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valentinevibrations · 7 years

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(I may write a part two, but… wanna send this your way! I hope you like it!)

Pickmans gallery

Before the war, Reyes had always enjoyed art. It was… not a well-known fact, but those close to him before the war noticed the art history books stashed around his home and tucked away in his bookshelf. How he perked up slightly when the conversation even remotely moved toward fine art or history, or how Reyes eyes would spend a little too long lingering over the Café Terrace painting hanging on the wall of his home whenever he had a moment of quiet, ever tracing with his eyes the firm strokes of paint across the canvas as if he was looking at it for the first time. But, for whatever reason, he kept quiet about the interest unless provoked. Perhaps it was the stress of the possible impending war at the time, maybe he just didn’t like sharing, or maybe he was afraid to share. Nobody really knew. And when Reyes came back, emerged from the vault to find all traces of art history knowledge gone. His books, his painting… He didn’t bother even mentioning it to anyone of this new age. Maybe if Nora was there, she would have noticed it; a light, gone from Reyes’ eyes.

The Commonwealth was a bleak wasteland in the eyes of Reyes, nothing like the paintings he clung to in his memory to desperately. The vivid blues, greens and oranges used by Van Gogh in his thick strokes, the deep purple and shifting yellows of Picasso’s cubism, the delicate layering of pale blues by Monet… The Michelangelo, the Degas, the Dali, the Rivera, the Manet, the Hooper… It was gone, lost in the dust that was scattered across the waste. Nobody cared for art, and Reyes grew cold. Colder than he was before.

But there was a particular request, brought to his attention by the mayor of Goodneighbor… A Gallery? In the wastes? Surely nothing could have survived after the bombs fell, but was someone trying to collect together art? Maybe putting their own on display? From what he was told, there seemed to be more to it than just an innocent display – But the mayor didn’t have to persuade him, he felt his heart tugging toward the gallery the closer he got, a rush he had not felt in over 200 years.

He went alone, against X6-88s judgement, but he complied with his request to go alone. A part of Reyes wished he hadn’t, an even deeper part of him was glad he did.

When he entered the gallery, and after clearing the raiders that attacked without remorse, he finally got to realize where he was standing – it was a bloody sight. Body parts, bones, blood, all of it horrid, but not anything new, not anything he hadn’t seen before. No, it was the art that sent a chill crawled up his spine, gazing at the paintings that hung on the wall. There was not in fear of what he looked at – it was a sense of wonder, a curiosity prickling at his brain. The distorted faces, some slightly deconstructed and eyes glowing yellow as they stared back at the onlooker. Reyes could also see it was not paint upon the unprimed canvas as well. No, not paint… If the smell didn’t make it obvious. He didn’t want to think on it too long, not yet.

The further he entered the gallery, the more seemed to click while simultaneously raising new questions. Who was this Pickman? What was he like? From the tape he had found and listened too, he did not seem brash or boisterous in his actions. Like his paintings, though erratic at first glance, seemed… Meticulous, every stroke planned even when an unexpected blossom of inspiration came. There was no randomness to the paintings or the bodies that littered the building. Pickman only killed raiders, it was intentional. But there was another layer to this – his paintings were not for study like Da Vinci and his illustrations of the human form – Pickman was disturbed, there was no question about that.

He needed to meet him, to see who this was. Was he a monster, like he had heard? Or like many other artists lost in history… misunderstood. In need of more understanding.

Traversing the tunnels of Pickman’s gallery was not particularly fun, especially with the mines littered about, thankful for being able to jump out of the way of the first one, Reyes quickly learned to look where he stepped here. The walls cast spectral shadows in the orange glow of the lantern light the further he went. Was he entering a trap? Surely he could get himself out on his own, maybe… Hopefully. Perhaps this was not the best plan, but it was too late now as he approached what seemed to be the end, gazing down through his scope from a fair distance above in the tunnel.

Three raiders, and a man in a suit with his hands above his head. His features were… Soft, hair surprisingly clean and well kept, facial hair trimmed evenly, suit in fair condition. He stared at the Raiders without an ounce of fear, it seemed, even with a gun pointed at him.

There was a moment, Pickman’s eyes glanced upward. His gaze met Reyes through the scope. His grey eyes startlingly clear, and with a strange beauty in the long stare, a calmness.

