It was difficult, Hancock had to admit, to go about his mayoral duties when there was a new face wandering around Goodneighbor and the surrounding ruins of Boston. Being the social butterfly that he was, Hancock was more inclined to get to know Nick's friend rather than to hang around, handling the day to day doldrums of holding a political office. He didn't begrudge his job, only the lack of free time it would leave him with on some occasions. Hancock was a good leader, and nobody doubted that much, but sometimes Hancock thought he was better suited for a life with very minimal responsibilities. One that could keep him better entertained more often. Instead, Hancock was facing a day of boredom. He had been receiving complaints and requests from citizens all week long and he was woefully behind on following any of them up.
The Hotel Rexford, the local inn and bar was just the start to his headache. Rufus Rubins was looking for some kind of new robot for the hotel that would give them an edge when it came to refreshing beverages, but had no way to move it. Hancock was perfectly satisfied with the modified protectron staying where it was in the Shamrock Taphouse to the east of town. He owned the establishment that the Hotel Rexford was trying to compete with. On the other hand, the Hotel Rexford was also housing a ghoul that wouldn't stop bemoaning the conditions of not only Goodneighbor, but the entire Commonwealth as a whole. Hancock had offered this gentleman a home here, and all he did was bring everyone's spirits down. Maybe access to a better drink closer to his comfort zone would do him good. Meanwhile, Fred Allen was spooking everyone that came within a couple of feet from him. Fred was harmless, if not a bit overbearing with his chem sampling. He claimed it was to ensure the product he footed for the hotel was of good quality, but everyone knew that only half of it made it out of his lab to sell. Lately, he had been trying to talk anyone adventurous enough into leaving town to pick up some sort of new chemical product from HalluciGen Inc,.
Meanwhile, Kent Connolly had started broadcasting on his Silver Shroud radio station from the Memory Den, trying to recruit help to clean up the streets. When approached about it, Kent would become evasive and retreat to his back room. Kent was a good guy and Hancock didn't want to see him get hurt, but he was definitely biting off more than a good guy should in a town like Goodneighbor. As if all that wasn't enough to deal with, Bobbi No-Nose had dropped off the grid. Once again. Hancock knew she was planning something big, and he had a gut feeling it involved him. Bobbi, like Finn, had never been particularly taken with Hancock's charisma and charm. And, since Finn had ceased being a problem, that was when Bobbi had vanished. It didn't take a nuclear physicist from the Institute to connect the dots.
There was so much on Hancock's mind, so much to think about, so much to plan and watch out for. Like whatever was going on at the Pickmen Gallery. That was yet another thing taking up precious space in his brain, driving him even further towards the brink of exhaustion.
Yes, Hancock was tired of all of his political duties, especially for today. He had gotten word from around town that Nick Valentine and his friend had proceeded into the Memory Den, their business unknown. For now. Hancock would pay a visit as soon as he had the free time and it was safe to do so. It wasn't that he was nosy, Hancock hated being branded as such. It was more that the town was his responsibility, and he needed to know what was going on in order to keep things running as smoothly as possible. Keeping things running smoothly was difficult to do when there was a new, uncontrolled entity that was wandering around town and stirring things up. Only, the entity in question, the stranger, was not in town now. He was somewhere out in the surrounding ruins, most likely. Hancock couldn't keep an eye on any sort of situation if the stranger were to wander much further out of reach.
