Way Back Home: Why I Left the Homestead
Notes: This came about because I included a throwaway joke in Games We Play about Hancock visiting New Vegas and discovering Gommorah. A commenter and I then talked about what that would be like and...well, here we are.
January 2282
They stood in the stands, looking down on the market below. Martin was taller, bigger, rounder; his hands clutched the rail like raptor claws. He leaned forward, a strange smile playing at the corners of his lips, barely visible under his mustache. The golden child, the one with the ambition, Martin had finally been voted into office as the Mayor of Diamond City three days ago, just two weeks shy of his forty-third birthday. The smile, the creepy one, broadened; it made his mouth look strangely full, as if there were too many teeth crowded inside.
John alternated his gaze between the bizarre image of his brother - the bird of prey, lying in wait over the city they both called home - and the shattered ghoul families with their battered suitcases making their way to the gate. The more he saw, the angrier he became. How were these people - because they were still people, even if they were irradiated - how were they to survive without the safety of the walls around them?
He'd hoped - foolishly, he now realized - that if his brother was elected, all that 'Mankind for McDonough' crap would just prove to be big talk, a disgusting strategy to himself elected. He'd thought maybe it would be forgotten or dropped in favor of some other policy change.
He'd thought wrong.
Below them, the marketplace was silent except for the murmuring of Myrtle Staunton, who fought with the clasp on her suitcase, and the mewling of her cat, clutched tightly in her arms. So many people - so many fucking people -
John turned to his brother one last time to beg. To try to reach the boy he'd once known, the one who might not have always been the kindest or the brightest, but who somehow always held all the cards. Sometimes appealing to his better nature had worked; it was worth a last try now.
"Martin," he croaked. His voice was low, little more than a whisper. He cleared his throat, waiting for Martin to turn to him, but the bigger man's eyes were locked greedily on the scene below. "Martin."
Martin turned, his smile even creepier head-on. There was something too slick about him now, too...precise. As if an alien had come down and put on his brother's skin like a suit.
But then again, it wasn't as if John spent much time with him anymore. Not since Mother died. Maybe this was just...how he looked now. How he acted.
Who he was.
"What is it?" The beatific, creepy grin never wavered, nor did it reach his eyes.
"Please. You don't...you don't have to do this."
Still, Martin smiled. "Do what, John?" His voice was too silky, too calm; his voice was a razor wrapped in silk. John felt a thin prickling sensation under his skin, as if his very body was repelled by the dead look in his brother's eyes.
"This," he gestured, trying not to get too riled up. Rage, fury - strong feelings were never the way to convince his brother of anything. For a moment, the old image of his brother at eight and dissecting a disabled bloodbug flashed in his mind. Proboscis gone, the misbegotten creature's limbs and wings held down with rocks, and Martin up to his elbow in blood and ichor, pulling the insect's insides apart as it wrenched miserably, its massive eyes glinting in the sun. Martin's floppy blonde hair dotted with specks of blood.
"This? You mean, giving my voters what they want?" Martin's eyes narrowed a hair, his smile dropping almost imperceptibly. John had the sensation of wading into a lake, unable to see the bottom.
"Uh, yes. They're...they're people, man."
"No, brother, they're certainly not people, not like you or me. They're ghouls." He said the last word as if it were a dirtier one, unconsciously wiping his hands on his patched vest, as if there mere thought of it would sully him.
"They'll die out there."
The smile returned at this, in full force, and so eerie John could actually feel his skin crawling, like it was physically trying to move his body out the door, whether the rest of him wanted to go or not. He realized, too late, that this was exactly the wrong thing to say; his brother, whoever he had become, didn't see any issue with that. It seemed to excite him, to energize him.
"They're not my problem anymore."
John couldn't stand this any more. It was too ugly, too grotesque, to wrap his head around. He was never much for words, though - instead, his arm hauled off on its own, clocking his brother in the face with a powerful right cross that hit Martin in the left eye, rocketing his head backwards. Martin tipped on his ass, arms flailing, and landed with a loud thump on the floor. John stood over him - for the first time in nearly forty years, he realized - with his fists still clenched, panting. His right hand ached but he didn't dare show it; he was too angry, too scared.