A shot blast echoed and bounced around the tunnel walls as a bullet connected with Pickman, the man tearing his eyes away as he groaned in pain, falling to the ground. Reyes was not sure how fast he moved, but before much more could be realized he was attacking the Raiders. No, not now, not when he had just found him. He had to meet him, had to know if he had found an equal, a connection in this waste of a world, maybe? He would not let them take this man away, he would decide his fate.

The screams and gunshots never reached the surface, echoing through the tunnels and being absorbed by the underground. Nobody would ever know it happened. Reyes stood, turned away from Pickman, wiping the blood off of his gun. It was a fruitless effort, it seemed, but his attention was quickly turned to Pickman himself. ‘Quite small for a notorious, bloodthirsty killer,’ Reyes thought, ‘and much too innocent of a face.’ It was the eyes, those cold grey eyes. Beautiful grey, like clouds. Unforgiving, like a murderer.

Pickman stood up, holding his side with one hand, injecting a stimpack with another. He grunted a moment, taking a deep breath as the medicine pulsed through his body, standing up straight to face who saved him but could also very well be his end. Again, there was no fear in his eyes, no storm in the still grey iris.

“That was… Close. Thank you,” Pickman spoke slowly, calmly, but happy regardless of what had just happened. “Those people deserved worse than death,”

Reyes could not help the laugh that bubbled forth. He wasn’t even sure why he was laughing. “In comparison to what you seem to be doing? I don’t know,”

Pickman gave an icy smile, lowering his hand from his wound, the blood already staining his suit.

“And yet you still murdered them without question,” There was a slight challenge in his voice, a prodding at Reyes – a mutual curiousness about the man who just saved him. Reyes cocked a brow.

“They were killers. If I hadn’t jumped in, you would be dead,”

“Then that does not make you much better, huh Killer?” Pickman continued to prod, taking a half step closer. Reyes swallowed, narrowing his eyes down at the man.

“You’re one to talk,” Reyes spoke without restraint. Pickman smiled at that.

“In any case, let me repay you,” The chilling suaveness and confidence in Pickmans voice almost intimidated Reyes. A ‘repayment’ from this man could mean many things. He tightened his jaw, ignoring the shiver traveling up his spine as he stood up a little straighter.

“What did you have in mind?”

“A gift, nothing more. If you look deep into my painting ‘Picnic for Stanley,’ you will find my gratitude,”

Pickman took a confident, smooth step forward, taking Reyes’ hand without restraint. Reyes jumped at the sudden touch, feeling the cool metal pressed firmly into the middle of his palm before Pickman forced his fingers closed around it. “You will need this,” He explained, eyes never breaking contact, analyzing him. Reyes had to force his eyes down, even then he could feel Pickman’s gaze upon him as he looked over the new key in his hand. Reyes looked back up, pulling himself away from Pickmans cool touch.

“You have an interesting subject matter for your paintings, Pickman,” Reyes began, Pickman gave a please smile.

“Do you like it? Very few appreciate my work, but I do so love to create my pieces,” Pickman continued to speak in his ever calm tone, it was almost pensive. Reyes thought for a moment before he nodded, stowing the key into his pocket.

This was the troubled man behind the canvas, yet he appeared so… normal. How deceiving looks can be in the wastes. What could possibly be going on in that twisted mind of his? The prickle of curiosity continued to fester in the back of his mind.

“I do,” Reyes nodded slowly, tucking his gun away and moving toward the door. “Reminds me of Picasso,” he commented offhandedly without really realizing.

Pickman blinked, watching Reyes. He stepped forward again, closer. They were entering personal space now, Reyes shifted uncomfortably.

“…Picasso?” Pickman asked. ‘”I’ve never met the man,”

Reyes froze, almost laughing. He shook his head.

“Well, he died in the 1970’s, so… I’d be really surprised if you had met him,” Reyes chuckled. When he met eyes with Pickman this time, it was an intense look. He was fully serious, he wanted him to continue, to tell him more. He hungered for more, just as Reyes desired to understand Pickman. Reyes swallowed thickly. “Um… He did this thing, where he… Deconstructed his subjects with just a paintbrush. Pulling them apart into just shapes… It was quite grotesque at the time,”

“It sounds beautiful,” Pickman smiled, speaking without hesitation. “A man after my heart, though killing a man with a paintbrush seems a bit difficult,”

Reyes shook his head again, this made him laugh for real.

