Jack Parsons and the Heroic Flaw
Author's Note: I'm fantastic at taking 3-year hiatuses from this website and then returning with a flurry of activity. Here we go again. This chapter went a bit dark, but every hero needs a fatal flaw.
Piper looked like she wanted to talk about something important, so Jack made an excuse about resting up before an op and got the hell out of there.
Things were… progressing between them. He didn't like it. She was everything Nora wasn't, and it killed him. Every time he saw her, it gave him a moment of hope. Maybe he could settle down in this wasteland and carve out a life of relative normalcy. But when he entertained the notion, thoughts of what he had lost flooded into his mind. Nora had been dead for sixty years, but from Jack's perspective, it had only been a few months.
So, when Piper began acting a little bit more than friendly around the castle, it caused him to run in the other direction. He felt like a preteen again, overthinking things she said or did, or things he said or did in response. It wasn't the right headspace for the general of the minutemen and acting director of the Institute to be in, anyway.
Besides, he wasn't completely lying to her. Jack did need to get some sleep.
He trudged to his room, head spinning with the possibilities. Even though the conversation didn't begin on his terms, it seemed to turn out well. Preston, Nick, and Piper seemed on board with the plan to create an alliance between the Institute and Minutemen. Settlements would get to vote on whether they wanted to be part of this new order, and the Institute would cease all of its shady shit as soon as Jack took over.
Of course, him taking over meant Shaun dying. That filled Jack with a pang of grief. It was insane, disgusting, strange, and heartbreaking to see your own son, older than you, dying of cancer. He hardly knew how to think about it. Or deal with it. He wasn't dealing with it, if he was honest with himself. The empty bourbon bottles on his nightstand evidenced that well enough. He remembered seeing his comrades-in-arms die during the resource wars, and occasionally having to be the unfortunate bastard who knocked on their parents, or wives, doors and inform them. He would never forget the bewildered and hopeless looks on some parents' faces. Nobody should have to bury one of their children.
And yet, in a matter of weeks or months, Jack would do exactly that.
Then what? He'd be effectively in control of two of the Commonwealth's most powerful factions. The man who barely graduated from high school, now a local leader. It was a long road ahead.
Would there be a peaceable end to the conflict with the Brotherhood of Steel? Could the Institute and Railroad bury the hatchet, and work together? Or would they have to be dealt with, too? What would that look like? Plus, would the people of the Commonwealth and Jack's closest followers wake up one day and realize that he was an imposter? He was supposed to be dead. He wasn't meant to be breathing, much less running things. And he had no clue what he was doing.
All the thoughts made his head spin. He had reached his living quarters. Locking the door behind him, he laid down in bed, fully clothed. Anxiety was beginning to grip him. The room started to feel a bit more closed in. It didn't help that he was in what looked like a stone dungeon, partially underground. His breathing grew a bit more short.
His time in combat lent him the knowledge that he was panicking. Even though he was physically safe, his body had entered a fight or flight mode. His pupils narrowed and sweat pushed through the surface of his palms. He suddenly felt like he was going to die in the next few minutes.
He took a deep breath and looked around for something to drink. Nothing that strong spirits couldn't fix. Deep within, Jack knew something was broken inside him, and drowning it with liquor wouldn't help in the long run. He didn't give a shit.
He stood up, feeling lightheaded, and practically tore the doors off the liquor cabinet. Nothing inside. Damn it. His growing collection of bourbon bottles were also empty. Wasn't there anywhere the general could find a drop to drink? The thought flashed in his mind to check the mess hall. Then he thought about maybe running into Piper in this state. That jacked up his anxiety even more.
Suddenly, a dark thought occurred. At first it surprised him, and he refused to entertain it. But it crept in, like a spider crawling through a crack in his floor. He had something that could deal with his anxiety. Against his better judgement, Jack clambered over to his rucksack. He grabbed it by the bottom and poured out its contents.
Then, he saw it. Just what he needed.
He hadn't used it since his military days. In fact, he barely used it at all. Some other soldiers used it from time to time, if the chances of combat were high. Some of those used it, even when there was no combat at all. They'd swear they didn't need it, of course. But they'd take care of a couple of your duties for you if you gave them your ration of it.
Sitting on the floor was a syringe of Med-X. Distributed as a powerful portable painkiller, it saw great use in the military and medical fields leading up to the Great War. Jack figured that if he couldn't feel anything, then he couldn't feel anxiety. He would just do it once. Then, he would talk to Nick or Preston about what was going on, and sort things out the right way. But just this once, he would take the easy way out.
He grabbed the syringe, laid down in bed, and jabbed himself in the arm. Depressing the piston, he felt sweet relief pouring into his bloodstream. The impending conflict, the stress of leading a region, Piper, and every other problem began to feel very far away.
No wonder people get addicted to this stuff, thought Jack.
And then he thought and felt nothing.