The only person who seemed to be within reach of the stranger was Nick Valentine, and that wasn't an entirely comforting thought either. Nick was trustworthy, and good in a scrape. It wasn't a question of whether or not the stranger would be watched or protected, it was the idea that Nick would ultimately be around to fill their new guest in on any questions he might pose about Goodneighbor itself. Nick was a dismally by-the-books sort of guy, and he wasn't afraid to let his opinion of Goodneighbor be known. Any tour Nick would give of Hancock's beloved homestead would be decidedly negative and condemning in every nature. Hancock had worked hard to ensure that anyone who came to Goodneighbor would have a place to stay, but Nick was certainly not going to describe any part of Goodneighbor in such a favorable light. If Hancock had his way, he'd be the one to show the stranger around. He'd answer any questions he could, and regale the stranger with the history of the town while he pointed out places of interest and noteworthy folks who might make him feel more comfortable until he got his feet wet. Then, Hancock would take him to the Third Rail, buy him some drinks and sit down to ask the stranger harmless questions about his life, nothing too pressing. Just inquiries to get an idea of the guy, and to show interest in him. After a quiet evening of drinking and getting to know each other, Magnolia singing in the background as the lights continued to dim, if things went well enough…
Hancock's musings were intercut by a sharp tone of voice, bringing him back to reality once again. He was in the Old State House. Negotiating with one of the Triggermen bosses in the area. Politics. The Triggermen were a gang that fancied themselves classier than raiders. From their clothes, to their organization, all the way down to their "code of honor", they thought quite highly of themselves. Hancock knew better than most what they really were. The same sort of scum that the walls of Goodneighbor had been built up to keep out. They ruled with old pre-war ideals upheld by criminals, and not the sort that Hancock would consort with from time to time in a casual fashion. No, the Triggermen were a no better than any raider that could be found out in the wasteland, except the Triggermen usually had more caps in their pockets to loot.
That said, Hancock was very aware of their presence inside of Goodneighbor. He himself was working with a gang of them that had taken up residence. They had once made a deal. The Triggermen help protect Goodneighbor and it's citizens with their substantial arsenal, and Hancock would give them a place to conduct business. This was back when Hancock had started his reformation of the town, and living friends were hard to come by. It had been a necessary evil, and it had worn out it's usefulness. More than that, their delusions of power in Goodneighbor had ceased to be a source of entertainment for Hancock.
Some of the thugs had taken to harassing civilians, and even going so far as to harm them outright. Not to mention, the local bosses were starting to get big in the head. The fools were under the impression that they didn't need to listen to Hancock or his rules, and that Hancock owed them more than just a few warehouses to bunker down in. None of the Triggermen knew he knew this, of course. Hancock had eyes and ears everywhere in this town. Nothing got passed him. For now, though, he maintained the aura of political agreement. There was no need to alert them that they would be permanently evicted, or to start a panic.
It was a bright morning that Hancock preferred to stay out of. Due to his constant night-life habits, his eyes had grown more accustomed to the dim lights of evening, and most mornings were spent nursing some sort of hangover. Even when sober, he had been conditioned to resent them. Even though the Triggermen left a sour taste in his mouth, he was still grateful for an excuse to stay inside. He listened to their complaints with all of the courtesies expected from a business partner.
"Sorry, I've got a lot on my mind. There was a mess with a resident just last night, not exactly pretty. It had to be done, though." Hancock apologized to one of the Triggerman ghouls. From what he could figure, Hancock thought this guy might be some sort of administrator with the misguided idea that doing grunt work was getting him a higher place in the Triggerman family. Hancock almost felt sorry for the man. He was young, tough, and strong. Unfortunately, intelligence wasn't on his roster, as evidenced by the fact that he was passionately playing his role as intimidating message carrier. No one sends a big time player for the first warning message just in case the message isn't well received. Hancock did note, however, that this guy had marginally fewer stains on his tan suit. He was more important than just a grunt.
"So we heard. Our family offers its condolences to yours in the time of your loss." the ghoul in the tan suit said. It was the appropriate, automatic response. There was nothing behind the words. Not that it mattered. Finn was a shithead.
"Right." Hancock nodded, reaching for a tin of mentats in front of him. He popped the lid and offered the first round to his guest politely. The ghoul refused with a shake of his head, which almost made Hancock break composure. He popped one of the small pills into his mouth, nearly smiling as he let the chem take effect. His opponent had apparently forgotten the boost that mentats could give the mind in situations such as these. That, or he was simply under the delusion that he didn't need them. Either way, Hancock had even more of an edge now.
"You're no doubt wondering why we wanted to meet with you…" The ghoul said, taking a drink instead from the glass of scotch that he had been offered from Hancock's private supply.
"I hope it's not another mole rat infestation. We had a hell of a time clearing the last one out for you." Hancock said innocently.
The ghoul seemed to be growing tired of the formalities. He set his glass down on the table with a soft clink, looking up at Hancock. "Skinny Malone contacted us not too long ago. Our families like to stay in touch, since we operate so closely to one another."
"How is Skinny, by the way?" Hancock asked, his eyes regarding his guest in amusement. He could tell that the ghoul sitting across from him was running lower and lower on patience, and becoming more direct. Hancock wouldn't have any issue winning this little game.
