Déjà Vu
Summary – Ron, a Paladin, has seen a ghoul go feral before, but what exactly tips him off about Ben? A little back-story for the ghoul ghost in Ron's life.
Note – Season 2, Episode 5 - as James, Penelope, Ron, and Twig are talking about rescuing Scar
Disclaimer – I do not own or pretend to own anything from either the Fallout games or from Nuka Break, the web-series.
Body held tightly together, limited range of movement - check.
Thicker than normal white covering all of the eyes - check.
Quick head movement to reassure himself of where he was and who he was with - check.
Two weeks. Maybe a bit more, maybe a bit less, but two weeks was what Ron would give the ghoul. If nothing else happened to shatter body and soul between now and then.
The Ranger seemed more optimistic, but Ron, Ron had seen it all before...before the the Brotherhood, before the Legion came this far, before loss of family drove him to the Lockre.
A reddish tinged man with a perpetual smile, always carrying a well mended knapsack with him, nestling fragments of dreams inside - I could remember my first ghoul, and that ghoul's story, very very clearly.
Gerald. Gerald McSimmons. Who had just left his hometown when the bombs hit, smashed to the ground by the shockwave before he could register shock and surprise, let alone go back and check on his family. By the time he crawled back to his burning house, hours later, there had only been charred skeletons in the front yard, one bigger one holding two scorched metal lunch boxes, with a fire hardened baseball bat and broken chess set between two smaller skeletons.
One day to dig a grave for them, two days before he got hungry, and three days before he was willing to admit he had to leave...for sanity's sake at least. That's all it took to leave a whole life behind. Gerald picked over his house, and the Thompson's place next door before leaving, a knapsack half full of water and food, half full of memories.
Gerald started a pattern when traveling - scout, stay, set off. The ghoul didn't really want to talk to anybody in the first several years anyway. Afterwards, when new communities sprouted up from the ashes, he started tale weaving, becoming a bard and telling stories about Before in exchange for a few nights shelter.
A hundred and twenty odd years of this brought him back to my village for a third time, where a rebelling 14 year old was trying to convince the mayor that technology wasn't evil, it could be used for good.
Needless to say, nothing would convince the old, entrenched mayor, and nothing could change my mind since I knew I was right and he was wrong - stubbornness ran as broad and wide as the old Mississippi in our family.
So Gerald had stepped in with a proposition. He would escort me to a Brotherhood post, for a modest fee of course, since the nearest outpost was over a week's travel in the best of conditions.
Those first few days were glorious - freed from Brahmin, freed from oppression - I had been beyond happy. Gerald...not so much. About halfway through the week I started noticing things, small things, that didn't feel right. Small twitches from the ghoul, a stiffness, hallucinations late at night, loving whispers to the ghosts gathered around our smoldering campfire.
Which was a mistake - who lit campfires at night in the wastelands? Slavers, that's who. The attack came when Gerald was crooning to his sons and I had wrapped a tattered blanket around myself, wishing to disappear, or at least be invisible. Gerald had screeched, the sound transformed into electricity along my nerves. One enraged ghoul against four slavers was a joke. When the gentle ghoul looked at me, blood dripping from his hands while tears streamed from his eyes, my throat had closed up tight.
"Run...west." Gerald groaned, his voice raspier and lower than mere hours before. "One day...near...bridge."
"You-"
"-leave!" Screamed Gerald, a hint of that earlier screech trailing the end of the word. I turned and ran, stumbling, not stopping, running scared for about half a day, later surprising a returning Brotherhood patrol who had immediately turned out again after I gasped out my story. I showed them to the campfire, hoping they could help Gerald; the rotting bodies of slavers hadn't bothered us, but when we found Gerald...who had lost the remaining shred of his mind...that sight would be forever imprinted on my soul. The Brotherhood made short work of him, and I had quietly taken the ghoul's knapsack with me, claiming it as my own.
No one had mourned, no one had cared except for one 14 year-old boy. And what was I against the world?
Jame-the Ranger wanted to bring the ghoul with him? Fine. With any luck it would turn out there, kill Leon, and leave his people alone. Ghouls, and technology, always complicate a simple, satisfying life.