Series of random drabble about my Lone survivor Macha (I like M names) and her awkward romance with John Hancock. Not dead, just life. Will try to pick up other stories soon. In the mean time, enjoy the random thoughts/ adventures life in the wasteland. No particular order, some of them together as a couple and some where they are just testing the waters. Fallout 4 being a mature game, expect high levels of violence/ gore, sex, cursing and variations of my warped humor. As usual, I don't own anyone, all property right belong to their respective owners.
Evolution.
John paused at lounge entrance, steeling himself. Magnolia's sultry voice hung heavily in the air, along with the smoke from patrons and the smell of booze and electricity. He could hear the crackle of the third rail even here, and if he had any hair left, the quick pops would have made it stand on end in nervous anticipation. He frowned. What was wrong with him? This wasn't like him? Not at all. This was HIS Town. HIS bar. He fucking owned this place. He was just getting a drink in his own goddamn bar. Nothing more. He shouldn't feel so.. edgy over something so simple. He just needed a blast of Jet, he rationalized. Was coming down off his last high and just a bit tightly wound. That was all.
He contemplated checking his reflection in the nearby bathroom mirror, but he already knew what he would see. Same burnt and twisted skin. Same dark eyes that had seen too much and same scarred body that had done too little. Yet, he still smiled, pausing to straighten his tricorn for the thousandth time before asking Ham. "How do I look?"
The bouncer raised a hairless brow ridge at the question, but complied. "Looking sharp, Mayor Hancock, as per usual."
John chuckled mirthlessly. "Good man, Ham. Bad liar. But that's why I like you. Here, " he exclaimed offering the bouncer a small square box. "From my personal stash. A little reminder to vote for me next election."
It was a running joke. One he had with the entire town of Goodneigher. Everyone knew there had been no election. WOULD be no election in the future. He was the Mayor and so far no one had contested it. Well, no one publicly. There was that one incident .. but Fahrenheit had assured him that after her 'conversation' with the protester, there wasn't enough of him left to feed the radroaches, let alone continue.
"Much obliged." Pocketing the Mentats box , Ham sidestepped his mayor and let the man pass through the archway to descend into the smoky darkness below.
John stopped just at the threshold, once again fidgeting with his hat as he took in his surroundings. As his eyes adjusted in the dim light, he saw her shape materialize out of the haze. Magnolia stepped off the stage for a break, leaving the room exposed to the wild thumping of his heart- which surly everyone could hear- as Matcha came into view. The lone survivor of Vault 111 was hunched over a bottle of Gwinnett Stout, piled next to several already empty bottles, methodically pulling the label off. She already had a neat pile going on the bar top: evidence of how she had been entertaining herself thus far. Her dark auburn hair was pulled back in two pig tails, which spiraled lazily down her back. He gaze swept over her form, following it down until it stopped on the tiny mole just under her right shoulder. He stared fixated at the mole for a moment before sucking in a breath. It was tantalizing him, that dark blot on such smooth skin, peaking out just above the strap of her tank top. His eyes traced the curve of her shoulder blade, under her arm towards her pert-
"Mayor." The citizen closest to him greeted him. John stared at him blankly for a moment, trying to recall his name. Steven? Joel? Why couldn't he recall? He knew practically every one in Goodneighbor. Damn! He needed more mentats. That was it. Or maybe it was all the rads effecting his brain were finally getting to him.
"Citizen." He replied a bit more curtly than he intended; unsure if he was irked by his lack of recall, or the citizen's interruption of his thoughts. John adjusted his hat the final time and approached the bar.
"Good evening, Mayor Hancock." Whitechapel tipped his bowler hat in salute. "Your usual, sir?"
"Yeah. Hit me."
He sat down next to her, flipping his coat behind his seat as Whitechapel handed him a beer and a shot of whiskey.
"Evening." The shot of whiskey disappeared with a satisfied shudder. "Been waiting long?"
She turned to him and gave him that half grin of hers. Like one side of her mouth was in rebellion, refusing to turn up with the rest. "Hey Hancock. Yeah.. like 200 years."
She laughed at her own joke, more in derision than in actual humor. "Sorry. Bad joke. I'm just feeling…"
She hesitated a moment, half grin still on her face as she searched for the right word. Hancock noticed a smudge of dirt just below her eye. He drank deep of his beer to resist the sudden urge to wipe it off.
"Nostalgic? Or is it sentimental? " A deep quaff of stout, and she dangled the bottle from her fingers with whimsy. "Maybe a strange combo of the two? Sentilogic? Nostimental? Nevermind."
She made a dismissive gesture with her hand, plunking the empty bottle down. "Another beer, Chappie."
"That's Whitechapel." The robot replied in his Cockney accent, only punctuated by his ire. He snapped the cap of the new bottle with one of his pinchers and set the lager before her. She immediately began pulling the label off with her short stubby nails.
"Guess the future isn't at all what you expected?" Hancock teased. "You mean the raiders and super mutants and giant insects don't excite you?"
