic's back hit the floor with a thunderous smash and he was left no time to recover before Hancock's foot stamped down onto his face, crushing his cheek and jaw into the wooden boards beneath him. He used his other foot to kick the empty pistol off to the side, where it cluttered aimlessly against the far wall. He had to stand on Vic's face momentarily as he did this, which caused the depraved mayor to shriek as Hancock's entire weight balanced on the rise of his cheek bone.

"Lucky for you I'm short, otherwise that might have hurt a hell of a lot more." The soon to be Ghoul hissed, leaning his entire body weight down into the leg which kept Vic pinned. "You know, I hate that fucking name. Shortstop, Shortstop, Shortstop. All this shit just to keep people down, keep 'em in their place. All of that ends now, Vic."

He reached down, grabbing Vic by the collar and yanking him up onto his knees, bringing his foot back now to strike the man square in the ass as he pushed him out in front of him. "Get your ass down those stairs. NOW!"

Vic burbled incomprehensively, clutching one hand to his cheek, which now bore a dirtied and bloodied print of Hancock's boot. He struggled to remain standing as Hancock liberally hurled him towards the spiral staircase, clearly intending to send him hurtling down them to the ground floor.

"Wait, wait!" He pleaded, crying out as Hancock knocked his fedora from his head and grabbed a handful of his hair, using this now to compel him forward. "I get that you're pissed off... but if you want a better deal for yourself, I can make that happen! I mean, that's what this is all about, right? Being in charge?"

They stood by the railing to the spiral stairwell now, poised distinctly on the edge of so many things. Hancock released his hold on Vic's hair, pushing him so that both his shoulders smacked into the wooden railing. Vic gasped slightly, angling his weight forward in an attempt at not losing his balance. Given the choice however, he would have much preferred to tip over backwards than move any closer to where Hancock was standing, glaring at him with what could only be described as an expression of utter revulsion.

"The fact that you could even think that we could ever want the same things makes me sick to my fucking stomach," He hissed, voice lowering to that dangerous, animal like susurration that seemed to come directly from some dark place within his chest. "You can't buy your way out of what you've done to us." He leaned in, face so close to Vic's that the mayor could plainly see the bloodied line running through the base of his nose. He imagined he could even smell the rot of the cartilage as it deteriorated second by the second. "The guy whose head we just threw in here, with a grenade in its mouth? That was Geoff. You know what you let that guy and all the rest of your goons do? 'Cause I remember. I remember being tied naked to a pole in the center square, feeling every little jolt as a few of them took their turns with Mel." He felt all the more disgusted to see that the fearful expression on Vic's face had nothing to do with this information. The only feeling this asshole had was for himself. "We could feel it... every time one of your bastard rats hurt her. Adrian and I... we begged 'em... we begged 'em and we cried and promised 'em every cap in our pockets if they'd just leave her alone. We were so scared. We were fucking ashamed." He reached over, pinching his hand around Vic's mouth, squeezing as hard as he could, digging his nails in so that the first layer of flesh was penetrated. "You didn't give a shit. Because the folks you're supposed to protect are expendable to you. There's nothing you can offer except dying like the dog you are."

Hancock relished the look of utter fear on Vic's face as he pushed forward with all his might, tipping the fat tub of lard backwards and over the railing. Half of it snapped and went with him but this small repair job was worth every future second of sweat popping labor; all for hearing the shriek and resounding crash as Vic tumbled backwards into the stairwell and rolled spectacularly down to the ground floor. Hancock smirked slightly to himself, thinking the big oaf looked like a gore colored bowling ball as he tumbled over and over. He vaulted the railing and followed him down, adding an extra kick of encouragement when he got caught in the curve of one of the corners.

Vic cried out as he hit the ground floor, rolling onto his stomach and clutching his chest, undoubtedly where his rib was snapped through. Hancock used this distraction to make his way over to the street side door, grasping the edge of the display case and pushing it off to the side. The door caved immediately, slamming open and crashing against the corner of the case. Pattie, Jack and Rob exploded through the gap, falling over each other in their efforts to get inside. They got a bit of a shock to see Hancock staring back at them, who gave a little wave of the hand as though greeting house guests over for afternoon tea.

"Glad you could make it, boys. Having us quite the party in here." He said, using his boot to shove the display case as far off to the side as possible before returning to where Vic lay curled on the floor. The mayor saw him coming and tried to struggle up, earning a hard kick directly in the groin for his efforts. A thin white fluid came burbling up out of his mouth, dripping onto his chin as he collapsed in on himself like a pill bug. Hancock showed not the least pity as he grabbed the floundering man by the collar, pulling him along behind him like a much begrudged bag of luggage. He tugged him down the concrete stairs and tossed him unceremoniously onto the pavement below, where a number of members of the community were gathered around, having seen the boys bust on in through the door.