"I think you should go before I tell Security that you're no longer welcome here." Mayor McDonough stood carefully, using one hand on the railing to help himself up. Again he wiped his hand on his vest, and then patted his eye gently, testing the bruise blooming there. It was already becoming puffy, an angry red welt rising and didn't open well. "Collect your things and be gone before sunset."
His home. His brother was kicking him out of his home.
John looked down from the stands at the city below. The market was opening up, all the vendors but Crazy Myrna back at their stalls, trying to pretend it was just another day and not the day that a third of their population had been forcibly removed. Bobby Driscoll's weapon stand was ominously empty; Bobby himself had been one of the first to leave this morning, taking his daughter and wife in the first rush of ghouls to leave the city.
None of them had wanted to be removed by force.
"This is wrong," he said, one last time, turning his back on his brother and heading down to the elevator.
John's things, such as they were, didn't amount to much. The furniture was all junk, just like everything else in the wasteland. He had some clothes, a few spare boxes of ammo, some guns. He packed up what foodstuffs he had, and his chem stash, and strapped on his armor. He hurried, hoping he'd be able to catch up with some of the families that had left; maybe some of them wouldn't have gone too far. He felt the bag of caps; not much. He hoped he'd be able to make his funds last.
They were going to need help. It was too dangerous in the ruins to go alone.
He thought about taking a hit of Jet for the road. He had the inhaler in his hand, ready to go, and then paused before stuffing it in his backpack. It'd be a relief to forget all this, to soften the edges, even if only for a little while - but if he was going to be any use to anyone else, he'd need to be sharp. He stowed it away regretfully - tonight tonight tonight, his brain thrummed achingly against his skull - and instead took three Mentats out of their battered metal tin, the hinge squeaking open and closed. He swallowed them fast, licking his teeth after to try to lose the unpleasant chalky film they left.
He looked around his small shack one last time, then closed the door behind him.
In the market, there was the distinct feeling he was being watched. Chatter seemed to stop as he passed people, only to resume the moment after he passed. He could hear a whisper as he walked past the barbers, Kathy saying something to her son about how "he punched the new mayor."
"Why, ma?" The boy was gawky, in his late teens although he looked younger, and his voice was still reedy. John remembered him visiting Molly Olson a lot; the older woman loved to play cards, and kids didn't care if she was a ghoul.
"I heard the whole thing. It was because of the ghouls," came the low answer from a security guard behind him, bat held stiffly. "But you didn't hear it from me." There was a quiet mumble he couldn't catch from Kathy, something that sounded affirmative.
If his brother was forcing him to leave, at least the people knew why, John consoled himself as he adjusted his pack. Before he started down the stairs, he cast his eyes up, squinting in the sun, trying to find his brother. But Martin was gone, the balcony empty.
He'd been worried about missing the others, but they were still standing outside, just beyond the gate, just outside of safety. A large clump of ghouls, their eyes sad, their faces lost. Friends, all of them; looking at their angry expressions, John couldn't blame them. It was his brother, after all.
He was angry too.
Mark Olson looked at him, watery brown eyes taking in John's pack, his nervous fidgeting. "He kick you out too, smoothskin?"
John nodded, not trusting his voice to stay steady. To his right, a hand found his; Molly Olson stood there, her face contorted into something approaching sympathy, her black eyes bottomless and glittering. Her grip was firm, and she squeezed his hand gently before letting go.
"He's one of us, Mark. I didn't raise you to be so hateful."
A sigh came from Mark, and the rest of the crowd seemed to relax. Kent Connolly, toward the back, seemed to perk up a little; the old guy never handled anxiety well.
"I just don't know if I trust him and...his people."
"Mark!" His mother's voice was shocked, angry.
"No, Molly, I understand. McDonoughs haven't done much for you folks," John cut in. Mark began to nod, and behind him, the ghouls gathered closer, some of them nodding as well. Behind them, the gate began its loud, slow descent, the rusted gears groaning under its weight. He could see Myrtle Staunton clutch her cat closer, despite the creature's desperate mews to get free.
"I have an idea," he began, raising his voice. "I know a place you folks could go. Somewhere safe, where everyone is welcome."