"Terrible. Not more than three weeks ago, he suffered from an attack down in Park Street Station. His own house. He lost a lot of good men."
Hancock extended the same courtesy he was offered before. "My condolences to-"
"Save it, Hancock. I ain't done." The ghoul swiftly interrupted him. Their eyes locked for a moment, giving Hancock pause. There was something amiss. Something Hancock hadn't calculated for. His opponent knew it, as well. Hancock had no choice but to back off and play the game a bit more defensively than he had previously. If he were about to be dealt a blow, Hancock preferred to be ready to block it rather than to take it directly to the face.
"The way Skinny tells it, he got a visit from his old buddy Nick Valentine. You know the guy? The synth detective down in Diamond City. Apparently, Valentine had been hired by Skinny's new girl's parents to bring her back home, but Skinny and his girl didn't like that too much. Still, Skinny is a good guy. So, what did Skinny do? He spared Valentine's life and kept him as his special guest instead." the ghoul was watching Hancock's face closely for any sign of surprise, or shock, or anything. Luckily for Hancock, he was a master at this type of play. He wouldn't let anything above a casual or polite reaction register. He also had the boost from the mentats, which had started kicking in. He was processing information far too quickly for his expression to keep up with his mind.
Skinny Malone was angry that Hancock had given Nick Valentine safe harbor in Goodneighbor. He must see it as a stance against the Triggermen. While someone in their right mind had finally questioned Hancock about his loyalty to the Triggermen and decided to confront him on it, Hancock was surprised that it was over something as trivial as this. Nick Valentine was hardly enough of a catalyst to set Skinny's gang after the Goodneighbor gangs to approach Hancock himself over some sort of feud over a girl. No matter how pretty.
"I assure you, I didn't have any idea what Nick had done to Skinny's gang. I heard a few whispers here and there, of course, but I didn't get any solid details until you just told me yourself. I didn't even think Nicky was the type of guy who was capable to go on a murder spree that size." Hancock sat forward, holding up a dismissive hand.
"I still ain't done, Hancock." The ghoul enunciated each word, his expression hardening even further.
People often gave ghouls a hard time about the way they looked. It wasn't uncommon for people to outright hate ghouls for their appearance. They weren't pleasant to look at. With their burn-scarred skin, missing body parts, and their resemblance to a deadly wasteland pest, people could be downright terrified of ghouls. This ghoul in particular, Hancock noted in this moment, had learned to use it in his favor. Even someone like Hancock had to admit, a ghoul as sizable as him with such a deep and intense, cold glare was intimidating. Just not to Hancock himself. Hancock wasn't intimidated by many things. Some called him brave, others called him fool-hearty, and others claimed that the chems had claimed was was left of his good sense years ago. Maybe they were all true, because Hancock didn't back down.
"It wasn't Valentine that cut through all the men patrolling the place. Valentine was locked up. Skinny made sure of it himself. Skinny ain't no fool. He's sentimental, but he ain't a fool." the ghoul explained, his expression unchanged.
"Well if it wasn't Nick Valentine, why are you breathing down my neck so damn early in the morning?" Hancock asked, demonstrating how thoroughly unimpressive he thought the man's display of aggression was while also baiting him into spilling more of the truth than he may have intended.
"We don't know who he is, ain't nobody we talk to seen him before! He just came outta nowhere and cut his way through Skinny's boys like they were nothin'. And they ain't nothin'! Then, once he busted Nick out, they offed a few more! Skinny tried to stop them, but then the stranger turned his own girl against him! He was heartbroken and low on backup, so he let the two of them leave. But he sure as hell didn't forget what that stranger did to him. He's been trying to dig stuff up, but all he found is that this guy went after some player named Kellogg down in Diamond City, then Kellogg turns up dead with his brains ripped out. It's like this nutjob dropped out of the blue!"
Out of the blue, indeed, Hancock couldn't help but wonder.
"That guy had no beef with Skinny, but he killed his boys like it was fuckin' personal. You should have seen some of 'em. Their head's all smashed in… Skinny sure couldn't send those bodies back to their families. But the real kicker? You let that psycho right through your front door just last night, Hancock. Now we're all gonna pay the consequences."