"Apologize to them," Hancock said, his voice like cold steel as he stood in the doorway of the Old Statehouse, cast in shadow by the light which struck his silhouette from inside.

Vic managed to lift his head to look back over his shoulder, eyes bulging hysterically in his puce colored face. "What? What are you talking about?!"

"TELL THEM YOU'RE SORRY!" Hancock roared, for the very first time that night relinquishing control of his temper. It must have been the right time to do so because everyone looked the more emboldened by it. They tightened their circle around Vic, gaining some much deserved courage from Hancock's outburst. "Tell them you're sorry, for every rotten, no good, evil thing you've done to them. For everything you let happen to them!"

Vic struggled with what to say to this, swiping his hand at his chin to try and tidy himself up to some meagre degree. His eyes narrowed in, recognizing the anger and how to deal with this. It seemed to render him the more defiant, as opposed to cow towing him into submission and he glared at Hancock with the reproach of a dog that was prepared to circle around and bite when least expected.

"Kiss my ass, boy. You ain't getting nothin' outta me." He spat a mouthful of vomitus fluid to the ground by the stairs, as close as he could get to where Hancock stood.

A deafening crack echoed along the crowded streetway and Vic at long last lost his cheek and started to scream, staring in horror at the bloodied, mangled remains of his left foot; protruding from beneath the sleeper that Adrian had smashed down over his ankle. There had been no holding back this time, Hancock knew. The look on his companions face was compounded fury, fashioned beyond moral limitations. Both massive hands were clutched around the concrete slab, so it had to have come thundering down at full force.

"Don't you fucking spit at him," Adrian snarled, his voice shaking with a cold, yet succinct anger. He raised the sleeper; holding it up above Vic's body as though fully intending to bring it down once more. "He's gone done more for us than you ever did, ya dirty prick! He's worth five a' ya!"

Vic continued to scream for some time, pausing only to draw further breath to beseech Gods he no doubt didn't believe in to help him. His screams only worsened when he saw Melanie now approach him from around Adrian's towering frame, a smiling visage of pure sensual happiness in comparison to her companions radiating fury. She balanced the tip of a knife against her finger; thickly encrusted with blood and who knows what else as she raised her foot and brought it mercilessly down on Vic's shattered limb. She smiled more widely and with deeper satisfaction as she wrought further screams from him, twisting her foot from side to side as though squashing a bug.

"Come on, Vic. Surely you didn't think you could just go on hurting people without making them want to hurt you back?" She purred, cocking her head in a fake sympathetic gesture. "It's sickening, isn't it? Feeling this helpless... suffering with no one to help you? Well... now you know a little about what you put the rest of us through."

She dropped down onto the ground, mounting Vic's body, one leg to either side of him. His eyes were focused on the knife, gasping for breath, face trembling as Melanie trailed the blade over the palm of her hand before then holding it out in front of his eyes.

"Can you guess blood shit is all over this knife, Vic?" She whispered, eyes half lidded, a small smile lifting the corners of her lips. She looked almost angelic in her pleasure, if not for the dark act she was perpetuating. "Belongs to your boy: Geoff. He didn't like pain very much either." She tapped the blade against Vic's lips, leaving a stain in the white froth still encircling his mouth. "No one does. None of us did. None of us did!"

She leaned back, slapping the side of Vic's face with the knife, cutting a shallow semi-circle in his flesh. The surrounding drifters broke their silence now and joined together in a roiling, hungry tide of support; screaming out a myriad of suggestions for how Vic should best be tortured. One girl who had also been victimized by the Mayors goon squad, yelled out for Melanie to castrate him. Rob went one further, saying they should cut off his limbs one at a time. The suggestions only worsened from that point onward.

"Don't... please, don't do it!" Vic begged, his eyes sweeping the ravenous crowd for a sympathetic face and spying not a one; for not a single person had been spared the torment that he had inflicted upon them. Not one family left untouched, not one girl left with the preservation of her innocence, not one man spared the crushing of his dignity at some juncture.

So, he turned then, to the only person he knew now could corral the virulent desires of the vastly swelling mob. Tears streamed down his face, mixing in with the blood coursing from his wound as he sought out Hancock, who had not moved from the doorway, arms crossed and silently observing.

"Shortstop, please!" He screamed, reaching out one shaking hand from the pavement, imploring the young man whom he had not so long ago mocked tenaciously. "Please tell them to stop! Make her put the knife away and I'll give you anything you want! Please!"

Hancock, his lips pressed together tightly, stood as still and unswaying as a mountain rising from a tumultuous ocean. Calm though he appeared on the outside, his chest swirled with contrary feelings about how the situation was transpiring before him. He was after all not immune to the contagion of violence that was sweeping through the populace; as potent as a fast-moving plague and just as destructive. 'What's happening to us?' He wondered, tilting his head only slightly so as to look at the group gathered around Vic, trying to pinpoint what it was exactly that didn't sit quite right. 'They look like a bunch of mongrel dogs gathered around a wounded Brahmin', he thought to himself and it clicked suddenly then just what was so wrong with this situation.

