Goodneighbor was one of the most human places in the Commonwealth—even though more than half the 'people' there were synths, ghouls, freaks, and junkies.
The streets were dirty, most people there were either high or drunk, and just about everyone in the city had some riches to rags story they wouldn't shut up about or a past they were trying to forget. Still, there was a collective understanding of what was there. Goodneighbor was the last major city in the Commonwealth where everyone was welcome.
The Third Rail embodied that idea better than anywhere else. The underground bar was the town's heart and soul. The signs shone a neon spotlight on the people's masochistic embracement of defeat. That same feeling hung in the air stronger than the smell of booze or the sounds of sad music ever could. The bar's patrons had an unofficial slogan: "We all bleed the same color."
Eveline Le Guin, a ghoulified woman, skin rotted away by radiation, cartilage of her nose and ears long gone, deep, dark brown, almost black eyes, and short black hair styled away from her face, sat drinking alone in a booth about 20 feet away from a bickering male ghoul and a young woman in a red trench coat.
"Piper, I've got an idea for your next article: 'Five Sex Techniques That Prove Ghouls are Better Lovers' Oh, or 'Is Your Man a Synth? What Penis Size Can tell us About the Institute's Secret Love Machines.' Whaddya, think?" the male ghoul laughed at his own joke, exposing his rotten, nearly toothless smile.
"Up yours, that's what I think," the woman replied with a snort.
"Alright, we'll put a pin in those. But really, when are we doing that profile piece?"
"Maybe when you do something more interesting than setting the record for the largest puddle of piss to wake up from a blackout in?"
The sudden sound of metal clanking diverted the ghoul woman's attention from the two at the bar. She looked towards the entrance. Thomas "Stu" Sturgeon, a medium-framed young man wearing a hoodie with the hood up and a baggy pair of olive cargo pants entered the Third Rail carrying a large overstuffed backpack rattling with junk. The bag clanked with each step, bouncing on his back. Most people were so absorbed in their own conversations or sulking that they didn't notice him enter. He removed his hood revealing a crew cut, brown, tired eyes, and a faint scar surrounding his neck in a perfect circle. He smiled brightly as he approached her. "Hey Evy, how ya been?" he asked, dropping his bag beside the booth and sliding in to sit opposite her.
"You don't have to keep doing this, Stu," she mumbled barely looking up at him.
"Eh, shut up with that," he responded, tucking the bag under the booth in case anyone decided to try snatching it.
"There's some decent salvage you can probably put up for a hundred caps or so. Maybe more. I've also got some of that pre-war food if you're not feeling picky," he reached over and grabbed her drink as he spoke and took a sip. "How you doing, Eveline?"
She didn't look up or respond. She didn't feel like talking about anything serious and he only called her Eveline when he wanted her to know he was being sincere. Otherwise it was 'Eve' or 'Evy.'
Stu picked the bag up from under the table and began digging through it, ignoring her silence and reverting back to his casual tone. "I also found some of that whiskey with the dog on it that you like. Oh, and before I forget, this is mine," he pulled out a book from the bag, and threw it onto the table with a soft thud.
Eve looked up and reached out to examine the book. It was soft covered and about three inches thick. "Associated Press Stylebook 2076?"
"Why you gotta grab the one thing I say is mine?" Stu said snatching the book from her hands.
Eve couldn't help but smirk. "So, what is it?"
"Some pre-war writing guide," he said thumbing through the pages, "apparently it's made just for reporters."
"I don't get it."
"If you're reporting the news you probably don't want to write like a novelist. I guess this is the style they used back then to report on plane crashes, or wars, or dog parades, or whatever."
"Did they have those?" Eve asked.
"Plane crashes and wars?
"No, dog parades."
"I don't know," he shrugged.
"So why do you have this, exactl—" Eve stopped mid-sentence and tilted her head slightly, giving him a knowing glance. Stu looked down and sucked in his lips trying to hide a sheepish grin.
"It's not going to work," she said shaking her head, her smirk growing into a reluctant smile.
"Oh, yeah?" he mused.
"What are you just going to hand it to her? That's weird, she barely knows you."
"She knows me enough!"
"Whatever, man," Eve snickered and took her drink back from him.
Stu looked over at the girl in the red trench coat just as she brushes a strand of hair out of her eyes. "Maybe I need a drink first," he muttered quickly. He reaches back across the table but Eve slapped his hand away.
"Fuck you, get your own!"
"She's right next to the bartender! I'll have to say something to her. Just – here," he dug around in the bag and pulled out a bottle of whiskey with a Scottish terrier on the label. "This one is your favorite anyway."
Eve took the bottle and pushed her drink back across the table. "It's the one with the turkey on it, but thanks."
"Ah, shit, you're right. The dog one is my favorite. My bad, let's trade again."
"Just drink and give her the fucking book," Eve snapped.
Stu tossed the rest of the drink back and placed the glass down. He turned his head, scrunched up his face, and squeezed his fingers into his palm, recoiling from the taste.
"So?" Eve smirked.
"Well, it doesn't just hit you! Give me a minute!"
She laughed and tore the seal from the mouth of the whiskey bottle, savoring the low pop of the cork as it opened.
"Really though, Evy, how are you doing?" Stu looked at her, his face suddenly serious again.
She groaned internally. Ugh. Well, at least he didn't call me Eveline this time.
"I'm fine," she lied to him. The past week was especially rough. She barely went out; just the thought of being around other people felt overwhelming. The only reason she was here was because it was Thursday night and there was a good chance Sturgeon, or 'Stu' as she always called him, would drop by looking for her. The Third Rail had become their de facto meeting spot over the past few months.
"I've been making a few friends around town," Eve continued, knowing Stu would pry if she just left things at 'fine', "Daisy—the woman at the general store when you first come into town—she's been trying to get me to join her book club or…something," she waved her hand dismissively.
"Oh, I've met her before, I think. Sweet woman. You should take her up on it. I'm sure she could…um, you know, give you advice or something…" Sturgeon shook his head and shrugged, trying to be light hearted about his suggestion. He never knew how to talk about her being a ghoul. She knew it was because he didn't want to make her feel bad by saying the wrong thing, but the truth was that it wasn't him she worried about. Stu hadn't treated her any differently since she changed. It was everyone else. The stares, the whispers, the disgust. Even if no one said it, she could feel it. It was easier in Goodneighbor, but that feeling of being loathed and repulsive to others followed her everywhere.
"Maybe," she mumbled. She had no intention of getting any closer with Daisy. Or anyone for that matter.
There was a brief pause between them. "Alright," Stu suddenly said dropping his palms to the table and standing up from his seat, "Here we go!"
Eve took a swig from her bottle as her friend walked reluctantly towards the bar, awkwardly holding the book like a life preserver.
She watched from her booth, amused by his visible discomfort. Taking another swig from the bottle, she looked around the bar. It was half full with the usual crowd. Depressed drunks drinking to forget, a group of friends arguing about Commonwealth politics, and a young couple who would only stick around for an hour or two before running off to the Hotel Rexford to fool around. Every now and then Magnolia came out in one of her extravagant dresses and sang a tune, but tonight it was all quiet chattering and the clinking of bottles. The neon signs looked a little brighter than usual – in fact the whole place did. Eve couldn't help but feel a little better than she did when she came in.