No God on Sunday
Summary: The band strikes, and one's holding the microphone with tears in her eyes while those around her partner up and laugh and whisper and sway – listening to her drown in her own words, "What the hell am I doing here? I don't belong here." The other stares heavenward, watching ghost far older than she; instead of counting stars she counts scars left over by the war; she can only recite prayer.
Mabel Day "Lone Wanderer"
II
A hollow mind should not exchange pleasantries with a hollow heart. Not while the world closes in on you – not while you bundle up your entire life in soft covers, a bottle of scotch hidden in your lab coat and a few wrinkled photos, because that's all you're allowed to bring inside with you; the doctor's hands shake when he stands back from the vault doors, watching the metal monstrosity close them in their forever-tomb.
James holds stoic, blue eyes shifting nervously, lips faded and chapped by the air of his old land: the outside. He stands under illuminating, florescent lighting that are constantly buzzing, blinded by the ominous serenity in which his new dwellings hold. And where he stands with science, he stands with God, praying silently to himself to bless his wife's soul, and prepare for his daughter's better days: proper education, a roof over her head, and clean, cycled water.
Virginal, heterochromatic eyes stare up at him through the cloth: one crystal blue, and one hazel. A lovely deformity blinks up at the good doctor, and he can only sigh over the outcome; he tells himself that he'll get through his days as long as the same pretty, mismatched eyes stare up at him every day, sweetly asking for his approval and his love.
"This is not a charity case, Doctor James. Do not mistake kindness over necessity. We need a doctor, and you better live up to that." Vault issued boots click together, a blunt sneer stitched into place, the Overseer stands by his terminal; a normal-height, Hispanic male with salt and pepper hair leers over the Wastelander and his offspring. "I'll have my Mr. Handy guide you down to my Pip-Boy programmer, Stanley. There – you'll be fitted with your official Pip-Boy, and shall receive your first assignments via interface. Do not make me regret this decision."
"You won't. I can assure you," James can only hold his daughter tighter to his chest, breathing calmly against the warmth, because his daughter is the last line to his sanity. "Thank you, sir."
Vault 101 was never meant to open, but it opened to a doctor's proposal and a wail from a baby.
-x-
Her father stares back at her through the glass, and all he can do is smile back; he's dying, but he's dying in the most surreal way. An abstracted goal, wise-stricken eyes wanting to observe his most prized creation: his daughter. She's banging on the glass, frantically clawing down the surface. He presses his hand to the glass, wanting to hold his little girl one last time – wanting to calm her. He wanted to tell her how proud he was of her again; she's done a whole lot of good with no reason behind it.
But this is the real world; life has already used up all its happy endings for fairytales in scarred and charred pre-war books. His story, his legend, is either a tragedy, or a travesty – even though this was no laughing matter. He was bound to die, it wouldn't be a good story if the hero didn't die at the end; he just couldn't stand the idea of dying in front of the girl who called him 'her hero.' The hardest part of dying was leaving her – not the constriction in his lungs, nor the steady drum of the Reaper's cold embrace; Death comes to him like a gentleman – quiet, charming, and lonely; he only prayed his late wife didn't think the same thing while she passed the veil that separated life and death.
"You can't! You're all that I have left!" Her voice is faint behind the glass, slamming the butt of her rifle against the pane; she's all out of bullets, and he knows wasting clips in the Wastes is a rookie mistake. He can hear the call of Doctor Li, urging his daughter to come along, to help escort the rest of the surviving doctors. "It was supposed to be you and me! You promised! What about our new life together? Oh God, you promised." She's choking on her words, knees wanting to slam into the ground.
Life is a terrible place when you're stranded out in the post-apocalyptic Wastes, without even a friend to add to your forgotten name. Because what's worse than death? Being forgotten.
He can only whisper, "Run."