We've been so damn used to being the prey for so long that we have no idea as to what to do with power, he realized and felt a little sick for how easily they had all succumbed to this despicable pack mentality. There was no honor in this; nothing to be proven by attacking one man on masse, other than to validate the manner in which this piece of shit had lived his entire life.

Hancock turned his eyes back to Vic, narrowed them and called, "If I were you, I'd get to apologizing quick smart before Mel turns up the heat on your ass."

"Fine, fine! I apologize! You hear me, I fucking apologize!"

Hancock looked to Melanie and made a slight, almost imperceptible gesture with his head. She complied immediately by pinning Vic's hand down by the wrist and moving the knife to his pinkie finger. Vic tried to throw her off and would have succeeded if Adrian had not stepped in and applied his foot to the Mayors upper arm. Vic squealed like a dying animal as Melanie dug the knife into the plump flesh of his finger. It didn't look like it was going to happen quickly, so Hancock started talking again, figuring it was enough of a message for Vic to rethink his response.

"Look what you've gone and done now, Vic." He drawled, with a tone that conveyed genuine sadness for the other mans' plight. "Melanie's gotten all worked up because you couldn't even do the decent thing and apologize properly."

When Vic could speak again, he called out in a voice thick with tears, "I don't... I don't understand! I told you I'm sorry, what more do you want me to do, you mother fucker?!"

He screamed again, as Adrian pressed his foot down harder and harder against his arm. Hancock sighed, tilting his head with brows furrowed sympathetically.

"Now, that isn't very nice, Vic. What your Mom and I get up to in our spare time is kind of private you know." He chuckled to himself and offered a little wink. "Tell ya what though; you both squeal the same way when someone's given' it to ya."

Vic screamed out in frustrated rage as much as pain, slapping at Adrian's toned leg with his free hand and then digging at it, flailing in a fitful dance that represented a pain too great for any significant endurance. Hancock watched for only a moment longer, before then whistling from the corner of his mouth. He wondered how long he might be able to do this, considering how the Ghoulification was caving in his lips; causing them to feel stiffer and less pliable by the day.

Adrian got the hint from one look at his comrades' face and reached down, taking a gentle hold of Melanie by the shoulder, halting her in her infuriated efforts. She looked at him furiously and then turned to Hancock, her brows dropping dramatically, eyes gravid with that deep sadness she had spent so many months trying to conceal.

"Please..." She whispered, an entreaty that held so much more sway over Hancock than any of the putrescent squeals of the man pinned beneath her. "You know how much they did to me... you know. Please..."

Hancock went to her, lowering his arms and lifting her from the mutilated mans' tumescent form, pulling her to her feet. She started to cry then, falling against him, fists banging on the backs of his shoulders as he half held and half carried her over to where the other members of the Nine stood.

"I know, baby... shhhh," He did his best to soothe her, knowing that what had been done to her could never be remedied by what he had almost permitted her to do but wishing he had let her take her revenge anyway. If anyone deserved to be tortured, it was Vic. The rub of it of course was that Vic would eventually die and then Melanie would be forced to go on, living with the eternal mental damage that could not be avoided from such depraved acts of violence against another human being. Hancock had set out to keep as many of the drifters' safe from harm and that was a responsibility that he fully intended to keep; including harm they might have inadvertently caused to themselves.

"You don't... understand..." Melanie was sobbing as he hauled her over to where the other Nine were waiting. He made sure they had a firm hold of her shoulders, for she would surely break free and return to exact more against Vic if she had the opportunity. "You don't know what it was like... so many days, so many nights... I never felt clean, Hancock! They didn't give me time between showers, just kept me filling up with their disgusting..." She broke down with an angry scream, pulling her arms back and forth in a desperate attempt to free herself from the others hold. "I had to keep going to the doctor... had to keep getting rid of them. Over and over and over and over again! For so many fucking years until every bit inside of me was broken! He let them do it to me, Hancock! He deserves to die! I wanna kill him! I wanna make him feel just a tiny bit of what he put me through, please!"

Hancock turned and cupped his hands around her face, pulling her back up roughly in this hold and giving her a firm shake to shock her back to being calm. "I know you do and he fucking deserves it ten times over and more besides that. But you know what? We ain't gonna be like him, you got it?" He pointed over his shoulder at Vic's curled, quivering form. "And you know why? Because we're better than him. We're not gonna let how we feel about him justify our behaving like monsters too. The minute we start smiling when we cause pain, that's the minute we've gone too far."

He held her for a moment longer, making good and certain that she was as calm as she was likely to be before returning to Vic's side. He unhooked the shotgun from around his chest and held it loosely in his left hand, tapping the barrel to the palm of his right.