Hancock took a few seconds to think. He couldn't afford himself too much time, or his guest might take that as another opportunity to attack. Nick was held captive by Skinny Malone's entire gang, but this stranger came out of nowhere and for no apparent reason, launched a solo suicidal rescue mission to get Nick out. A successful mission, no less. Otherwise, the two of them wouldn't be here. Then Nick brought his new friend here, perhaps because he owed this man a debt. Nick brought the stranger to the Memory Den. That was their first stop. What in the world was going on? It was fascinating. But most fascinating of all, that beat-down guy who had walked into Hancock's town, looking as out of place and clueless as a radstag with a spotlight in it's face, had taken Skinny Malone and his boy to the cleaners. That cemented it in Hancock's mind. This mysterious stranger was someone he had to get to know. He had to at LEAST grab a name off of him. Even thank him for helping to clean up the Commonwealth.
"Relax, he's in my town. I'm in charge here. And he's with Nick Valentine. Odds are, as soon as Nick gets bored with this place, he'll follow Nick back to Diamond City." Hancock said calmingly. He truthfully had a suspicion that the stranger wasn't from Diamond City, and wasn't expecting a welcome party when he returned. Something in the way the stranger stood when he had addressed the mayor of Goodneighbor told him that he had an unsavory encounter with the other mayors he may or may not have met. He was grateful to the existence and persistence of Piper Wright, and promised to point her in the direction of a good story if they ever crossed paths.
"We want him out of here, Hancock. Out of here, or dead. If one of those criteria ain't met, we'll do it for yah." the ghoul said, getting to his feet with the intention of escorting himself out.
Once his guest's back was turned, Hancock frowned slightly. There it was. The proof he had been waiting for. The admission that the Triggermen no longer viewed themselves as partners with Hancock, working at the same mutual level. Hancock had just been given an order, and then a threat by a messenger. Hancock followed the Triggermen ghoul out of his room and all the way to the staircase, leaning on the railing as he watched with a catlike intensity as his guest descended. The ghoul refrained from giving Hancock's other guards so much as a nod as he stepped briskly towards the exit, his business concluded. A second pair of footsteps reached his ears, but Hancock didn't incline his head. He knew who it was.
"They're getting too cocky, Hancock…" Fahrenheit said in a low tone. Hancock thought he could hear a note of anticipation in her voice. If he did, it certainly did not surprise him. He was used to Fahrenheit's truly inspirational inclination to violence. Some people took time to motivate. It was a challenge to get them to forego their own survival instinct for the good of the many. Not Fahrenheit. Ever-reliable Fahrenheit.
"Send word to Whitechapel Charlie when you get the chance. Tell him that I've got 200 caps for anyone who has the stomach to do a little exterminating in the Triggermen warehouses here in town… the less recognisable the merc, the better." Hancock said casually. Fahrenheit made a move to set the message in motion, but Hancock held up a hand to stop her. She stopped immediately and awaited further instruction. "...Tell him not to use my name. I can't be tied back to this, or it would ruin the whole game."
Fahrenheit scoffed harmlessly. "What do I look like to you?"
Hancock smiled and watched Fahrenheit descend the stairs as well. His mind wandered to the stranger that Nick had brought into town with him. He hoped Nick's friend wasn't tired of killing off Triggermen just yet.
Hancock found himself disappointed not just one night, but two nights in a row. So far, there were no reports from the Third Rail that anyone who had fit the bill for Hancock's job had expressed any interest in it. To make things worse, he hadn't seen any sign of Nick's friend since they parted ways on their first meeting. It had put Hancock in an irritable mood when he had asked around for info on the stranger, but found that no one had anything to report other than they had seen him leave the Memory Den in a hurry, and disappear out the door and into the ruins of the city outside. He couldn't press his contacts inside or outside Goodneighbor for any extra information on the matter, either. They were all busy keeping an eye out for hints of danger that might befall their special settlement. He also ran the risk of ending up on the receiving end of questions he didn't feel like answering if he continuously pestered anyone about one single man wandering around without supervision. Hancock had no choice but to convince himself he could be satisfied with only vague answers.
He would have to find other ways to entertain himself than with the company of a quirky, unknown guest. Luckily, Hancock was usually good at keeping himself occupied.