“No, no… that’s not what I meant,” Reyes took a half step away from Pickman, trying to escape those still staring eyes. “I mean he would paint from his mind a deconstruction of someone’s… face, or their body, onto the canvas. Not actually physically. It was an outlet for… insecurities, anger, emotions,” Reyes waved a hand. “But, this all in the past. It’s all gone now,”

Pickman stood absolutely still, a quickening to his heart rate for the first time in months. As Reyes moved to leave, Pickman lunged forward to catch his arm. Reyes instinctively yanked away when grabbed, hand moving to his gun but not quite grabbing it.

“Killer,” Pickman spoke, still so calm, too calm, like a deceivingly warm breeze before a winter storm. And the name, “Killer,”… it was almost affectionate in the way he said it. He offered a smile when he saw Reyes grimace at the name. Too kind, too casual.

“Come back soon,” Pickman smiled warmly. “I’d enjoy your company, and your input on my pieces. You are the first I’ve ever met to have an informed eye in the fine art of painting,” He stepped forward. Before Reyes could protest, he stroked a hand down the side of Reyes’ face. An affectionate gesture, if not for the slight roughness as he forced his chin up to get a better look of his neck. “Though I work alone, I could paint your portrait. You have a lovely face, such lovely features like those pre-war magazines… I would love to see your head on display-”

Reyes caught Pickmans hand in his quickly, pulling it away. His jaw tightened.

“-as a painting, that is,” Pickman quickly smiled, a little darker than before. Reyes narrowed his eyes at him, Pickman’s grey eyes unyielding.

“I’ll keep my head, thanks,” Reyes released, stepping away. He looked Pickman up and down, who was seemingly unoffended by his words. Reyes turned, walking away. Before reaching the door, hand hovering over the doorknob, he turned his head back around.

“… I’ll see you later, Pickman,”

“Later, Killer,” Pickman smiled, a fading echo of whistling reaching his ears as he put more distance between him and the grotesque gallery.

There’s a part 2 to this submission for those interested!

#fanfiction #submission #letmeshinebright #Pickman #fallout 4

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soitendslikethis1606 · 7 years