"Now let's try this one more time Vic and do try and be sensible about it, please," He said, watching the Mayor snivel like a school child on the losing end of a yard fight. "If you're gonna apologize for the shit you've done, you gotta be more specific. Try apologizing first to the young lady who was just trying to take your finger off."

Vic looked over at Melanie, his expression suggesting that he would much prefer to drink water from the public outhouse than apologize to her but the look she gave him back seemed to convince him that it was indeed in his best interests.

"I'm… I'm sorry!" He whimpered, clutching his injured arm to his chest, trying to move but unable to on account of his leg. "I'm sorry for everything that happened to you... I'm sorry for everything I let happen to you."

"And what exactly did you let happen to her?" Hancock whispered dangerously, bracing the barrel of the gun and sliding his finger against the trigger. Vic's eyes widened and he blubbered almost incomprehensively as Hancock raised the gun to eye level.

"NO! No please! I'm sorry I let my men abuse her, I'm sorry I let them… fuck her!" He seemed then to cotton on to what Hancock was requesting and with a desperate glance around the crowd, he started rounding off. "I'm sorry I let all of you be used like that! I'm sorry I took your food, your money! I'm sorry I kept you out in the streets in the cold! I'm sorry for the beatings, for everything!"

"What about Thomas?" Hancock snarled, the black spots in his eyes seeming to expand and contract with the anger resonating in his veins. Vic looked dumbfounded for a moment, his own eyes darting back and forth as though looking for an explanation in any of the stone pavers of the Statehouse wall.

"Thomas... I don't... I don't know who this Thomas i-"

With one hand grasping the barrel of the shotgun, Hancock lurched forward, swinging the stock so hard against Vic's jaw he heard the bone crunch on impact. He was screaming again now but Hancock was beyond caring, slamming one foot down on the mayors' chest, pressing the twin barrels of the gun against his sweat streaked forehead.

"Of course, you don't!" He yelled, forcing his voice higher so as to be heard over the other mans' screams. "All these people who needed your help, who you should have made the time to get to know and you can't even remember any of our names, not even to- Oh would you quit blubbering already?!" He struck Vic in the forehead with the barrel of the gun, as a means to provide some incentive. "I'll tell you who Thomas was, you piece of shit. He was the only one in this town with the balls to stand up to you and your fucking goon squad and you know what they did to him? Beat him until his ribs caved in and his neck was broken. Left him there to die on the street right in front of the rest of us. Right about where we're standing, matter a fact."

Hancock leaned in closer now, making good and certain that Vic met his eyes so as to see the conviction there.

"Thomas was our friend." He said and for the very first time that night, a quaver of tender emotion entered his voice. "And if we can't have him back, then we'll take your neck in payment." He straightened up and called over to the assembled Nine. "You got that rope, Meyer?"

The plan had not changed from the moment of its conception, of course. Though things had gotten a little out of hand, the plan had always been to execute Vic by hanging him from the Statehouse balcony, like the criminals in the days of old. Snapping his neck at the same time would take on some ironic pleasure, given Thomas's cruel death and hey, if his neck didn't break, plenty of people would be happy to hang from his feet.

Meyer, looking a little disappointed that the tormenting of Vic hadn't lasted longer, nonetheless tossed over the rope he had looped around his shoulder without hesitation. Hancock caught it one handed and unwound the length, holding out the somewhat sloppily tied noose they had made in it earlier that night. Each of the Nine had cut their hands and clutched the noose to their palms, leaving their blood wended through the fibers that would soon be yanked taut about Vic's neck. They had left one space clear; where Thomas's hand might otherwise have been.

Vic sobbed, struggling to move away as Hancock grabbed his scruff and yanked the noose around his neck, tightening the loops so that the coil pulled snug against his gullet. Vic yanked futilely, leaving streaks of blood against his throat from his nearly severed finger.

"No... please!" He croaked, face already turning red from the exertion to his jugular. "I apologized, just like you asked!"

Hancock yanked the end of the rope, bringing the blubbering man up onto his rump so that they were nose to nose. He couldn't think who the uglier sight was really; Vic a bloodied dribbling mess, face congealed with vomit and snot, or himself; skin puckered and rotting, lips curling, eyes black and resonate with loathing.

"I never said that meant you got to live, ya miserable bastard." He hissed, reaching down to grab the coil around Vic's gorge, tugging it tighter still until red veins started to bulge in the Mayors straining, milky eyes. "And it's Hancock now, shit heel."

