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slocumjoe · 11 months

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what do the companions dream about? good dreams vs nightmares

oh boy.

Part 1 because this took SO LONG.

Goes from Cait to Hancock.

Cait

Good

Colors are richer in tone than they should be. Boston, dipped in rust and grime and sun-bleached plastic, is a rainbow mesa of life. There's never a moment of dullness. The colors never dim, not for rain nor night. If you stop to breath in, the world smells of rain and soil, the musk of old metal and sting of ozone and burn of gunsmoke. The smell sticks to her nose, fresh and bright, and unlike anything she smelled before. It's cold and hot, it's gentle and bold. She walks the streets and hears birds above the warzone. She looks up and sees clouds above even them, pink and swift on the wind. They're endearingly fluffy and she takes a moment to imagine them beneath her head. An eyebot flitters through the wreckage of the world. It's speakers crackle like glass but it chirps senseless news as it bumbles through life. As she wanders, she finds herself at the bank of the Charles. Even after everything, it runs fast and true. If she wanted, it could take her far away. She doesn't want that, though. She watches the water flow, uncaring of time or human conflict. It doesn't care. It's loud and powerful in her ears and she throws her head back and laughs, why do we call this a waste?

Bad

She's in a thick forest, trees so tall and full of dead leaves, crumbling to dust above her like a mockery of rain. It blocks out the sun, but little rays stab through the dark, just enough for her to see a few feet ahead. A pillowy fog swallows the forest floor. It's full and solid around her legs, like slime, like wading through water. It eats the crunch of snapping bone and branch as she runs. She doesn't know what's behind her. Blood and pus seep from its open, vacuous maw. Its jaw clacks and clicks almost mechanically, slowly falling open before yanking itself back in place with a creak. It chases her, but doesn't run. The beast ambles, drags its mass of bone and matted red fur like a puppet too heavy for its strings. Where Cait ducks and weaves between the grey, rotten trunks, it walks through them, shoving them to the ground, barreling them over. The claws grab at fistfuls of the dirt as it goes along, digging but never staying long enough to get far with that. It's grabbing to grab. Taking the dirt to take it, feel something squish and spill from its hands. It tries to speak to her. The only noise it makes comes from its lung. It wheezes, the skin stretched so thin she thinks it could pop, let loose whatever innards it still has. This creature tries to breathe, to sniff, to speak, and all it can do is gasp.

Curie

Good

As the daygate opens, her systems struggle to adapt to the sudden airflow, the light. The sun is so much brighter than she assumed; it's nothing like a light bulb, as Dr. Flint described it. It doesn’t hang so much as looms overhead, so far away, too bright to even perceive. Hiding in plain sight, even. Dr. Burrows sighs, a winded, stunned sound, as he takes a tentative step onto the dirt. His legs shake with tension, coils armed to snap and collapse beneath him, but he is the first to brave the rocky soil, and step away from the plastic pathway into Vault 81. There is a moment where her companions don't dare to move, breathe. They wait for something and it does not come, and then Dr. Collins joins Burrows in the above world. Her sensors pick up flitting figures in the treeline—birds? Bugs? The wind is cold on her plating. It must chill the doctors to their very bones. Flint follows behind her, hiding in her shadow. Burrows has already ventured past the fence, stepping into grass and foliage and putting his face to a bulbous, purple flower. Collins warns him to mind the unfamiliar plant, and calls Curie to identify it. She cannot. This specimen is from this new world, and that means this world is living, growing, and there are so many studies to be done.

Bad

It has been 1,423 years. Vault 81, once a creaking, living beast, fell. There had been times she could hear the inhabitants, on the other side of the walls. Only silence, now. The hum of machinery and technology gave one sputter of life, before there was a great groan that shook the walls. And then, darkness. Whatever came of them, be it freedom or death, Vault 81's residents were gone. At first, Curie had thought a simple power out, a technical failure. She waited. She paced the hallways, said good morning and good night to the decrepit Protectatrons. She tended the graves. The light never came back on. Never again did she hear the faint sound of life, somewhere in her Vault. Her only light came from her own hover jet. But time came for her. She had never thought it could. Time was a mortal's fear, and she, a robot, lacked a soul to be such. She braved so many years, she never thought there was an end. Her systems failed her long ago, computers too old to continue functioning. The meager fuel supply ran out. Actuators and joints suffered rust and exertion, and her limbs hung limp. Curie tucked herself, like a bird settling for sleep, next to her long gone friends. Something stirred in her, and she thought fit to call it fear.