II
Mabel is only five, and she believes that the world is out to get her – out to punish her for some little past-life event she may have been involved in. She swears it by her father's name. Swears it by her mother's favorite scripture and the golden cross necklace that garnishes her father's neck. Swears it by the burning tears that sting the sides of her eyes, and the gentle quiver of her bottom lip, while she cries into her father's lab coat.
"You are not strange, love," James softly consoles, fingers slowly drumming up and down his daughter's spine; she can feel the drag of his facial hair against her cheek, and she nuzzles into that familiar comfort, the lulling sense her father naturally casted upon her. Mabel's fingers curl into the rough fabric, holding on and never wanting to let go, because she knew her father would never let go of her.
"They said my eyes are weird. They said they're ugly. They said I was turning into a mutant. I never want to go to class again." With that confession, James can't help the mirthless chuckle that escaped his lips, craning his head, and listening to the steady hum of his daughter's morbid cry; children could be cruel to the unusual, perhaps it didn't help the only friends his daughter could snag was Freddie and Amata.
"You are not turning into a mutant, Mabel. Chin up, honey." Mabel refuses to see reason, refuses to listen to her father's coddling voice. "Your mother gave you those eyes, and she sees everything the same way that you do. You're a perfectly, healthy, beautiful little girl."
-x-
The Ghost of the Wastes stares onward, over voided skies of smog and pollution, troubled dreams put to death; America once stood proud, once claimed order – or, so that's what propaganda tells her, pasted against cobblestone and ruin, smeared in the blood of America's children and crude graffiti that scream, "FUCK YOU!"
There's a constant, distant hum; there's always noise that could be mistaken as dreaded silence, a weak mind conspiring to the end. Mabel covers madness with the static from her Pip-Boy; Three Dog always muttering away about all the good she's done, fighting the good fight. All the lives she's claimed. She listens, because he's the only thing in her life who congratulates her – and he never calls her by name. Never whispers to her at night, softly repeating, "Mabel," against her ear; his voice doesn't chase away the nightmares. But that's all right. She doesn't dream anymore; the radiation robbed her of that, murdering to survive also contributed.
Haunted, mismatched eyes squint against the blackening horizon, watching the moon dance across the heavens and the smog devour it whole. Fingers curl over steel, and she fights the war that night is so hell-bent on pulling; she watches the flames of her bonfire flicker like stars, casting shadows she hardly flitches over anymore. She inhales the toxic fumes, and calls this hell a humble home. A home she wants to die in. A home where she constantly questions herself, because her morals eat away at her to the bone and she's done desperate things just to make by.
Dogmeat lays at Mabel's boots, ears flicking to every small sound and every subtle breath his master makes, dreary eyes falling shut; his nose snuffs against soot and toiled dirt, ash thick in the air. There's no hope out here, only graves filled with fallen heroes and broken tales – walking over corpse and their shallow holes, flooded with waste and gore and tainted waters. Vault books tell lies and damning truth: where they say all is dead, but not everyone is dead out here.
Mabel is tired, she hasn't slept in the last twenty-four hours; she scrubs at her eyes with the side of her wrist, then regrets the action once the corners start to burn with whatever dirt she accidently rubbed in.
Sometimes she wishes she was blind. Sometimes she wishes she was never born. Because she can't cry anymore, and she can't hide forever – making home wherever she's accepted, and wherever the food doesn't try to kill her.
She comes to a conclusion, in her silent madness, that this world would constantly keep pushing her, screaming at her to stretch to the far ends of the Earth.
Some days, the shotgun in her hands seems too light. Some days, she's tempted enough to place the barrel in her mouth and pull the trigger: she romanticizes the cool steel upon her lips, the emptiness in her gut, and Dogmeat looks up at her with his own deformity of mismatched, forlorn eyes – judging her. Mable tells herself: that she's just another nameless grave in the making, lost in the great open of the Wastes.