I hope everyone is welcome, he thought to himself. Vic's not always easy or kind, but they don't have a lot of options right now, not with how late it's getting. And it's better than dying in the ruins. It's gotta be.
"Oh yeah?" That was Greg Martinosky, way at the back. His voice was low, like the rest of theirs, gravelly and distrustful. "Where is this magic fucking Shangri-La?" His wife knocked him gently in the arm, hissing something about language.
"Goodneighbor," he said. "Goodneighbor doesn't care if you're ghouls."
"Because it's full of criminals," Greg spat again, raising his voice. His face might be hard to read between the flaked-off skin and exposed muscle, but his tone made his meaning clear.
Fuck you, his tone said.
"And chems!" John couldn't tell who said this one; all he knew was that he was losing them, all of them, and he couldn't let that happen. These were city people, some of whom hadn't been outside the walls in years. They wouldn't know how to survive out there. They needed walls, armed guards, the chance to be themselves.
"Please!" He raised his arms, looking around. There was a battered wooden crate lying on its side near the gate, and he leapt onto it, waving his arms at the crowd as they turned, starting to walk away. "If you don't want to stay there, that's fine. I understand it may not be where you want to make your home. But please - the ruins are dangerous. I just -" his voice cracked but he continued on, desperation speeding his words. "I don't want any of you to die out there. At least come with me today and then tomorrow...if you don't want to stay, we'll figure something out."
The crowd stood quietly before him, all of them half-turned away, quietly murmuring to each other. It might have gone on forever, the bunch of them stuck in this limbo, if Kent Connolly hadn't spoken.
"I trust you, John." His expression was so genuine, so sweet, that John could've jumped down and kissed him. "I'll go with you."
The talk among them became louder, and Kent walked through the crush of bodies back to the massive green wall, standing directly before John. He looked at the rest of them with his guileless smile, as if urging them on. After a moment, more ghouls turned, then a few more, until a group of about thirty stood before him. The rest filtered out, away into the crumbling maze of the ruins, and John began to wonder just how, exactly, he was going to manage getting them all to their new home.
He didn't get to stop moving until well after three the next morning. He'd spent his day ferrying groups of four or five or six through the ruins to Goodneighbor, finding someone to take them in, and returning for the next. He pulled some string with Irma and got Kent a room at the Memory Den. Daisy, furious at the news, agreed to take Mollie Olson's whole family, at least for a few nights. He pulled caps out of his own pockets and booked rooms at the Rexford for a week for those he couldn't find places.
Now he sat on a barstool at the Third Rail, trying to ignore his aching feet and the sounds of Vic and his boys laughing drunkenly behind him. The bar wasn't his first choice, but when he thought about it, he had no place to go. The streets weren't safe, the Rexford was clean out of rooms, and he couldn't ask Irma or Daisy for a place to stay, not after they'd already opened their homes up to the wayward ghouls he'd foisted on them. Maybe he could cuddle up to K-L-EO, he thought with a private chuckle. She'd sure be cozy, all those metal angles and sharp joints.
There was another peal of laughter behind him; Vic had his hands on a girl, couldn't be more than twenty, with long blonde curls and tits like an angel's, and he was smacking her ass in front of the rest of them. She looked shamed, her cheeks pink and eyes downcast.
John looked back down at his drink, too tired to do the right thing. He knew he should do something, say something - but he couldn't fight anymore, not today. Instead he took a last drag of his cigarette and crushed it out in the scarred yellow ashtray, adding another butt to the pile heaped there.
He stood slowly, tossing a couple extra caps down on the bar as a tip, and downed the rest of his whiskey in one gulp. It was hot and sour and spicy all at once, and in his belly, he felt the fire. He supposed he could head back to the Memory Den, maybe use a few of his remaining caps to buy a lounger for the night. Irma might say yes to that - and if not, maybe he could work the debt off another way. The idea made him smile distantly; unless things were tight, she was usually willing to let him pay her in trade when he needed something.
As he walked past Vic's table, he caught the eyes of the girl at Vic's table. They were blue, huge and round and scared, and he tried to apologize with his face, but she just looked away. The door swung shut on her pained squeals, and he walked across the square to the pink-lit door of the Memory Den, ready to be done with this horrible fucking day.