Danse

Good

He's home. It isn't home like he used to say. It isn't a fort, a ship, an encampment. It's a home. Thin, wood walls, a porch, too-wide windows. Terribly impractical, a nightmare to fortify. It didn't matter. That was okay. For once, for the first time in his life, he had nothing to fear. There was nothing just over the horizon, nothing below ground. Just a home, among many others, and thoughts of death and destruction didn't wrap around his neck and squeeze. He shares this home. With friends, with people he thinks family, with his own family. Today, he shares it with Krieg. Both of them stripped of their titles, as the wasteland has no need for the Brotherhood, and no need for Paladins. Krieg eyes his home with pride poorly disguised as disdain. He barrels into every room and makes a show of critiquing the lack of barricades, the weapons locked away for his childrens' safety, the curtains simply because he hates stripes. When Krieg has his fill of pretending Danse amounted to nothing, learned nothing, he turns around with a smile so big, you'd think he'd just watched a Mutant eat a live grenade. Claps his big hand on Danse's shoulder and tells him well done, but if you skip on training like Cutler, I'm shoving my foot so far up your ass, your spouse will taste the rubber for months. Danse raises an eyebrow and grins, and against his better judgement, tells his once-commanding-officer-turned-father-figure that he and his spouse taste plenty of rubber on their own. It takes him a moment. Krieg makes a face like he just saw a Mutant eat a live grenade and survive. He starts yelling about that, and he yells, and yells, and yells until Danse's spouse and children come home.

Bad

He hates medical bays. Of course, his nightmares take place in them. And he's had this one so many times, he's forced to stare it down, knowing he'll have to wake up and go about his day like it doesn't haunt him. He's in one of the emergency rooms. He isn't injured, this time. Sometimes, his organs are strewn about the room. Others, his limbs melt off like candy in sunlight. But this go-round, he's fine. There's an IV in his arm, and he can't look away from Cutler in the chair beside him. His head is still Cutler. His mouth is hanging by one jaw hinge. A scream rips from the vocal chords, draped down his opened throat. It's wet, like he's crying. Sometimes he is. Sometimes his eyes are too bloated, green as grapes and bursting with blood. Cutler holds his hands in front of him, his body twitching, trashing, something awakening inside him as the FEV takes hold. He tries to put his jaw back in place. Danse softly tells him that isn't how that works. This scene's happened before. Cutler will try to speak, to beg Danse to kill him, but his hands mutate into his face, and he becomes a wet, bloated mass of green flesh, swallowed by himself, and the screaming muffles into puppy-like whimpers. Danse says he's sorry, and that he's here, and Cutler isn't alone. He knows its just a dream, but it matters. He hopes that Heaven is real, and Cutler can hear him from up there. The real Cutler couldn't. Neither can this one. This one holds his belly and throat and throws up on the floor, an endless stream of all of his bodily substances as he turns inside out. Danse reaches out and gives him his hand, as he always does. Sometimes he wishes he could resist, let himself treat this as a nightmare. But that would harden him, and he wants to remember. Cutler deserves to be mourned and missed. Danses misses him because he loved him, and he can't have one and not the other. So he holds his hand as Cutler crumples into a misshapen lump of organs and limbs and eyes. There's a selfish part to it, too. Cutler always held his hand when he had nightmares. Like this, he still does.