The land has changed her, raped her of her virginal, vault-brainwashed mindset. Still, she recites a dead religion's passage in her mind. Over and over again. And carries it like locked chains on her being until she drowns, because it's the only thing she has left of her family. Left from a mother who died with the beginning of new life, and a father who mourned everyday with the gift of cleansed water in his hands.
"Revelation 21:6. Revelation 21:6 -,"
Now, it is the moon who blinds her, and she can only berate herself in her subtle, festering weakness. How dare she be so selfish to think about suicide?
II
Her father braids her hair in colorful, bright ribbons; calloused fingers entangled in crownless curl, a gentle hum placed in his breast, and the good Doctor James feels almost lighthearted.
"The prettiest girl in the vault," he tells her, and he has never been known to lie. Not yet, at least; Mabel's hair is lopsided, pulling on one side a little harder than the other, but she doesn't mind. Not while her father is near, and she can hear his gentle tone from behind; her father pulls a rare smile even while her tenth birthday looms near, and her mother's deathbed anniversary peeks over their happiness, preying on them like a gentle ghost, a stained memory.
Mabel's fingers skim over glossy pictures, constellations telling tales, and pulling her inquisitive threads together; she wants to know how big and vast the sky is, and how many stars she could count from dusk till dawn. Her picture book depicts dying stars and lonely nova, and shimmering, bleeding galaxies she could fall asleep under – the consuming, quiet darkness that seemed to flood the never-ending skies. For now, she spends her time in her father's company, indulging in the idea of letting her father teach her how to dress and act like a proper young girl, with proper young girl taste while she read her early birthday gift – dreaming dreams she could never imagine to come true.
"Is that book any good? Jonas said he found it in supply. Looked old. Real old." Her father looms over her shoulder, fingers still making work with a loose braid that was sure to fall from its band in a few hours. Still, the single father tries his best. He tries to fill the role as mother and father – he's sure he is making a mess out of both of his roles.
"The pictures are beautiful, dad. Look at this! So much pink, I didn't know the sky could hold so many stars – or color. They look so – unimportant in our vids. My, people back then were surely lucky." Mabel holds the book closer to her face, and she keeps the image sacred in her mind, squinting behind the thick rim of her black glasses.
Her father keeps a steady grin, tired eyes watching the delight and inquisitive nature take root in his daughter.
Today is going to be a good day.
-x-
"Miss Mabel!" Arms wrap around her waist, but she finds nothing malicious in this subtle act of kindness – a welcoming gift from one human to the next. "I've missed you so much! Vera's got me working, glad to see you're here to give me a break." An innocent smile falls, bright eyes staring heavenward. For the first time, in a long time, Mabel feels welcomed – the feeling almost evades her completely, and she feels robotic in a sense.
Mabel smiles, soft and hollow; she pats little Bryan Wilks on the shoulder, then gives him a comfortable squeeze. "She's giving you honest work. And I bet you've made well on your end to help your cousin out." It takes her a moment to string together a proper sentence; she hasn't spoken to anyone decent in so long. The Wasteland is long and vast, and it doesn't make well for educated conversation. She feels socially inadequate.
Bryan quickly nods, not wanting to let go of his weathered hero; he balances himself on her boots, pressing his grin against her stomach. He considers Mabel family. He considers a whole lot out of her; if he had a sister – she would have been just like Mabel. "Yep! Vera finally trusts me enough to help clean out the rooms after the guests leave."
"My, working up in the world, eh boy," Mabel inquires, and it sounds like she's highly amused. A pleasant turn since Bryan Wilk's biggest hero always seems to be frowning, or staring off; she doesn't seem so vacant when she mildly jokes. "Hard work deserves a drink, kid. Nuka-Cola on me. I got the caps to spare for the brave working class." To make a point, Mabel grabs the sides of her trousers and jingles the fabric till the faint sound of aluminum caps clanked together.