Vic shrieked as Hancock wrenched the rope with all his might, pulling the hysterical man face first onto the ground. Pattie and Ryan immediately surged forward to assist, grasping the trailing length of the rope as Adrian swept Vic's legs off of the ground. Working together, the four men consecutively dragged and lugged their struggling victim back inside of the Statehouse, not a one of them concerned with gentle handling. Vic's head and upper back banged the stairwell a number of times, though any pain he might have felt from these minor collisions had faded in the overpowering tide of fear that had undoubtedly flooded his mind and body. He screamed for mercy the entire irritating struggle back up the stairs, kicking and bucking like a cat caught in a bag. For every defiant twist of his body, Adrian responded in turn by rotating Vic's broken foot to the side, causing the splintered bones to crunch together with a sound not unlike that of dried twigs snapping. The pain did little to deter the Mayor from his repeated attempts to escape and by the time they had reached the second story, he was reduced to little more than weeping, listless pleas; exhausted and as limply compliant as an old sock.

Hancock took the main length of rope from Ryan and Pattie and made his way over to the balcony door, ensuring that it was securely propped open with two chairs that had been perched against the wall. He didn't want to risk Vic grabbing hold of the door jam when they got him out here. He could see the crowd stirring below, responding to his appearance on the balcony but he didn't acknowledge them at this time; intensely focused on what still needed to be done.

Working silently, he tied the rope around the stone railing as securely as he was able. His father had taught him how to tie a few knots when he'd been a lad and he could remember a few that he was certain would be secure enough to hold a grown mans' weight. A big fat prick like this though? He could only hope the fibers wouldn't fray and give out underneath his blubbery ass or he'd crush the folks down below.

Hancock gave the ties a few hard tugs, convinced that it was secure enough to do the trick. He turned back to his fellow drifters, who held Vic suspended above the ground as though he were a child playing make believe Vertibird with his father and gestured with a nod of his head.

"Get his big ass over here and let's finish this, brothers."

Vic's eyes bulged and he renewed his struggles against his tireless captors; screaming 'NO! NO!' as he wrenched his shoulders from side to side. He had little hope of overpowering such a vengeance bound throng, however. These men, for one night had the adrenal glands of Olympian Gods. Their mind and bodies hardened and made all the stronger for their constant exposure and saturation to the choking toxins of the corrupted town and its ghastly overseers.

The mayor realized then, only far too late, that he himself had been the true instrument of his own demise; for the will of the oppressed cannot be broken, only made all the more durable with each new scar you lay upon it. And these men... their will now was indestructible.

They dragged him to the railing, pushing his back against it. Hancock lifted Vic's legs so that he lay as stiff as a plank upon the wooden balustrade. At some point in his transition up the stairwell, Vic had lost control of his bladder; the front of his pinstriped trousers were dark and he reeked of urine. None of them felt the need to mention it or in fact use it as a means of humiliating the man further. Instead, Hancock clutched the band of rope about Vic's neck, keeping him from tipping backwards to his death. He leaned close.

"You took everything from us, you fucking parasite. You made us afraid to go to sleep at night and even more afraid to wake up in the morning. Every liberty we had, you took." He gave a smile that was all the more crooked for the half of his lip that was drooping and pushed Vic back further, until the man's body poised diagonally on the lip of the railing, his head pointed towards the concrete below. "Well... now, we're going to take your last little liberty in this world Vic; your right to your miserable fucking life."

"No, please!" Vic screamed, both hands clutching at Hancock's as though this contact itself might inspire mercy on the Ghoul's part. "Please, I don't want to die!"

Hancock's eyes narrowed. "You had more than enough time to figure that out, you bastard. Go to Hell." And what was lost in poetry was certainly achieved in motion, as Hancock released his grip on Vic's neck and kicked the Mayors dangling legs from around the railing in one fell swoop. Vic's eyes held the same expression, unchanging as he dropped, tears still clinging to his lashes which were snapped violently away as the rope pulled taught about his neck, cracking his legs down and around beneath him like a pendulum swinging in the bowels of an irate Grandfather clock.

The snapping of his neck had not been as loud nor as dramatic as Hancock predicted. Surprisingly, it reminded him more of the sound a pair of scissor blades made when coming together, only greatly enhanced. He could not remember if Thomas's neck had made the same sound when the goon squad attacked him but he supposed that he had been so terrified at the time, it was a wonder he could remember anything of that night at all.

Now however, he felt an irrevocable sense of calm sweep through him, watching Vic's body swing almost leisurely back and forth above the blurred faces of the crowd below.

It was finished...

Hancock wasn't so young or naïve as to presume that what came next would be easy but it had to have been better than what came before. Few could debate that. If he could have any small say in the matter, he would do his utmost to ensure that whoever stepped up to the plate next was worthy of the mantel. No more exploitation of those that were weaker, no maltreatment of women, children or men. No more freezing out in the cold and scrimping and scraping just for some asshole to come and snatch whatever small thing you had right out of your hands.

Hancock sighed deeply, trying to keep a steady breath but it quavered a little. He swung his gun down from around his chest and checked it over, snapping the chamber open to examine the cartridges even though he knew that it was loaded already. He just... needed to do something for a minute. Make certain that no one saw that his hands were still trembling. What these folks needed now, more than ever, was some reassurance, some conviction. Not some spoon-fed Diamond City boy shaking like a leaf in his costumed boots.