Deacon

Good

He was never a good cook, but everything rides on this cake coming out okay. No burnt edges, no dry patches, no underdone bits. Perfection is the bar and he'd electric slide under the Devil's shiny throne in Hell if it meant clearing it. He would kill a man if he had to, if his blood would make it moist. Obsessive? Yes. The first cake was...dubious. Those eggs had to have been off, he's sure of it. Cakes don't taste like...that. The second one, he floated his eggs until he determined all were dubious, and ran to the neighbors with the hens and bought more. Floated those, those checked out. But...that cake was wrong, too. It wasn't overcooked...or undercooked...it's just, the texture made it impossible to decide what it was at all. He stuck a fork in it and the fork bounced up and hit the ceiling when he let go. The third cake had similar results in that it broke the fork entirely, despite being pale. The fourth one he treats with the severity of a heart surgery, because the clock is ticking and he refuses to serve a cake bought at the baker. He measures to the individual salt particle. He adds milk with an eyedropper and counts the drops. He drops an egg and screams but that's okay, because the two that make it to the batter bowl make it in at all. The mixing process makes him sweat and he doesn't trust his oven as far as he can throw it, but he has no choice. The second that cake is done, he frets over it like a newborn. Once it cools, he applies a smooth layer of tarberry frosting, a dusting of confectionary sugar, and decorative Dandy Boy apples, because she loves them even if she pretends she doesn't. There is no time for pride. Their door swings open, and he can hear Barbara kick her shoes off in that telltale way that says her day's sucked. He sticks in the candles, and manages to light them just before she staggers into the kitchen. When she looks up from her feet and sees it, her smile and the glittering in her eyes is worth all the wasted eggs. And...forks.

Bad

He wakes and sits up. Stands on his legs. Walks to a dresser. He opens a drawer. Inside sit various faces. He puts on the scavenger, and yeah, it stinks of piss and garbage, but this one, it's a real resourceful one. You get all the good deals from the caravans, like this, and the raiders might look at you all hungry, but you're closer to them than anyone else, so they leave be, most the time. If not, you're a scavver, so you ain't got any qualms shooting first. He takes off the face. He puts on the soldier. It fits well-enough. This one is useful in circumstances where having a straight spine and good trigger discipline can make all the difference. Surviving the wasteland requires constant vigilance and sharp instincts, and the steadfastness to act on both. Civilians often skulk away, which is a bonus, given his need for subterfuge and anonymity. He takes off the face. He puts them all on, one by one. There's one face in an old Dandy Apple box. He doesn't know how to open it. The tape sticks to the fingers he's using, no matter how thin or thick, short or long. It asks he leave it be. Leave it in its box.

Gage

Good

Crickets chirp, out in the wasteland. It's a high, light sound, so gentle it could be wind. The only thing those pests are good for, these late-night songs. It's deep into the evening, and Porter Gage is alone in the forest. The last drop of sunset bleeds through the trees, just before the dark swallows it all up. His fire is good to last the night, where he camps in the hollow of a tree trunk. Trees didn't grow this big before the war, he's pretty sure, and he thinks Old World folks missed out. He remembers being young, and wanting to do this. Hide away in the old logs, his own fort. But then, he was skittish. Nervous about the bugs, the firefrogs, the draugators. Now, all those things are just ambiance. The forest isn't even that dark, with the frogs shooting at every bug that comes their way, drawn to the glow in their vocal sacs. He still finds those little things charming, and wishes they had anything like them back up north. But right now, he's content to listen to their distant burning. He missed them. Porter Gage lights a smoke from his fire, takes a sip of his rustrod tea, and luxuriates in the simple pleasure of a peaceful night back home.

Bad

The wallpaper is gone. Little scraps of it remain where the adhesive didn't budge. The carvings in the doorframe have worn away, too. He can barely make out AG, MJG, LG, WG, HG, KG. PG sits at the very top of the other marks, but the number is ineligible. He walks into the kitchen. Whole house smells of charcoal, but the fireplace is empty. Not even a speck of burnt wood. Everything is so clean. His footsteps trail dirt. That behemoth of a cleaver hangs dutifully above the window, right next to the skillet. It was heavy in his hands, almost too big for his palm, but he made it work. He hangs it back up, and notices how little it takes to do so. Used to be, he had to strain and stretch, stand on his tip-toes. He exits the kitchen. Spent so much time in there, he doesn't need a refresher. If that is what he's here for, anyway. He doesn't know why he's in this house again. He's after something. Closure? An answer? Revenge? He doesn't want those. He never did. That might be the worst part. He's a raider. A greedy, desperate, opportunistic creature, all open hands and mouth. And he wants nothing from this. He wants to leave again. Out the window like when he was a boy. If he listens, he can hear the wind whistle through the crack where the tracks are broken. Where it doesn't shut right. They never fixed it, did they? He goes to that room, down the hall. The door is locked, but it opens for him anyway. Dust everywhere. Dust, cobwebs, the window screen he ripped out. His bootprints trail from the window, coming from the outside in. If he didn't know this place, the story, it'd look like young Porter was yanked from his bedroom and stolen away. He thinks of what his parents would think of that and wonders, what did I want?