At least Hancock had reason to believe that the stranger could handle himself alone in the wastes without getting himself immediately killed. The story about what happened to Skinny Malone's gang was proof enough of that. All the same, Hancock did notice that Nick Valentine had yet to leave town. Nick had even gone out of his way and against his better judgement to rent a room at the Hotel Rexford. This was a shock to anyone who knew Nick Valentine, even a little. Nick didn't spend time in Goodneighbor. There was little business for him in a town that kept its secrets out of respect for it's citizens, and because disputes were usually handled by the residents themselves. Not to mention Nick's general distaste for the place. The detective certainly wasn't holding up in a town with the biggest body count and most criminal activity for recreational reasons. Hancock was sure the old synth was waiting to see if the stranger would come wandering back before he returned to the Valentine Detective Agency.
So, Hancock made sure to set aside some time to pay the detective a visit. He wanted to see if he could solve a few mysteries of his own. He made his way over to the hotel, greeting everyone he met with a smile and some smart words. He wasn't put off by the distraction. He expected it when he walked outside of the State House. He had worked very hard to not only take care of this place, but to let the residents know that he was no better than any of the rest of them. He had earned their respect and their loyalty, and they had his as well. The only people who seemed less than thrilled to see him where the folks who worked at the Rexford Hotel. Rufus greeted him awkwardly as he walked inside, and Hancock tipped his hat with a bit of a flourish. Rufus didn't really need to know that Hancock knew that he was planning on competing with Hancock for business. Hancock wasn't threatened by it, either. He knew he had an ace in the hole with the Third Rail, and even if he did lose some business, it wouldn't make a dent in his income. He had plenty of other sources of caps that Rufus wasn't aware of.
Once Clair had given Hancock the room number, he thanked her and walked up the stairs to visit his old friend, ignoring the usual grumbles and half-whispered complaints that Clair usually muttered under her breath. She was always aggravated over something. Hancock supposed she must be happier when she complained, in her own way. Any time anyone ever offered help, out of kindness or just to get her to stop bemoaning her life, she became even more cross. It was her prerogative, and Hancock let her be.
Nick had greeted Hancock more warmly than he had before and let him into his rented room. They exchanged stories to catch each other up on the events in their lives, bantered back and forth, and poked fun at each other. The standard fare between the two of them. Nick had taken a seat at the desk which was strewn with notes and files that Hancock wasn't at all surprised to find that Nick had with him. There was no such thing as a day off for Nick. Once the formalities of conversation had been exchanged and the ice sufficiently broken, Hancock ventured to ask what was really on his mind. He wanted to know about the stranger that Nick had brought with him.
As soon as Hancock expressed that interest, Nick's smile fell. His face grew tired. Hancock thought Nick might have looked sad. There was an unexpected weight behind the answer that Hancock had wanted. It was a weight that he hadn't exactly prepared for.
"Now, there are a few things you're going to have to understand," Nick began to explain, running a hand across his face as he collected his thoughts, sounding for all the world like a father who had just been asked a very adult question by his very young son. On a normal evening, Hancock would have found this response grating. Nick may have known Hancock since he was a child, but Hancock certainly wasn't a child any longer. He was far passed the point where he needed Nick to act paternal over him, and he was far passed the point where paternal care could help him. Hancock kept himself from complaining. He knew that, this time, it wasn't Hancock that Nick was trying to protect.
"At least give me a name to work with. You can give me that much, can you?" Hancock interrupted. He wanted to give Nick a starting point, in case it made things easier.
Nick nodded slowly and repositioned himself in his chair, getting a distant look in his eyes. As if trying to recall details. Something must have happened recently. Something big. According to Skinny's messenger, Nick must have met the stranger no more than three weeks ago. Nick's processor wasn't damaged badly enough to make him forget an encounter in that short of time. It would also explain why the stranger had walked off on his own and had not yet come back. "His name is Novak. Or at least, that's what he insists people call him. He got me out of a tight spot not too long ago, so I figured I'd pay him back by working a case he brought me for free. He seems like a good man who's just been through a lot. You can ask him about it yourself, if you can keep him from wandering off long enough to do it. He's not afraid to tell people about what he's been through, but there's a big difference between telling people about something and talking about it."