II
"Boys will be boys," Ms. DeLoria tells the good doctor in her drunken state, gripping onto the door frame with shaking hands to hold her height; her jumpsuit is barely pulled together. The phrase does not bode well with James, and he tightens his fist till they're white by his side, listening to the frightening tremor of his daughter's muffled cry. Mabel's dapping the blood away that drips from her nose with the side of her wrist, staining her sleeve a dark blue.
"'Boys will be boys' will not teach your son to keep his hands off my daughter," James speaks calmly, but his eyes tell a different story; a baleful one which involves protectiveness and heady yelling that could wake up the entire hall. Doctor James would never strike a child, but Butch made him damn-well close to reconsidering his moral standpoint. "Mabel, come here dear, show Ms. DeLoria what Butch did to you."
"Dad, it's – okay." Mabel's voice could hardly be heard with her mouth pressed to James' lab coat, leaving behind the evidence of ruby-red against solemn white. "Really." Her voice is urgent, and it gives Ms. DeLoria pause once she sees the tiny, stringy, blond haired child peek behind her father. It quickly sobered her up once she saw the child fully, sicken to the display of submission, face beaten, and pride under check.
"It is not OK, Mabel. This should not be going on. Honey," James' lips thinned, his calm personality almost eerie to the third party; the doctor seemed cold, but Mabel counters that emotion with fear and utter devotion. Right now, however – standing in front of her bully's mother – she feels betrayal; she could have gone her entire life without conflict. Without ever mentioning this situation, or what led up to the conflict. "You're better than this."
Mabel does not feel special enough, so she hangs her head and waits for the drunken berating of a madwoman. "My, God -," Ms. DeLoria mutters, hands falling away from the structure of her door to the sides of Mabel's face, thumbs tracing hollow cheekbones – trailing and wiping away stray blood droplets. Mabel can pinpoint the moment of awe in the older woman's features, sheer anger gracing features and betraying the next. The emotion seemed almost foreign on the woman. Everyone was so used to seeing oblivious stupidity on Ms. DeLoria. "My Butchie – did this?"
"I'm afraid so," James answered, and the woman swallowed hard. "We – just wanted to let you know. I'm not happy, but it's up to Mabel if she wishes to accept an apology. The way that I see things: it's hard to forever hate someone in close arrangements such as the vault. Better to target the problem now, than later."
Ms. DeLoria nods, fallen prey to complete shock. "I'm so sorry about this. If I had known -," Butch always seemed so docile around her, sweetly calling her 'Ma.' She wondered if the absence of his father was finally taking its toll, or – her addictive personality, and a romanticized love to a liquid that makes her forget all. Her tired eyes fall upon the mismatched color of the child's, and she could tell she was uncomfortable under her hazy, glossy glare. "If only I had known." She finally confirms, pulling back from Mabel slowly.
Ms. DeLoria assures the Day family that her son will not cause any more harm. Mabel hardly believes it when the next morning rolls in and she sees Butch sitting at his desk with a blackened eye.
This was only the beginning.
-x-
Mabel's pinning in map coordinates, fingers fiddling away with her Pip-Boy. Bryan Wilks sits at her side, chugging away a freshly-popped Nuka-Cola and picking through the yellowed fat of his meal that Mabel bought for him; his work boots swing back and forth, creating a rhythmic motion that knocks against his stool and earns him a steady glare from the barkeep on the other end of the counter, and a subtle smirk on the woman next to him. Bryan is oblivious, and that's why Mabel doesn't mind when he hangs around her during her quiet, normal moments.
"Find anything new out on the Wastes?" Bryan is starved from conversation with his hero, talking in between hurried bites; he sops up the dripping, yellow fat with a stale piece of bread – living behind the saying "Waste not, want not."
Mabel's shifty smirk slowly falls upon a pleasant smile, nodding once and shifting her weight comfortably on her stool. "Inquisitive as always, kiddo. I like that. And you're right for asking so." She gives up on the idea of looking for better leads on her Pip-Boy, listening to the heavy static from her radio with Three Dog's voice howling over the intercom. Mabel turns, rummaging through her thrown-over rucksack and pulling out three battered books like they were stolen holy relics; with bent spines, and papers falling out from the seams, they almost seemed holy in her eyes and Bryan took that as a sign to respect whatever she thought valuable.