Hancock

Good

A squall hits Boston, the same night he wanders away from Goodneighbor. He doesn't turn back. His whims take him to the edge of Boston, right up against the river. The wind is brutal, the rain harder than bullets. He finds a greenhouse. It's dark, but it's shelter. The door is already open and he takes it as a warm welcome, even if its just as cold. He thinks he's alone until he isn't. A man leans against a trough filled with dirt, stares at one single flower, creeping through the dirt. To be polite, he says hello. The old man doesn't look at him, only gestures for him to come closer. He steps forward, and the old man says, "You don't see much of this, these days." The flower is light purple, its five petals reminding Hancock of a star, or a toy pinwheel. It gives off a smell that's pure sugar, so sweet it could be candy. He says he never paid much attention to flowers. The old man's voice is hollow, but light and clear, like a flute. He says that's a shame, because they're something to appreciate. All this time, all the war, and still, the world gives them flowers. Sometimes they have a purpose. Sometimes that's just to be, just to fill the air. That's enough. Hancock sees a few more bulbs sprout from the dirt. He asks what kind of flower it is. The old man tells him it's a violet, and says again, "You don't see much of this, these days." Hancock asks if he grew it. He says no. He says it grew itself. He gave it the water, and the warmth, and the dirt. But it had to choose to grow. It chose to drink, to eat, to bloom. He could have given it everything, but it had to do the hard work itself. The old man turns to Hancock, and his eyes are rocks inside the sockets, but still seeing. Still aware. The old man tells him he can do the hard work, now. He doesn't have to repot. John doesn't get it but wants to believe him all the same.

Bad

Bright red flowers litter the streets, one day. They're redder than anything he's ever seen. The petals cup around the pistil like hands, delicate and careful, before draping down in a sheet. He asks of them, and no one else can see. They smell of citrus. They're soft, when he dares to touch the petals. They can't be a figment of his mind. He tries to ignore them. Flowers don't grow in the Commonwealth, anyway. But they do. These flowers grow everywhere. He speaks to MacCready, sees the way his throat bobs when he asks how the search for a cure is going. Around MacCready's worn boots, flowers of all colors sprout from the tile. Their petals curl upwards, and white rings around the pistil, like an eye. They lack any scent. MacCready brushes him off as he points at them. Hancock goes to Daisy, lets her speak of her husband. He's never learned the man's name, and he thinks she doesn't remember, anymore. White flowers burst from the walls. These petals...they bundle so tightly together, the pistil is hard to make out. The whole thing looks like paper maché, this round, bulbous flower almost too perfect to exist. He leaves her swiftly, and as he looks behind to give his goodbye, he finds more of those first red flowers, following behind him. He opts to go to bed. He enters the Statehouse and it's a garden. Flowers creep up from the floorboards, drape from the rafters, wrap around the stairwell. All red. Those red, sleepy-petaled flowers. Wood splinters litter the floor, dust falls from the disturbed ceiling, the boards and railing of the stairs give out under the weight of it all. He struggles upstairs, drops to his bed, and hopes it goes away in the morning. He tastes citrus in the back of his throat. He coughs and—and he's choking, puking? He leans over the bed's edge and hacks until his lungs clear. A single red petal falls to the ground. His throat tightens, feels full, and he can't breathe so he keeps coughing. It looks like blood drops, red slowly drifting to the floor in piles.

#fallout 4 #fo4 #paladin danse #porter gage #companions react #hancocks flowers in order #violet; poppy; anemone; chrysanthemum; poppy again

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