Hancock understood that all too well. One of the best ways to hide something was in plain sight. It was a tool Hancock used frequently. He would lay his skeletons out on the table for everyone to see, so no one would get curious and ask about them. How he got them. Where they came from. What they meant to him. Nick had flipped things around to make the conversation personal on Hancock's end, so he quickly changed the subject.
"He's a bit flighty then, huh? Kinda noticed the attention span when he forgot about the murder he witnessed and launched into questions about my looks." Hancock said with a smirk.
Nick gave a single laugh and rolled his eyes. Clearly, Hancock had made an understatement. "He's a vault-dweller, Hancock. Half of the things in the Commonwealth, he's never seen before. I had a hell of a time trying to get him to come here. We had some important business to do with his case, but even then he'd get distracted by God only knows what. I'm not usually one for agreeing with stereotypes, but vault-dwellers can be such a handful. This one especially."
"Yeah, I was sort of wondering whether or not those rags he had on was hiding anything like a vault suit or a pip-boy…" Hancock mused.
"I think he tries his best to look like he fits in, but he doesn't pull it off too well. Too many questions about things that are common knowledge to anyone who's lived out here more than a month, and he's too eager to help anyone who needs it. Sometimes without pay." Nick shrugged. Hancock knew Nick was berating Novak for being so naive, but there was a deep admiration under Nick's tone as well. Selflessness was indeed a rare quality in the Commonwealth, but it would get Novak spotted. Even targeted. It could put him in serious danger. Especially in a town like Goodneighbor.
"Don't worry, Nick. I'll help keep your new stray safe… relatively speaking." Hancock said with a confident wave of his hand.
Nick only nodded, not trusting himself to respond in a non-sarcastic manner.
By the time Hancock was making the return walk back to home, the traffic in the streets of Goodneighbor had died down. It must be pretty early in the morning. Nights usually lasted longer in this town than they did anywhere else in the Commonwealth, but even Goodneighbor had something of a curfew. The handful of people that were left wandering the streets now were far too lost in their drinks or chems to notice Hancock. It was perfectly alright with the mayor to be ignored for now. His mind was on the vault-dweller, Novak. Hancock hadn't met many vault-dwellers in his life, no one really had. That was the particular thing about anyone who lived underground like a mole rat. They rarely came above ground in the first place. Why would they? Each vault was built like a fortress. Nothing could get inside once the vault was sealed. They were safe. They were sheltered. Vault-dwellers had something of a reputation for being naive, to put it in more polite terms. Just another reason on their end to never leave their homes. Sometimes, it was for the best. Horror stories continued to float around campfires, between traders, and from all over about the old vaults and the strange experiments that went on there, conducted by the twisted minds of the pre-war folks. The same ones that had bombed the entire world to hell. Whether or not people truly believed any of those tales, there were few that would venture into a vault on their own. People didn't come out, people didn't go in. So why did Novak leave?
It wasn't the Goodneighbor way to interrogate any of the residents or guests about their past, or their reason for leaving it behind. Whatever happened to them was their own business, and they could share it or keep it to themselves at their own leisure. Hancock believed in this strongly. Novak had his reasons, and Hancock trusted that they were good enough. Hancock could tell himself this all he wanted to, and he certainly had over the past few days, but the fact remained that there was something about Novak that Hancock just couldn't shake. It went deeper than simply gaping the silly vault-dweller that made his way to Goodneighbor, of all the settlements in the Commonwealth. Hancock was a pretty good judge of character and potential, and he definitely sensed that this particular vault-dweller had more determination and moxie than most wastelanders that Hancock knew. That's what drove Hancock's fascination with Novak. At least, that's what Hancock had concluded to himself as he let himself back inside the old State House.
Fahrenheit was waiting for him at the top of the stairs, the look on her face seemed disapproving of something. Hancock was sure he'd hear about it soon enough. The mayor of Goodneighbor had a definite reputation for having many late-night trysts with women of all kinds. He was a seasoned lover, some might say. He knew how to handle the fairer sex, and how to do do it appropriately. The nice thing about Fahrenheit was that she was completely uninvolved with Hancock's love life, and therefore required none of these skills he had acquired over the years. What they had was professional, maybe closer to friendship. Hancock respected her. She was direct, to the point, and if Hancock pissed her off, she would let him know immediately and get it out of the way without holding a grudge. That was why he knew that her sullen expression was not meant to be directed at him.
