"I have stood by and watched you make some shit poor decisions, Hancock, but this - this has got to be top of the list. Are you fucking insane?"
"Finn had it coming," Hancock waves off Fahrenheit's concern with a roll of his wrist, "the world's not gonna miss one more dead asshole."
"Not Finn, John," hearing her spit his name makes him wince, "I'm talking about giving Roach the run of the city. Are you fucking insane?" She repeats.
"Hey, what do you want me to do? I stand in her way, Goodneighbor ends up the next Crater City."
Fahrenheit glares at him, cigarette burning between her lips, she doesn't say anything else, instead waits for him to continue on with his shovel.
"I got people to look after here. Besides, she ain't gonna be any trouble. Girl's just looking for her Eyebot. She hangs around maybe a few days, asks her questions, then moves on."
"Until someone pisses her off," Fahrenheit mutters loud enough for him to hear, and means that.
Hancock eyes her from the couch, fingering a jet canister he's been thinking about hitting. "Okay, smart guy, what would you have done," he picks it up and takes a long puff from it, not once breaking eye contact.
Fahrenheit admits he has a point, she's not sure what she would have done and he can see that truth in the way her shoulder sag, "I'd tell her to fuck off to Diamond City. Let her be their problem."
"She wouldn't make it past the front door," Hancock tosses the canister back down on the table. He leans back into the high letting the plush cushions of the couch form to his neck and back, cradling him there in his Old State House while his daughter leans into him with all kinds of fury.
"How's that our problem?"
"Because this is Goodneighbor," he replies, "Of the people, for the people."
"Fuck off with that," Fahrenheit says, "We're talking about Roach, not some drifter come in out of the Commonwealth."
"I don't think I see your point."
He can feel her eyes boring into him, white hot, he doesn't let it ruin his high. She gets to the point, "Whatever she does," she pauses with vicious intent, "that's on you, John," there she goes again with that first name crap, "you feel me?"
He smirks at that, "Yeah, I feel ya."
Fahrenheit glares at him just a little longer, digging her point in just that much more before she storms out. The door slams behind her, all the pictures on the wall rattling in their frames and not a single one of them isn't crooked to begin with.
"Now you've gone and done it," Hancock chuckles to himself. Fahrenheit will be mad just about the rest of the night, if not into tomorrow morning. But what else was new, she always had something up her ass about one thing or another; Certainly didn't get that kind of responsibility from dear old dad.
A cool breeze rolled in through the open window. It smelled like rain, maybe a good ten minutes out, he could already see the rad-lightning in the sky, flashing a distant strobe. Beneath it, Fahrenheit was bringing her own storm, following up her grand exit with another slam of the Old State House door as she took her fury to the streets.
She's bull headed like a Brahmin, but she's not about to go get herself into any trouble. He feels sorry for anyone that crosses her path though, in that regard, her and Roach might get along. But he's wary about that risk, two nukes butting heads wasn't good for anyone.
He's dead tired on that couch, or just too comfortable to think about moving. He musters enough to pull a tin of Mentats from his pocket, pops a couple with a flick of his thumb, and goes back to staring out the window.
The rad storm off in the distance is really doing it for him, this is a high he could ride all night. It reminds him of those old Pollock paintings, he's surprised he even remembers the name, but there it is. Jackson Pollock. Amazing how someone can be famous for slapping color on canvas. He thinks he could do that, Hell, he's sure anyone can do that. Maybe if this whole Mayor thing doesn't work out he'll be a painter next.
—-
Finn is pretty much dead.
Pretty much meaning physically and finally. It took a hell of a long time too and was probably just about as painful as anyone might expect.
Roach crouches down beside him and signs an apology he can't see, not that he deserves it. Not that he deserves being dead either. But she's not too happy about getting the shake down from him, so she's ok with it.
His pockets are wet from his blood and start sticking on the inside to his leg. It's gross fishing about in there, but after a few moments of digging she's able to pull out all her caps and then some. It's obvious he'd had some luck before he became a knife block because he's got a few extra caps in his pocket. Seventy five, not much, but still more than Roach had shelled out. She keeps her own due and shoves the extra back into Finn's pocket. She's no thief, especially of the dead. Bad manners.
She can feel the eyes of Goodneighbor on her, just like every other town, leery and for very real reasons. Assumed or not. She feels bad, because she's really not all the stories say. For a minute she had considered chasing after Hancock. His charm seemed immune to her perceived foulness and she figures that kind of honey might help ease his Neighbors' minds. But the woman at the door is giving her some serious stink eye and she's not looking for trouble. So Roach resigns herself to the task alone.
She sighs.
Goodneighbor is a meandering dream town, something Lewis Carroll might really be proud of. Everyone's got these looking-glass eyes, an inhaler to their lips blowing cotton candy rings in the fluorescent buzz of street signs. There's something about this place that keeps the whole world at bay, where the filter grain of sand just stops at the door. Maybe it's the drugs, Roach doesn't know, but she's enthralled by all the colors she's forgotten existed. It almost makes the frustration of her current situation bearable - forgettable even. She thinks she might like to stay here, maybe when she finds B4M, things to be considered, it's something to look forward to. At the very least, Mayor Hancock has been gracious enough to welcome her, that was something new. No one's ever shared such honesty in greeting, but he seemed genuinely thrilled to have her.
She really does like Goodneighbor.
A wandering love song dances through the streets, it's a shared harmony between a live singer and some pre-war recording. Roach can't hear it, but she can feel it, drifting there in her company, pulling her along.
She can't remember the last song she's felt, which is a shame, because she likes music. But who doesn't in this world? Everything that had torn it to pieces, music seems to fix. She figures it's the closest thing to magic they've got.
The Third Rail sign rusts like old blood around the edges, tucked away in the heart of the city and just about the only place left open for the night. It's got an inviting air about it, the way the doors have been propped open to let the music breath. There's a stale breath of drink wafting out with it, the soft clink of glass and quiet rabble she can't make out, but it's there for everyone else.
Beyond those doors is a small foyer, nothing to write home about, but it's got this formal looking presentation about it, a real red carpet type vibe that leads up to a stairwell where all that music is floating up from. Roach doesn't feel nearly important enough to go down, but Hancock has given his word and she takes that quite seriously.
Worst case scenario, she buys a drink and sees herself out.
Worser case scenario, someone dies in-between here and then.
She really was hoping for the former.
"Oh shit, it's you - you're her," At the top of the stairs is a ghoul, tan suit and sleepy eyed, he's only there to cover Ham's break and hasn't been expecting trouble in that five minute span.
But Roach has gone and fucked that up.
"Shit," he's cursing more and more under his breath, which is annoying because Roach can't read his lips so good when he does it. She squints at him and makes herself look mean, it's not her intention, but it's putting the fear of God into the poor bastard. He takes one too many steps backwards, getting all sorts of personal with the top of those stairs.
She steps in to stop him, but he's got no interest in letting her in that close. He moves back one more step. That's when his ankle gives out over the edge and he topples backwards. He's all limbs as he rolls down the stairwell, each step a sickening crunch until he hits the bottom, twisted and dead.
The music stops.
Someone screams.
A drink drops.
And Roach, Roach just signs quietly to herself:
'God dammit.'