When he finally looked up, he realized that everyone down below was staring at him. Their eyes held an anticipatory hope; as though he were Father Christmas himself, having just tumbled from his sleigh in the sky to alight upon their rooftops with toys and Chems aplenty. Turning to Adrian, Ryan and Pattie only confirmed what he had been somewhat dreading; their eyes entreated him to take that next step and guide them forward. They had made no plan beyond Vic's execution and now the man himself was swinging like some lurid ornament below them, they were without direction as to how to proceed.

Hancock supposed it made sense; after all, he was the one who had pulled, poked and prodded them through their training in the Ruins for all those months leading up to this day. They hadn't spoken about who might take over the role of mayor after Vic was dead (Hancock just kind of assumed that most of the big players in the town would sit down and work that out amongst themselves) but from the way everyone was looking at him, it was plainly obvious that they assumed he had acted out of a desire to claim the tarnished crown for himself.

Maybe it was the fact that he was wearing Hancock's duds which made him stand out but he certainly hadn't donned them with the express purpose of gathering votes. Just thinking about acting in the role of a politician, no matter how menial, reminded him too much of Diamond City and all the bad memories there. He'd come to Goodneighbor to get away from all that shit and now these poor folks probably thought that he was just another tyrant who wanted to rule the roost and take advantage of them.

"Listen..." He said, voice far too soft to really be heard from where he was standing. The acoustics of that vantage point worked well however and since everyone was quiet, he really didn't have to speak loudly at all. He cleared his throat and tried again. "I can see you all lookin' at me and I... look, I didn't do this cause I wanna be in charge... you know? I'm happy so long as that asshole's down there swingin' like a Salami." A wave of laughter went through the crowd at this, which surprised Hancock, given the morbidity of the situation. He felt a surge of warmth, buoyed by the feeling of acceptance he received from the gathered masses. "You guys... you're the ones who gotta pick who you want runnin' this joint."

"It should be you, Hancock." A voice piped up from behind him and Hancock turned to see Adrian looking a little surprised at his own nerve. Seeing that he had gone so far already though, the Ghoul decided to continue and added, "All us guys, we'll follow you all the way. You know that."

"Yeah," Pattie agreed, looking just as firm in his support as Adrian did. The young spotty faced boy, usually too shy to speak, had never looked more the convinced of anything in his life. "We'll help you whip this town into shape. 'Sides, you got the right idea about what the people want anyhow's."

Hancock felt a strange little lump rise in his throat; a feeling of being both touched and terrified in the same moment. "You guys have lost your senses. I wouldn't even know where to begin… I ain't no fucking leader."

"Hey, you know that guy, Plato, boss?" Adrian asked, cocking his head to the side in a rather smarmy manner. He was always proud whenever he could make use of one of the old books he had in his collection. "He said somethin' that makes a lotta sense ta me... 'Them folks who want power... shouldn't get it'. Makes me think that if a fella don't want any power, he's gotta be right for havin' it."

Ryan raised a brow skeptically, looking at Adrian from the corner of his eye. "That's an exact quote is it, brother?"

"Word for fuckin' word." Adrian said nodding seriously. "What it means, I think, is that someone as moral as you, boss, you can make the good stuff happen. You listen to people, so you'll know what makes them happy. I mean," He moved closer to Ryan and Pattie so they were shoulder to shoulder, clad in their matching suits which made them look slightly gangster and yet touchingly like a family united in common cause. "Ya pulled a bunch of ratbags like us outta the gutter and look where we are now. We took on some of the biggest meanest sons of guns in the Commonwealth and not a single one of us is pushin' up them daisies. Ya even got us nice matchin' threads to wear and all!"

Pattie joined in the nodding now, looking all the more convinced by Adrian's sentimental yet heartfelt concession. "You know, he ain't wrong, boss. Never woulda gotten this far if you ain't led us here by the stirrups."

"Yeah, them pigeons down there know it too," Ryan added, gesturing with his gun towards the balcony as though any further clarification was required in identifying who 'they' were. "Won't say too much about dressing us all in matching outfits... I mean, what are we, ya fucking Grandkids?"

Hancock laughed at this, looking down so that they couldn't see just how touched he was by their support. If he had it in him to shed any more tears he might have done so but he was done with crying for a good long while now and wasn't sure if he would be revisiting the practice anytime soon. After all, if a guy was supposed to lead a town full of damaged, troubled, messed up people, you didn't have the luxury of going to water and putting them off now did you?

When he was certain he was composed, he looked out over the gathering below, searching out that one distinct, discriminating face which might cast doubt over the seed of confidence sprouting inside of him. He found Daisy amidst the throng and she was smiling like a proud mother, wiping tears of relief from her face. So many of them seemed to be doing that; how sad it was for people to be so happy to see someone killed. But how brutal Vic had to have been to have driven an entire populace to such despair that now, only minutes after his death, they stood staring up at some gormless drift in from Diamond City, beseeching him to take the wheel and steer them towards... anything. For anything had to have been better than what they had been forced to live by for all these years.