Words weren't exchanged; they weren't needed. Fahrenheit simply rolled her eyes in the direction of Hancock's room. Curiously, he peered inside to find the source of the issue that was causing Fahrenheit undue stress. It didn't take long to locate the issue.
Novak, the missing vault-dweller, was standing in front of Hancock's desk. For a moment, Hancock thought that Novak might be trying to take a look at Hancock's personal computer. That thought was quickly dismissed as soon as his coal-colored eyes followed Novak's gaze, which was locked on the radio beside the computer. Hancock watched in curious fascination as Novak brushed off the radio with his right hand, almost reverently. Novak's left hand brought a half-empty bottle of whiskey up to his lips for a drink.
As Novak continued his exploration of Hancock's radio, he learned that it wouldn't turn on. It amused Hancock to watch Novak stare blankly for a moment when he flipped the dial, expecting music but discovering only silence. Novak tried a second and a third time to turn the radio on, perhaps thinking that he had performed the necessary step to activate the radio incorrectly.
The fault was not with Novak in this instance. The radio itself was to blame. Hancock was unable to recall the exact set of events that had caused the radio to stop working, but he remembered the morning that he discovered the radio was broken. Hancock had woken up some time after the sun had come up without any pants, the arms of his jacket tied sloppily to a lamp, his hat nowhere to be found,and the radio lying face down on the floor in a puddle of nuka cola mixed with vodka. Needless to say, the caffeine and alcohol didn't agree with the radio's mechanical and electrical workings.
Hancock allowed Novak to puzzle over the radio for a few seconds longer; there was something oddly endearing about the growing confusion on the drunk man's face.
"I gotta say, you might be the first person to make their way up my stairs just to spend a drunken evening with a radio radio." Hancock finally said as he stepped into the room, breaking the silence and smirking easily.
Novak jumped in alarm when he heard Hancock's voice. He had forgotten that he wouldn't be alone in this room forever, and the sudden appearance of the ghoul mayor of Goodneighbor, who had no qualms with murdering a citizen, had caught him by surprise.. Balance compromised by the amount of alcohol he had allegedly consumed, Novak stumbled and grabbed ahold of anything that his hands could reach. The radio. He steadied himself, but the radio was pushed to the edge of the desk and toppled onto the floor, causing Novak to jump a second time.
"Ah, fuck. Sorry, I dropped your…" Novak's eyes grew even more distant and bleary as he searched his mind desperately for the word. He knew it was in there somewhere, but it just seemed to be floating out of reach amidst the ocean of whiskey he had consumed. "...your thing…"
"Don't worry about it, brother. The thing was broken before you got to it." Hancock chuckled. It was something of a comfort to find that even the vault-dweller had some sort of vice. That gave them something to talk about, at the least. Hancock made the decision to join Novak as well. He grabbed himself what remained of the scotch he had offered to the Triggermen messenger a few days prior. The ghoul mayor then made his way over to his couch and let himself fall comfortably into the cushions, then he extended an arm to invite his intoxicated house guest to join him. Novak scooted sideways, reminding Hancock of a mirelurk as he took small, quick steps to avoid tripping himself. With an even more gusto than Hancock, Novak dropped onto the other couch. His rough landing was unintentional.
Once safely in a sitting position, Novak let his eyes wander around the room and then focus on Hancock. The drunk expression was difficult to read, due to Hancock's assumption that Novak's face had gone somewhat numb a while ago. What Hancock could manage to see in those foggy eyes, he found surprising. Novak was staring directly at Hancock, yes. This was nothing new to any ghoul in the entire wasteland. Smooth-skins would stare. Some would avoid eye contact. It was all part of the package for Hancock. It came to his attention that Novak wasn't staring out of morbid fascination, as some would. There was an innocent, questioning look to his drunken gaze. Hancock recalled Novak's manner of observation being similar to this when they had first met. He was like a child who had met a ghoul for the first time, but hadn't been told by his parents that ghouls were meant to be feared. There was hesitation, but none of the usual disgust or unease. What Novak was perceiving through the half-bottle of whiskey, and whatever he had consumed prior to it, was a human. A man. Like himself. A man wearing clothing from the American Revolutionary period.
