She'd always been attracted to artists. Before Nate, before the idea of a strong and stoic soldier pervaded her dreams, the tortured artist was what she wanted. She'd dated one her first year of college, and he'd left quite an impression. Something about the dichotomy of a man who was clean-cut in so many respects, someone who was calm and composed to turn towards the canvas and lose any and all pretense of that composure, to attack their work with a mania, with the most deep-set desire to birth their work, their vision. To watch as masculine hands, long, large instruments do the most delicate and bold of works, to unravel the mysteries of their mind and their subjects and translate and transform them so utterly...Yes, she'd always been drawn to artists. She herself had no particular talents when it came to the mediums of paint or sketching, but before the war she had always been an ardent admirer. Her talents lay in dance, in song, in the movement and workings of the body, the constant undulations of the tempo and the melody, the sobbing moans of the orchestra and the chorus drawing out the perfection of movement. Now, in this life, this wasteland, there was little need for fine shoes and clothes, for practiced steps or minuets. This life required the dance of survival, and if it contained any grace, it was purely by accident.
Perhaps that is why she was so instantly taken in by him.
Nora had been out in the Commonwealth for six months, before Hancock sent her out to explore the gallery. The previous weeks had seen her clearing a large swath of territory close by, so there was little resistance until she reached the front door. She managed to sneak up on them at first, listen to their conversations. They were afraid of this place. Then they changed the subject to their last big haul, talking about raiding a community of helpless settlers while laughing and passing around the Jet, and she started cutting throats.
Nora entered the red door, low to the ground as it shut with barely a noise. There were more raiders in the old house, all talking about Pickman. Hancock hadn't mentioned that Pickman was a living person, and she assumed it had just been an old building. They talked about him like he was a monster from a book, and then they noticed her presence, and the fight began.
After the gunfire ceased, Nora stopped to look around, to see the artist's work without interruptions. Listening to a message to Jack, hearing the artist's serene voice as he cut people to pieces, she should have been horrified. She should have left the building. She knew what this place was, and that's all Hancock had wanted. She could go home and warn everyone away from this building. Instead Nora went through the very obviously ominous hole in the wall, crawling through the lower levels and the cellars, fighting raiders and disarming turrets. She was bruised and bloody by the time she reached the raider called Slab, and without thinking she jumped down onto his back, stabbing her knife into his neck, blood spraying on her face, in her mouth. The others were handled quickly, and then it was just Nora and the well dress predator.
Suddenly Nora realized how very stupid she'd been. What had possessed her to run through that building and kill so recklessly? The raider's blood was drying on her face, pulling the skin tight like the face masks women used before the war, and it took every ounce of willpower not to claw at it. She was filthy, disheveled, a large gash on her left shoulder leaking blood down her arm, onto her hands, squelching between her fingers. It was from early on, the first raider she'd fought upon entering the gallery, and she was surprised that it hadn't slowed or stopped. Then she started studying Pickman, and she forgot the sting in her shoulder, the ache in her limbs. Everything about Pickman was the antithesis of her at that moment. Clean, well groomed, not a hair out of place nor a drop of blood on his well tended clothes. His expression was mild, almost kind, certainly bemused as to why she helped him.
"That was close. Thank you." His voice was smooth, not rough like the habitual drinkers, smokers, and chem users that populated the Commonwealth, and when he smiled, he had devastatingly straight, white teeth. "Those people deserved worse than death." She should have felt afraid, should have run out of the place screaming, but instead she was rooted to the spot, staring until she felt his gaze heavy on her, and she remembered herself.
"W-Why did they want you so badly?" Nora mumbled, inwardly kicking herself for sounding so ridiculous. She'd always been so self assured, never one to stammer in speech, but Pickman didn't seem to notice.
"They objected to my hobby of collecting their heads. They wanted to extract their pound of flesh. Don't worry, killer. I'll collect mine again soon." The way he talked, he might as well have been describing the weather. He took in the blood on her face, on her arms, the little puddle where she spat it out, "Allow me to repay you." Nora was quick to protest.
"Please, I-I'd have done it either way. Raiders...they do deserve worse than death." Nora was unsure why those words fell from her lips, why she made sure her words held a sentiment of approval for his actions. To distract herself from this, she traced the curves of his face, the dark shadow of a beard on his chin, his high cheekbones and clear pale eyes. Were they blue? In this lighting she couldn't tell, but she felt desperate to find out. Why? Why was she being so ridiculous? If she'd had the wherewithal to think coherently, she'd have blamed the blood loss, would have blamed the bizarre nature of the day, blamed anything.
Her attention was drawn to his hands, beautiful, long and slender, the delicate instruments of an artist. In one he held a key which he quickly tossed in her direction. "When you return to the house above, look deep into my painting called "A Picnic for Stanley", and there you may claim your reward." Then he smiled, and turned to walk down one of the ruined tunnels. "See you around, killer."
She turned and left the place as quickly as she could, suddenly thankful for the blood that stained her skin because it hid all sign of the bizarre blush which spread across her cheeks. After breaching the cool night air on the surface, she made her way back around, entered the building again, and found the painting. Grisly work, just like the rest, but it did reveal a talent that most of the Commonwealth would not have been able to appreciate. Gently settling it against the wall and applying the key to the safe, she found Pickman's gift: a devastatingly sharp blade with a black handle still warm from being clutched in his hand. Underneath was a note, simple as it was, smeared with gore in the shape of a heart.
Thanks, killer.
It made her cringe just to hold it in her hands, to feel the red still sticky and smelling strongly of iron, but she pocketed it all the same. Part of her was screaming to leave, her protesting, throbbing limbs, her aching feet, but she shifted restlessly before removing a canister of water from her pack and cleaning her hands. She shook droplets off her fingers before walking through the gallery, studying each macabre piece of artwork, even reaching out a hesitant hand to one, feeling the brushstrokes on her fingertips before snatching it back abruptly. With a shaky sigh Nora turned and left the gallery, her feet beating a quick path back to Goodneighbor, a path that was blessedly free of raiders and super mutants. She didn't think about the pain in her shoulder or the stains on her armor. She didn't try deciding who best would be able to stitch up her wounds. No, she was too busy deriding herself for what really and truly lingered in her mind. Pickman had called her a killer. It sent chills down her spine to hear it. When she was alone, when she said these things to herself, acknowledged that she was a killer, it sickened her. If anyone else had said this to her, she would have been absolutely horrified, ashamed. So why, when an artistic serial killer said these thing, did it feel like such a compliment?