Hancock picked Melanie's face out of the crowd; saw her relaxed and smoking and for the first time in a long time without a single line or wrinkle in her face. There was no fear anymore; for there was no one living in this town who would ever be able to lay a hand on her again. Meyer gave a little salute in support, his axe resting over one shoulder and none other than Meaghan Rodriguez smiling receptively from the awning of the other.

Those that did not look altogether pleased about this little development, were of course the expected detractors. Marowski, from the Hotel Rexford being one. He had made a nice, supple living from the indulgent lifestyles of Vic and his goons and didn't look the least appreciative for having a bunch of dirty drifters roil on in and killed everyone with a thick lining of cap in their pockets.

Marowski wasn't stupid enough to take sides when the killing started however; as usual, he remained on the sidelines to see who might survive the skirmish, so as to offer his allegiances appropriately. This was most definitely not the result that he had banked (or hoped) on and his was the only real face in the crowd that expressed so much as a hint of dissatisfaction. Everyone else looked fit to burst; ready to party like it was an Indian wedding (another little titbit of random information Adrian found in one of his books).

Hancock glanced up towards the sky and let go of his breath, seeing for the first time that night the fog to which his exhalation transformed. Would have been nice for there to have been snow... blood would have been easier to have cleaned up when it melted and flowed down the drain.

He wondered a lot of things in that moment; would he be doing this for the right reasons? Would his Pop approve if he had still been alive to see it? Would his mother care, more than she would care that he had taken a drug that was slowly destroying his once handsome features? Would he make a difference? Could he make these people's lives bearable, livable, peaceful and free? Was he in any position to try and guide an entire town and make decisions on its behalf when his own life was so fraught with indecisiveness, irresponsibility and doubt? When the hell was he going to be able to put all this crap to bed and have a goddamn smoke?

But then, he thought, blinking what remained of his eyelashes against the stinging probes of the night air. I have a good heart. And maybe at the end of the day, that's all these people need. At least for a little while.

He smiled to himself, musing on life's little ironies and where they took you without your ever even knowing your direction had changed. To think that someone like Vic, a man who had founded this town and fashioned it to his own desires, could be so blind as to what it was that his people needed, so as to neglect them and inadvertently nurse a budding hatred that would ultimately culminate in his own assassination. And how he, a runaway scamp from Diamond City, could be so much closer to the hearts of these people. Such that they were now gathered before him, willing to give their loyalty and support because they trusted that he would give them what they needed in turn.

Hancock felt something shift inside of him; something so profoundly deep and powerful, he knew it would change him as a man forever. For a decision is first and foremost made in the rock-hard foundations of your constitution and once engraved there, it is impossible to erase from the core of your being. He felt at once both stronger and heavier, for the responsibility before him was gargantuan and it cast an impressive shadow over his mind. This town needed a resilient support structure and more than that; it needed someone who understood it.

And suddenly, the words had formed inside of him, though he could hardly fathom from where they might have come. A crazy little part of himself wondered if he might have been channeling the long dead spirit of John Hancock himself because he honestly could not believe that such powerful words could be formed in his mind without some manner of divine influence. Whatever the root of their conception however, he somehow knew that these words held power and that in speaking them, the hearts of the weary and the wounded would be reassured.

And so, having made the decision without having made it, John Hancock turned on his heel and stepped back inside the Statehouse. From the top of the credenza, there was a flag folded up inside of a glass tricorn case. He smashed it open, ripped the flag free and brought it outside to where the citizens of Goodneighbor could plainly see it. With a lavish flick of his wrist, he whipped the flag out to its full impressive length and then allowed it to slowly drift and settle over the Statehouse's stone railing. It covered the knotted base of the rope that held the still swaying body of Vic but no one paid attention to such things; it was plain that the flag represented their liberty from his oppression and once he had been taken down and disposed of, the flag and its message would be what remained of this long night.

Hancock waited until the fabric had settled into place and gave it a few tugs so that it sat just right before leaning both arms on it, looking out over the faces below and wondering just how many more times down the track he would find himself saying these words:

"Of the people, for the people!"

They were the words that heralded the coming of a new age and at long last, the once beaten masses of Goodneighbor were loud and they were joyous. Knowing that someone would take the responsibility of watching over them, gave just cause to relax and to fully celebrate their long awaited and much deserved freedom.

One hell of a Christmas Eve, Hancock thought, tilting back his head to take in the overcast sky, finally allowing himself to feel the cold as it wrapped itself around his withering cheeks. He stood straight and tall in the eyes of the wounded citizens below, reassuring in his unswayable and irreproachable strength. The terrible crushing pressure in their hearts and minds seemed to lift as one, hopeful in the promise of this righteous and grounded man. They celebrated long into the night; the joyous sounds of their liberation audible for miles around.

