It was months later before she found herself back in that part of old Boston. After her initial encounter with Pickman, Nora found herself avoiding the gallery at all costs for fear of seeing him again. She'd been stomping around the city with Hancock, righting wrongs and killing what needed killing, sneaking her ghoulish, chem-addled friend into Diamond City for the noodles, chasing down Deathclaw nests, and answering every distress beacon that played across her Pip-boy. The two of them had even built a teleport array out in Sanctuary. She'd found her son, found the old man who led the Institute. He was safe, he was content, and he had no real need for her. Oh, he'd asked her to join the cause, to make humanity better than it was by giving up on the surface, but how could she? The synths and ghouls she knew, they weren't defects, they weren't mutants, not to her. They were dear to her, dearer than her own flesh and blood, it seemed, because she kissed Shaun's withered cheek and departed the Institute. She doubted she'd ever return.
After this harrowing experience, Nora went back to Goodneighbor with Hancock and took more chems than a sane person had any business taking. They danced and sang and screamed, and if she had perhaps even howled at the moon during those two weeks, she didn't give a shit. The only thing she was living for, the one goal she'd kept, had been swallowed up and transformed by the Institute. Lying there on the ancient, dusty mattress, listening to the soft snores of the friend beside her and still tingling from the high of Daytripper, Nora felt her face twitch, felt the skin draw tight as her mouth trembled and eyes burned. A big, fat tear rolled down her cheek, chilling her heated skin, and she wiped it away, the slight grin of inebriation still clinging to her lips despite it all.
She started leaving in the mornings after that, before Hancock woke from their nights of revelry, to scour the ruins of old Boston. She couldn't explain why she felt the need to get up and move, to scavenge and fight while still doped up from the night before, but no one asked, so it didn't matter anyways. She'd go out before the sun rose, start with the first building on the block and work her way down. Some were inhabited, raiders and gunners galore, but she turned it into a game, seeing how many she could kill before she'd have to duck down for a stimpak or flee the building for a while. More often that she'd like, she came back covered in bruises and raider gore, but since her hauls included tons of caps, scrap, and weapons as well, no one seemed terribly put out about it. She'd fight until just after midday, then return to Goodneighbor once the block was free of scum, sell her things, and sleep until the night revelry began again. In this way she cleared out a substantial area around the town, and caravans were made much safer, so no one ever really bothered her about it. After all, she'd been on her own before Nick and Hancock, fighting her way to Diamond City and Goodneighbor in the first place, so it wasn't like she was incapable. Hancock never asked what her deal was, never imposed at all, just kept passing the Jet, Med-X, and liquor, kept holding her hand when she asked, and kept the hell away when she said she didn't want to talk about it. She couldn't have asked for better companionship.
It was a cold, cloudy day when it happened. Rain and rads pelted her body, and she struggled to make it back to Goodneighbor. She'd been wounded on this latest run, a substantial gash on her right thigh hindering mobility, and it took all her effort to keep from falling in the rubble. It wasn't the first time she'd been hurt out there, but it was the first time she really regretted not bringing some support. She was out of stimpaks, nor did she have anything she'd be willing to risk putting on the cut to try to bind it, as all of her things were filthy beyond reckoning. It was getting darker, the radstorm increasing in severity to the point that she couldn't find her bearings, nor could she make out one street from another. She tried remembering the direction she came from, but in the deepening gloom and increasingly severe downpour, it was hard to see further than a few feet ahead. A deafening roar of thunder and brilliant flash flared to life to her right, and when she turned to look, she tripped over something large and soft. A body. The throat was cut, and after a cursory search, she found it. A note with a dripping heart, and on it the same words she'd seen before. Pickman was here. Find me if you dare.
Feeling reasonably certain that the building inside was empty of its former residents, Nora eased open the door and crept inside. It was dark, old lanterns penetrating the gloom of the buildings. She slunk into the corner and stood, shivering and listening. It was hard, for her breath was coming fast, her every instinct telling her to shake and chatter her teeth, to attempt to warm herself. Her icy fingers clenched into fists as she silently observed. The room itself was devoid of any living occupants, instead playing host to some half dozen dead bodies. They were still warm, still able to be manipulated. They couldn't have been dead very long, and when she looked, there they were, more calling cards. The hair on the back of her neck stood on end, for though it was deathly quiet, she couldn't help but feel she was being watched. From upstairs an argument sounded, a man and a woman shrieking at each other, talking about who could only be Pickman, but they did not seem to know she was there.
She took to the stairs, creeping along as quietly as she could, making it to the upper landing without incident. There was a light at the end of the hall, and under it stood a man in leathers and spikes with a stupid post apocalyptic haircut. His knife was at the ready.
"Come out, you cowards!" The man called as Nora removed her gun with shaking fingers. She steadied the sights of her .44 in his direction, bracing an arm against the wall to keep it still, and when the raider looked thoroughly distracted with lighting a cigarette, she fired. Blessedly, the bullet struck true, shattering the raider's skull and splattering brain matter all over the walls around him. Unfortunately, she roused the anger of the other occupants, both of whom stormed out through the half broken door across the hall, heading straight for her. She only had time for one shot before they were on her, and while she'd crippled the woman, the man was unharmed.
"Got ya now, you fucking cunt." He screamed as he ran towards her, a switchblade in his right hand, and before she had a chance to retreat, he was on her. Cut after cut, slice after burning slice, he hacked away, screaming as he did so. "Kill my men, ya little bitch? My men?!" Adrenaline pulsed through her as they fought on the filthy floorboards, her limbs kicking and flailing, hands twitching as they reached for her knife, Pickman's gift to her. Before she made it, before she had a chance to tear out his throat, the raider stabbed his knife into her forearm, ripping a scream from her lips. Blood pulsed out, staining his leathers, coating her fingers. Blood was in her eyes, on her cheeks, sobs ripping from her throat as he twisted the knife. In the struggle she had dislodged his torturous hand, but when he reached to pull out the blade, to take it to her throat, she managed to get her own in him, stabbing him in the side of the neck, watching the light fade from his eyes as surely as it was going to fade from hers. Bright red pulsed from his jugular, filling her mouth as she lay panting. With a shaking hand she reached over, intent to rip the knife from her body. Her fingers wrapped around the hilt, blood squelching against the old leather. From the corner of her eyes she saw the woman, still alive, struggling to crawl towards her. The raider reached down, took out a psycho syringe and stabbed it into her arm. At the same time, 3 more raiders entered from a ladder leading to the roof. Nora struggled in earnest, ripping the knife from her arm with a howl, forcing herself to her feet. Blood slithered down her limbs and pumped out of her arm with each heartbeat, pain pulsing in her joints, and then her knees gave out. What was meant to be a hasty retreat became a tumble down the stairs. Each slam of her body onto her mangled arm drew out another scream, and it seemed that years passed before she reached the bottom.
The raiders were coming down; she could hear the scuffle of their feet on the ancient stairs. The pounding of their heavy boots roared in her ears, and then she heard nothing but screams, saw nothing but blood in her eyes. If she had heard or seen anything else, it would have been a cheerfully hummed song and the graceful swipe of a knife across throats, followed by the staccato of swift stabs, a dagger in the dark that did not relent until their bodies resembled ground meat. Instead the blood continued to leak from her, and she went unconscious just as a soothing voice started to speak and hands that felt blazing hot on her chill skin started pressing against her wounds.