Half grin again. He noticed a slight dimple as her nose wrinkled. "Things have certainly changed. But then they haven't. There is still a war, a fight for resources and people just trying to eek out a living with whatever the world hands them. " She shrugged.
"Sometimes, it's hard to wrap my mind around. Everything that's gone. I can't think about it too much. Makes my head hurt, then I have to come here and have a drink. So I just.. focus on the things that have stayed the same."
"Oh?" John queried with interest. "Like?"
"You are gonna laugh." Her half a grin became a knowing grin. Not quite reaching her eyes. She adjusted the goggles on top of her head and tucked a stray piece of hair behind her ear.
"I could use one. Humor me"
"Curse words." She said definitively.
"Curse words?" John echoed. He was lost. Out of all the things he thought she would say, THAT had not been one. He scratched his head. She was predictably unpredictable as always.
"Yes. I am severely disappointed that curse words have not evolved in the slightest in over two hundred years. I thought, at least I will get to learn some great new expletives . Like Flugalnarg! Or something! Anything! Butttttttt noooooooooo.. same old ones. Same boring, uncreative oaths from my day. Shit. Fuck. Ass. Makes me feel old."
Hancock laughed. A full on roar from the belly up, nearly spilling his drink. When he finally was able to get a hold of himself, he stated. "Flugalnarg. The next time we get in trouble on our little outings, I'm screaming that at the top of my seared lungs. Who knows, maybe it will catch on?"
"I told you would laugh." Half smirk again, so dangerously close to being a full smile. "But, I have a theory as to WHY they haven't changed."
"You do, do you?" He motioned for another shot, this time of vodka, slamming it down as he finished his beer.
She slightly shook her head as she watched him switch from hard liquor to beer, then back again. Her steel gray eyes were wide in what he could only describe as shock. Not too be out done, she chugged the rest of her beer before she continued. "Yes. I do. It's because they are so versatile. Think about it. Take the word fuck. It can be a noun. As in, I have no fucks to give today. Nope. All out of fucks."
She gestured with empty hands to the air, shrugging as if not a care in the world. "Then," She took another beer from Whitechapel. "It becomes an adjective."
She downed half the new bottle of stout, holding back a belch. "This beer," She gestured to the rich brown container, "is fucking terrible. It tastes like licking the ass end of a burnt barrel of tar."
John had to take another shot to keep his face serious and not laugh at her colorful and strangely accurate description of Gwinnett's stouter lager.
"Then," She continued. "There is the verb. The act of doing. Fucking. So many uses. As an insult. Go fuck yourself. Never really understood why that was supposed to be a bad thing. I mean, why not just say thank you! Don't mind if I do! Or better yet, fuck someone else."
She leaned in suddenly, staring unwaveringly into his eyes. Hancock gulped, his hands tightening on his beer as she purred in a throaty voice. "Like if someone said, I'm going to fuck you so hard, you won't be able to walk straight for a week."
He could smell her now. Not the beer, or the smoke, but her. So close to him, he unconsciously licked his lips while staring at hers. "I like the verb."
She pulled back and laughed. And there it was, in all its glory, the full smile. She wiped an errant tear from her eye and smacked him playfully in the arm. It was warm where she had touched him, but only for a moment and the feeling of disappointment when she pulled away surprised him.
"Everyone does." She commented with a sigh as she rested her last beer on her forehead. "Sorry, I'm a mess tonight. Too much to drunk...drink. Waxing philosophical in my beer and talking your ear off."
"Nah. That fell off a long time ago. Not your fault."
She about choked on her beer and John had to thwack her heartily on the back to help her get it down. His fingers lingered on her a moment longer than they should have once she stopped laughing, index resting gently on that teasing mole. He retracted his arm when she examined her now beer drenched shirt.
"And that signals the end of a near perfect night of moping." She sighed, releasing her shirt as she stood. "I'd better stop while I'm ahead. I don't want to wake up with the hang over you are definitely going to have tomorrow. Places to go, bad guys to kill."
She held up her beer in a toast. "Of the people, for the people."
They clinked bottles together as he echoed her toast and she stood, fishing in her pocket for caps to pay.
"No. No. Your caps are no good here." Hancock insisted. "On the house."
Three quarters of a smile. "Thanks Hancock. I owe you one. Laters, ghoul friend."
She affectionately pushed the tip of his tricorn down as she left him, causing him to fix his hat, yet again. He watched her go, the slight sway of her hips, the rip in her jeans on the back of her thigh. As she departed up the dirty stairwell, Hancock was overwhelmed by the vacuum left in her wake. The clink of bottles, murmur or voices, the smoke and the electrical hum all rushing in on him. Magnolia was in the middle of a new song. Some slow jazz tune about a lost lover. When had she started singing again? He hadn't noticed.
"Another drink sir?" Whitechapel queried.
"Yeah." He replied stiffly, turning his attention back to the barkeep. "And keep em coming."
He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, trying to discretly adjust the raging hard on now straining painfully against his zipper. Friend? Just friends?
John Hancock sighed, fixed his hat and whispered quietly to his beer. "Fuck."