Later that night, Hancock took himself to where no one could see him.

He vomited.

He wept with a relief that was physically crippling.

He prayed for the strength of his convictions.

And waited for his hands to stop trembling.

-EC -

A/N: A fair post-warning, as I'm sure you can already appreciate, there are some very mature themes in this story, which may provoke some strong feelings, reactions and triggers. As mentioned at the very beginning, if you are affected by any of these themes, please speak with someone you trust and do not hesitate to seek professional support if required. I myself work in the area of mental health and while I do not advocate my services as a professional in this domain, I am always willing and happy to speak with anyone about this story and any feelings, good or bad that it might evoke. You can reach me at my email anytime.

Okay, now that that stuff is out of the way, a few little notes about the above chapter that I'm sure some you are already probably railing about!

1.) The Date: McDonough threw the Ghouls out of Diamond City in 2282, after which (Spoiler alert!) his brother John McDonough (aka Hancock) cut ties with him and stormed off to Goodneighbor to live the charmed life of being regularly robbed, molested and basically shat on every single day. Now, when first meeting Hancock, he tells the Lone Survivor that he came to the town approximately 10 years ago. The Lone Survivor awakes in the year 2287 (Someone correct me if I'm wrong), which would mean that only five years have passed? Uncertain if I'm just being incredibly stupid and missing something... could be that Hancock just takes way too many chems and doesn't know how to count anymore but hey. So, I took some creative liberty and made the date of the Coup against Vic 2278. Once again, I could just have made some really idiotic misinterpretation... feel free to point it out to me (gently, now!) and I can amend it. However, that is the reason why the date does not line up with the Fallout 4 timeline.

2.) Hancock's height: In the original version of this fanfic, I had Hancock clock in at five foot ten and three-quarter inches. (Yes, it's very exact!) I have since had a very strong change of heart regards this and plan to amend his height in both this and the original story, itself. I would consider Hancock to be approximately five foot eight to five foot nine. Somewhere in the middle road, there. It's not a huge alteration from what I had previously but one I felt I wanted to make regardless. Hey, you can still be a shorty and kick some serious butt.

3.) The Nine: It stands to reason that some of the members of the Neighborhood Watch were involved directly in the coup all those years ago. Most likely not all of them, as the town has grown in that time but a good chunk I would at least assume. The original nine would have included Melanie (Who is, spoiler alert: Fahrenheit) Adrian and Hancock. Exempting Adrian, who I have made to dwarf the other characters, the Neighborhood Watch are all based off the character designs they have in game. I just gave them some uh... gangster names.

4.) The uh... kind of rude allusions to Vic's weight: Yeah okay, they were flat out rude. Now, neither I, nor fictional Hancock I'm sure, would ever make fun of or demean anyone for their weight. Only Vic the dick gets that sort of crap and that's only because everyone else in Goodneighbor was emaciated because he was eating all their 'effing food! His weight was directly offensive to everyone else because they were all a bunch of hangry little skeletons and he and his guards were starving them so they could get plump. Which I imagine is probably hard to do on a diet of Commonwealth food but apparently not impossible. So, my darlings, no offense meant and believe you me, I've got a chunky butt myself so I'm certainly not judging!

5.) How Hancock became Mayor: It does say in the game that he is 'The self-appointed Mayor' and that this was 'accepted by everyone'. The way I look at it, just from my interpretation of Hancock's character, is that he is not the kind of individual who has the arrogance to assume that he would be the best thing for the town and I can't see him jumping up and down and screaming for the chance to be mayor. Given that he sees himself as a man 'of the people' I feel that he would have assumed the mantle, if he most honestly felt that this is genuinely what the folks of Goodneighbor wanted. That to me would be more in his character than just puffing his chest out and parading around the Statehouse balcony like a big decrepit Peacock. But then again, who knows? He may very well have been a precocious little burke when he was younger and I'm just giving him too much credit.

6.) Of the people, for the people: Just so folks don't take me to be an unread silly-head, I just wanted to add that even though Hancock didn't know where the words came from originally, I do. It came from John Wycliff in 1384 as a prelude to his Biblical translation and was later adopted by Theodore Barker for a sermon he gave in the Music Hall of Boston. President Abraham Lincoln was awarded a copy of the sermon by his law partner and incorporated it into his Gettysburg address. (Boom. Historied!)

A fair warning in advance, this is the only chapter written in third person. The rest are alternating first person between various characters. Now you can't possibly act surprised come chapter two!

Thanks for taking a peek guys and I'll hopefully see you next time. Feel free to comment in whatever fashion strikes you as appropriate. I am looking to improve my writing, so genuinely offered advice and critiques are always well received.

Take it easy until then, my darlings!

All my love,
~ Madam Mortis ~ xxx ooo