The weather was promising rain.
With the rain came that keen possibility of growth and change. Albeit very little "change" but enough to be worthwhile. In hindsight, the rain could rectify a few of his miss doings in the yard. Not that it would be an immediate change but he applauded some form of progress be it late or soon.
He just wanted the ominous stump to regrow. Give him a clean canvas to work on. Start over.
He thought it over a little while longer, looking out through shattered glass still sticking out of a window pane. Observing the interesting effects the glass had on the world around him.
However, he was unable to stop his growing urge to wander toward the footbridge after a while; losing interest in the shattered glass.
Once there, he paced, or rather hovered, over the remaining boards rather amused. Eyeing the shallow waters of the river down below.
With the healthy hum of his atomic heart, he thought of torrents of heavy rain quickening the flow of the lazy river. Washing away old dried logs and domestic appliances that had found their watery doom under the bridge. It made for an ominous atmosphere, one Codsworth dreamed of rectifying…One a torrent of rain could handle quite nicely…
While tempting, it could get quite messy too quickly, But "pick your poison" came to mind. He'd rather have rain if he was being frank,…it was severely overdue!
All these thoughts of rain eventually came to a silent standstill as he directed his thoughts past the footbridge.
He subconsciously spun his hacksaw forward,
the clink of gunshots echoing in the distance coming to his attention.
The raiders usually didn't wander far enough this way to be any real threat but it was clear they were scavenging the area or simply playing fool as of late — They usually did, play fool.
He listened to their violent rallying approaching from the glowing evening mist hanging over Concord. He did this a little longer until he satisfied his concern about their uninvited arrival. Taking it he had many tasks to be handled as it were, no need to let his oil sit for too long!
Fridays were, as it seemed, redeeming.
He could finally conclude his weekly schedule and fancy over the weekend. Not that there was anything to do…he couldn't exactly "go out" but he hadn't let that fact keep him from enjoying a restful weekend.
He usually wandered the neighborhood and looked through the few belongings that'd survived the apocalypse. Then take a few mandatory downtimes inside the laundry room in silence.
Sometimes these few moments of inactivity were bliss…other times they were not. Mostly because it allowed things to wander too close to Sanctuary for his liking. Bugs and wild dogs being some of his most frequent visitors.
It was these lonely hours that something ate at him and urged him to leave this forsaken place and look elsewhere for worthwhile work. Become someone else's butler…or make his life slightly more productive.
Sadly he hadn't ever gone past Concord, only having left the hills if only to satisfy his curiosity. Blasted programming — Blasted loyalty…but he couldn't get too mad…It only took a few peeks into his most cherished memories and he'd recall why he was dragging himself through so much trouble.
He'd waited 200 years and counting, after all…what were a few more?
He could wait more. Shaun's descendants had to reappear at some point right?
He was happy and content with this resolution if only partially. It would suit him just fine for a few more years and then…well…what then?
He didn't like to come to think of the dark and gritty reality of being a robot. You lasted longer…a lot longer. It wasn't just his company-issued programming that said so but logic too! He had oil for blood, an atomic engine for a heart and steel for skin. These could be easily replaced and or repaired. Or if he was desperate, could be ignored all together for a little while.
Of course, he had been very meticulous and self-disciplined in maintaining himself at about peak performance. He wasn't as worn as the few other Mr. Handy's that had sometimes strayed into the neighborhood. They were often very confused and gravely injured. Missing limbs, optics…plating.
Codsworh would be lying If he didn't feel somewhat unnerved when they idled nearby. Some took to some dilapidated houses. Resuming cleaning of interiors as though they'd lived there all along. They rarely spoke to him or among themselves but when they did their speech wasn't as fluent as his. Oftentimes, just utter a friendly 'hello' or some other formal greeting before eventually getting lost in conversation and breaking into silence.
It was pitiful, and very painful to watch for sure.
Then…one day they'd pick a new direction and wander endlessly into the mist.
Most never returned and he'd never hear of them again.
A few did return, and when they did Codsworth found amusing what they'd tell him of what lay just over the hills. Frankly, he didn't always believe what they saw was real. They gave him the impression that somewhere down the line it was just fantasies…some malfunction of some sort playing tricks on their already faulty minds.
However, oftentimes it was news of people. That seemed real enough. The friendly type too! Then these Mr. Handy's would roam again and get lost. Never return once more. He wondered if it was because they returned to these friendly people to serve or if along the way they were destroyed by raiders or….worse…
One thing was certain…
He was alone. Again.
Codsworth poked at a neighboring bush. Its twigs sagging and desperately reaching upward for sunlight.
When the bombs dropped a salesman had taken shelter in their house. The image of trimming a blazing bush out of shook while a man stood in the wake of the fallout shuddering in their shoes lingered in the bot's mind. He had kindly invited the man in — There were fewer alternatives…It was this or bid him goodbye…Somehow he couldn't bring himself to accept what had occurred…Somehow he knew better than to dismiss the bewildered man…Somehow he knew the world had ended and yet couldn't accept — What grief…What disaster…
Codsowrth froze, finding his mind lamenting and yearning for the man to return suddenly.
At the time, he hadn't been much help to the man outside of bringing up mundane conversations, if he was being honest but time had helped heal him some, and the two had gotten along just fine after a while. — Until the man had packed bags and headed into the wasteland.
The thought sometimes came ...sometimes ate at him…because he had considered for a moment to abandon his post and join the man in his journey across the wasteland.
Perhaps he'd been a fool in letting the man leave…
It wouldn't surprise him if this was the case.