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Travel journal 2017

I wrote this once on my phone just before we lost our passports and the panic attacked and I forgot to save it so here am I writing this again. I am in the airport, about to fly back to Singapore. We have ended our first long trip together. We have never stopped moving for the past 3 weeks. We walked everyday for at least 6-7 km, taking any walk that google map suggests as below 30mins. In the last unexpected days in Paris, it went up to a lot of 1hour walks because we were just fed up with the crowded and fifthy metros, as well as the nerve cracking mentility we had every time we get on it, worrying that some pickpocketing might happen again- although we had had almost nothing left to be stolen. The walking is partially because we don't drive but also because we see so much more when we walk. Plus, I just enjoyed walking with Anh, we never ran out of things to talk about. One day we walked up to 20km, hiking up to a waterfall in a small town on the other side of the lake from Annecy. Next day, we cycled another 20km around that lake. The craziest hike was from Odda to Trolltunga, up to 1100m attitude, 11km up, 12km down on the next day. 1km extra because I hurt my knee and couldn't take the stiff slope down. We came ill prepared. Not enough warm clothes and water proof materials for our backpacks. It was raining on and off all day on the day we went up. Everything was wet as soon as we reached the iconic 'touge'. Anh fell down several times, some were funny to watch, some just made my heart literally skip a beat. I saw snow for the first time but it's just too cold for me to be excited about it. Cold, slippery, exhausted. We camped overnight on the top. It's scary... but the view was just so breaktaking that we almost forgot how scary it was to hike under the rain in clothes that are suitable for just a lovely sunny day. The most surreal moment was when the fog gradually went away and the sun shone on the rocky side of the mountain. It's lit up, shimmering.. I told Anh it made me almost believe in God. Next day we went down it was the most beautiful sunny day I've ever had. Never before have I so yearn for the sun. I took a fall on the way down, hurt my butt and bruise my arm badly. I think the bruise is just making me look tougher, or making people look at Anh subspiously, thinking there is some kind of domestic abuse going on between us. We talked to Howard- an ex military man and Maika- a professional trainer for outdoor activities and outdoor living - they are two guides leading us up and down the mountain. They are just super human to us. When asked what the highest mountain she has ever climbed, Maika said it's not the highest one that is the toughest, it's the longest one. Hers was a 15day hike continuously, carrying her own clothes and food supplies for the whole journey (for this tour, they carried food, tents and sleeping bags up for us, we only carried our clothes and essentials yet at the 4th or 5th kilometer, and already it felt like rock on my back). People in Norway also speak fluently several languages. Even the girl serves at our hostel restaurant speak fluently 5 languages and is learning another 2. When she spoke to Lucille- a French friend we made staying in the same hostel room in Odda, Lucille said she has perfect french. How amazing is that? We came to realise how physically weak we are compared to people from else where in the world and there are so much more, so many things for us to learn in this life. It motivates me to learn Chinese now as I'm back.. I'm just not sure how long the motivation would last until I need another trip for motivation :P Being on top of Trollunga is one of the proudest things I've ever done and I'm sure Anh feels the same. Definitely best moment of this year and most of all I've got to share it with Anh. ----- I had a mix feeling toward Paris. I'm not going to defense Paris from Anh anymore about how filthy, messy and choastic it is and how rude people are in Paris. Sorry French friends, there always are nice people and rude people anywhere I know that for a fact, but we tried our best talking to people as much as we want to get to know the place and its people. We just didn't get much friendly response, not to mention the increasing crimes in the city. The police just gets used to thef and pickpocketing reports. One policewoman even talked to us as if putting my wallet inside my backpack and had it stolen is entirely and obviously my fault. However, Paris is still charming to me in a way, put aside all those bad experiences. We didn't have anyone else apart from each other to talk to when we were there- maybe that's one of the reason why Paris is less exciting. But we found our way to entertain ourselves. I went to a jazz club and danced it off with Anh for the first time. Believe it or not, 6 years together and I've never been to a club with Anh before. Yet suddenly with jazz, the modern, trendy dance moves became irrelevant. They played in the basement built with bricks walls, low ceiling and not every spacious. The lead saxophone stopped at the end of each song to introduce the name of the next sone with a short description. I like the way he did that- reminds me of the scene in La la land where Seb told Mia that people don't understand jazz because they never really listen to it. Jazz always just music in the background in restaurants or some gatherings. So the way the lead saxophone introduced each song made me feel like each song is beautiful and they mean it everytime they play it, that people actually care, that they were there for the music itself- not something jazzy in the background. We danced to two or three songs, crazy moves. We were the worst dancers.. but who cares haha. The rest of the time we watched people dance. Night fell and we walked a little bit to North Dame, sat in front for a while then went home. It was Anh's birthday that night. It was a successful birthday: we had good Pho, listened to live jazz and walked the city of Paris with endless talking. I was deeply thankful to whoever has the power to arrange for people to meet each other because I met Anh and we stay together, and tomorrow wouldn't be boring even though I had no idea what we were going to do the next day. I knew with Anh we would have fun.. Paris is all about art- that's what people say. Of course we had our own art experience too. We went by the Lourve and saw people ridiculously queued up for, I guess, a kilometer long under the sun just to come in and see the tiny Mona Lisa. I wonder how many of them actually understand those artworks in there. We came back here later after we lost our passports and stuck in Paris. The queue was better and Anh asked if I wanted to come inside for once, since we were already there. But I looked it up online and their paintings are from the renaissaince period- which I'm not very much interested in.. so we didn't come in. Instead, Musee de Orsay just made my dream come true. Monet. Van Gogh. Manet. Renoid. Camille. Gauguin. Bonnard. Even Picasso before he drew abstract and cubism. All of them in