"So, to what do I owe this visit?" Hancock asked, quickly pushing these extraordinary realizations out of his mind. Not that he was worried that the intellectually compromised man in front of him would suspect Hancock of being soft. There was no reason to be concerned on that front. His reputation was safe, and he had plenty of plausible deniability. It was simply that Hancock was always on his guard, and he knew that a tilt of the head and a charismatic smirk would be enough to disarm anyone to the point where he'd regain the upper hand in most conversations. So, he did.
Novak's eyes widened at Hancock, and he quickly looked away. Hancock watched patiently as Novak chuckled to himself and spun his bottle in his hands. Was he bashful or did he just have the beer/whiskey giggles?
"I dunno…" Novak grinned downwards at his bottle, not looking back up at Hancock for the time being. "...Things haven't been going super great for me lately, but that's no excuse for me to be rude. And I really like your town, because it's really great that all these people who don't have a place to go can have a place to go… and Diamond City sucks. Everyone's all… bigoted. It's gross."
Hancock let out a small tear of laughter at Novak's final addition. He even raised his glass to toast Novak's words. "I'll drink to that."
Novak saw Hancock raise his glass, then instinctively did the same, happy for the excuse to drink more. He didn't speak until he was sure the whiskey had hit his stomach. "I also wanted to tell you that you did a good thing, and that you're a cool mayor. I hear good things about you, and also threats. So I wanted to introduce myself, and not be rude anymore."
Hancock stared at Novak as he shoved his hand forward, offering it in a formal greeting. "I'm Novak."
"Hancock. John Hancock." Hancock took his hand and gave it a firm shake. The grip was returned in equal strength, even with Novak's attention slipping. Novak stared at Hancock, his head tilted to the side and mouth slightly open in a smile. It looked like he really wanted to ask something, but wasn't sure if it was appropriate or if he should ask it at all.
"...What's your story?" Novak finally managed to ask the question that Hancock had been expecting him to ask two days ago.
"My favorite subject." Hancock said with a flourish as he sat forward. He placed his glass on the worn table in front of the couch. He was quite pleased to see Novak lean forward with rapt attention. Hancock always appreciated a receptive audience. It made him perform his tale with even more enthusiasm as he recalled the events that had lead him to this current point in his life. At least, the points he was willing to share with a man he just met who had come by way of Diamond City.
"I came to this town about… a decade ago? Had a smooth set of skin back then. While I was busy making myself a pillar of the community, I would go on these… like… wild tears… I was young… Any chems I could find, the more exotic, the better. Finally found this experimental radiation drug. Only one of it's kind and only one hit. Oh man, the hit was so worth it. Yeah, I'm living with the side effects, but hey, what's not to love about immortality?"
"You're immortal?" Novak asked, his eyes growing even wider in amazement. Hancock knew plenty of people who lost their filter and inhibitions when drunk, but Novak was taking it to a whole new level. It might have been charming if it weren't so funny to see him sitting on the couch, his legs crossed. He looked twenty years younger than he was, at least. Novak certainly wasn't doing Hancock's modesty any favors.
"Well, not exactly…" Hancock made a valiant attempt to appear humble. "Ghouls just age really, really slow. Something about the rads, maybe? Who knows…"
"You're a hell of a risk-taker, Hancock…" Novak muttered, shaking his head slowly to express just how blown away he was by Hancock's story. He seemed impressed, despite his better judgement.
"Only have one life, why not try it all?" Hancock replied in a smooth, knowing sort of tone. He hoped his wisdom would inspire the vault-dweller, maybe bring him out of his shell more. There were several things Hancock could think of to use someone this easy to sway for, just off the back of his hand. Plus, the kid had potential, and part of Hancock wanted to see how far he'd get.
Novak contemplated Hancock's words, nodding solemnly. "One life…"
And with that, Novak suddenly got to his feet. Hancock's eyes followed him, blinking in surprise.
"Got somewhere to be?" Hancock asked with a laugh.
"...Yeah, I guess you could say that… I gotta-... go do something. Good talk, though. Thanks for keeping it real. I can show myself out… I'm good and directions." Novak gave Hancock something resembling a salute, his face still set with concentration. Hancock returned the gesture in a light-hearted manner. What a weird guy, Hancock thought to himself as Novak stumbled out, determined about some sort of alcohol-spurred goal. Hancock knew that, even with all of the things that were still left undone in this town, he wouldn't be left lacking for entertainment now.