"It's funny to find what super mutants would leave lying around in the mud," Mabel mentions. But she didn't find these treasures in the mud. She found them in a sack of gore and several skulls with bodies long gone and lost amongst the turf; she tried her best to wipe the blood off the covers with her shirt, but these books were already fragile with two-hundred years' worth of war and fire. Cleaning them up almost seemed fruitless – that with stale blood hugging the corner pages, water damage on most of the pages, yellowed with age, and soot smeared on the covers.
"What are they about," Bryan doesn't want to abandon his free meal; he glances up, leaning forward to get a better look at the books that Mabel left on the diner counter. He's almost afraid to touch them; they're weathered, and looked like they were existing on borrowed time. A simple turn of the page could be the book's undoing.
"All types on things. Look: this book talks about astronomy. You know, when I was around your age, I had a book just like this. I spent hours looking over the stars in my book."
"You can see the stars now," Bryan adds.
"Yeah, you're right. But I didn't have the luxury of looking up at the sky and seeing the stars in the vault. All I was permitted to see was florescent lighting." Mabel's chuckle is warm, and Bryan feels completely stupid for forgetting that Mabel grew up in a vault.
Mabel moves the book, and shows the next. "My dad was a doctor, you know? Had all types of books detailing the human anatomy in his study. I remember sitting in his chair and looking through all the pictures and reading the small passages under those pictures, 'cause I wanted to be just like my dad when I grew up. I wanted to be the next vault doctor."
"Can you still be a vault doctor?"
Bryan worries when Mabel pauses, but breathes a sigh of relief once she pats her prized possession and moves it away. "Things happen for a reason, kiddo. I was never cut out to be a vault doctor, anyways. But, hell, like I was going to miss snagging the text from this book."
"Good," Bryan grins, "I would miss you terribly if you stopped showing up." Mabel nudges Bryan's shoulder with her side, and the boy laughs with the contact.
"The last book was out of impulse. Children's book. Cinderella. I thought the art in the book was worth saving." says Mabel, moving the last book over. She considers the book, then shrugs when she puts it in front of Bryan. "I got this for you, though. Maybe you can tell me how the story goes."
Mabel almost can't help the laugh that comes deep from her chest when she sees the expression Bryan pulls: wonderment, and completely baffled. The boy quickly takes the book up in his arms, because any gift from his hero was well worth it.
Even if he turned his nose up at the idea of reading old, pre-war books.
(Please read the following)
A/N: Sorry it took me so long to update. College has been hell, and unforgiving with the assignments.
I'm writing both our leading ladies with depression, but I wanted to show different spectrums of it: humor, and downright depression. Six (Aries) is more 'mad' than anything; she tends to mask her mental breakdowns with humor and laughing and drinking. Mabel is a doctor's daughter; she doesn't believe in drinking, or smoking and in fact hates the smell and taste; her depression is more suicidal, or she doesn't care if she dies – she's already lost everything. Aries is outgoing, where Mabel is reluctant to conversation, and could be described as cold. (Growing up with social anxiety.) But she does like checking in on Bryan and his cousin, Vera.
Why I'm writing this: As someone who is going through deep depression, I hope to write both of these women tastefully and with respect to my readers who may, or may not be going through the same problems. Writing this fic does help cope.
Warnings: This story will cover many things: depression, rape (mentions of), prostitution, sexual situations, and in some forms gore. I will apply warnings between my breaks – so if you want to read the story without stumbling on something you feel uncomfortable with, just check the warnings.
Big thanks: I want to say thank you to those who took the time to scan over my work; I will admit that it still needs some work, I'm only doing this fic to brush up on writing – and more of a personal goal to vent.