one place. I remember finding their paintings when I was a kid looking through dad's magazine cutouts; when I was in school daydreaming on tumblr during school lessons; when I was in my darkest days. And they were just real in front of my eyes. I could see the strokes that they made, how big the paintings are (poor Van Gogh he got the smallest paintings which made my heart sank), how different it is to look closely and look from distance. I could smell the oil paint in the rooms which I think just another trick the museum does to stimulate experience; yet it really got me. I discovered new artists I never heard of before but I love their paintings in there. Anh hadn't really been into art.. but he accompanied me to these place anyway. I love it when he said he loved Monet's the Water lily bond and the House of Parliment London; love that he cared about what I like. Nexy day we went to the Centre Pompiduo. This was where it channelled Anh's inner 9gag boy. We debated for a good hour on whether modern art is really art or just people's way of bullshiting their socalled arts. It was a good talk yet I still couldn't turn him around- at least we shared. We were just hanging around in the campus and watching this performance artist sweeping yellow paddy rice. His exagerating movements made it feel like he was dancing. The way I saw it is that he was making those stroke on the black floor using his random movements and create quiet interesting texture on the floor. After awhile there was another girl came in to continue doing that for him. Anh just hated it, he said they are pretendious and exagerating shit to make it look artistic but it has no meaning. We had another good talk over that until we were hungry and left. That's the only reason he could convince me out of some place I got hooked to. I regreted not coming into the exhibitions. Maybe some good, thought-provoking, meaningful masterpieces in there could convince Anh for me without saying a word. ----- Castellane is soooo lovely. Perfect weather. Sunny but not so burning. We were staying at a BnB not far from the town centre with Leo and Petra. They are the loveliest couple I've ever met hands down. We had long chats with them every morning during our breakfast about so many things- like me and Petra trying to convince Anh to believe in real modern art. One morning Petra rushed to our room calling our names, asking if we want to see a troop of thousand sheeps, donkeys and mountain goats on their journey up to the mountain. We ran to the road, stood by, waiting for them. There were literally thousand of them! 1060 to be exact. They each had a bell on their necks and the whole troop make an oschetra when they walk. It's just amazing.. I've never seen so many sheeps before, nor the way farmers do their work. Petra let us know that they travel up to the higher alpes in the summer for greener grass when it gets too hot and grass on flat land turns brown. We tried to talk to some of the farmers and felt so heartwarming that although their english is really limited, as much as our french, they tried to tell us about their journey. (See Parisians.. they are just farmers and they speak english to us). Up until we met there, they have walked 12km in 10 days. We walked with them for a while then left for out water trekking trip. The water trekking trip almost scared the shit out of us. Gorge de Verdon is so beautiful, so so beautiful, even better seeing from below, just above the water. The water was so fast and strong, it's scary at the same time. We were floating, letting our bodies go with the water flow. There are times I thought my head would hit a big rock. The route also includes some jumping off a high rock onto the water. And I think I would never forget the feeling I had in the moment after I just throw myself in the air and before my body touches water. It's indescriptable. Next morning we felt like seeing the animals again so we went for a hike up, tracing after their poops- yes they poop a lot along the way. But then we lost track, couldn't find them and end up at the lake. I made Anh do some kayaking. While stopping for our lunch, still on the boat, a spider appeared and Anh freaked out- no suprise for me. After we managed to turn away from the burst, the spider out of sight, he said he really wanted to jump down into the water. Apparently he couldn't. He was halfway finishing his bread with pate filling, couldn't risk wasting the food. Yep, that's my boyfriend. Not until were we in Castellane that we had a full course real french dinner. The first dinner was delicious! Just like the restaurant's name: Ô Delicion.. we were the first to be there. The French usually have late dinner, around 8 I guess. We usually get hungry around 6 and always need to wait until 7 when the shops are open. I had terrine for appetiter, Anh had artichoke soup. The soup was really nice and I kept thinking about how beautifully shaped the artichoke is before it's cooked- just a random thought. My main course was devine, tenderly cooked port chop with a kind of mushroom that I had never had before. It went with 2 sides: fish egg and some kind of baked egg with vegetable. Anh was jealous of my main dish because he only had average fish with the same sides for himself. The French are really great at cooking. Even the Vietnamese food is better in French than in anywhere else we've been to. I told Anh to stop comparing them to the British because it's such an insult- do the British really cook anything good? ---- Almost 2 weeks since I'm back. Finally got my sound sleep back last night. I've always been exhausted. So many things to catch up and so many plans to be done. Tonight Ellen didn't take the train home with me, chi G didn't join me for dinner. I have the evening for myself. I feel sad about not having Anh beside me. I remember feeling we were so strong and we could be anything when we were together. Now we are apart- he couldn't fix my computer and I couldn't attend his graduation. Maybe I just miss anh. I think of the good time we had when we were on the trip. Reading the news about Dear Vincent movie remind me of Annecy- a lovely town down south France. I regret we had time but didn't try to ask around if the movie was being screened there because I knew its premier screen had just ended a week before we arrived. Now I need to wait until they screen it in Singapore which would take forever... not many people interested in such movie I suppose. When we were in Annecy it were the sunniest days of the trip. We fell right in love with the airbnb we stayed in as soon as we arrived. Cecile- our host showed us around with phone in her hand, a translate apps open ready. The house is isolated from the touristy madness outside in the market. There is a lovely garden leading to an openning where you can go down to the river running across the town. We spent afternoons sitting there, seeing people above the bridge, waiting for the ducks and swans to swim by and feed them. Anh totally loved that activity, best with an ice cream in hand (ice cream is for him not the ducks).

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