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corvega-assembly · 3 years

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Can’t See the Future

Summary: Nora switches pods at the last minute, not that anyone was informed. Rosalie isn’t sure what the hell she’s meant to do, but finding Shaun seems like a noble goal. Right up until the weight of the end of the world comes crashing down on her. She’ll need a little more to keep her going than avenging her sister's family and running head first into a half assed goal with no plan. At least Hancock’s got her back. Rating: Mature Pairings: Hancock X sosu (FOC) Warnings (for this chapter): canon typical violence, character death, death in family

Chapter 1: One step closer to knowing...

It's June, it is swelteringly hot, it’s a bad day. The operator calls the wrong line to Boston twice before connecting on the third try. “She said she wants to go back home to die, if you don’t come see her now you won’t get a chance.” Shaun isn’t old enough to travel with yet, so Nora comes alone, leaving him with in-laws. It is quiet in the house.

It’s July, the obituary runs and the funeral comes and goes. The headstone reads “Mother, Grandmother” and not much else. All that is left. “Come with me to Boston for a few weeks, visit Nate and I.” The depression creeps in, the house is silent. Sunshine and birds are forgotten. Focusing on normal tasks gets harder. Where once hands handled bundles of pills and viles, all the daily chores done with care they’re barely able to flip the page. Eyes rereading text over and over.

It’s August, Nate gets his discharge papers. Another invite to come East to Boston, “Sleep on the couch or go stay in a hotel, what else are you going to do now?” It’s all over but the crying, truly. A promise of ‘soon’. The first day of class, a class full of younger students, nearly 30 is old to start it would seem, brings frustration and anxiety rather than joy.

It’s September, the mowers at the little cemetery, hit the grave, scuffing the stone a bit. The argument with the church staff is exhausting. Leaves a void in the heart that lasts weeks. Taking notes in class isn’t bad, but in the raw silence of a much too empty house, the sterile smell gone, the smell of coffee gone too, school work begins feeling daunting.

It’s October, Nate makes his case over the phone, insisting a month ‘Helping your sister get out some!’ is a reasonable idea. Knowing that helping has been the only goal for years. The hell does Nora need help with? Between the robot butler, in-laws, a robust church life, neighbors, plenty of friends, and a job with excellent maternity leave there isn’t much need to help.

It’s October and the couch isn’t too bad but next week is the last week in a house that feels a little too much like home used to smell. Sterile. Vault-Tec comes calling, but insists there is enough room for a sister. Younger by a year and 3 days, almost identical looking regardless. Nora thinks it is precious when church members mix them up. Rosalie just wants to go home , to a person who sits 6 feet below a simple scuffed stone. Mother, Grandmother.

It’s October and stripping down to her underwear with her sister and her husband isn’t how Rosalie thought the end of the world would go. There is a smell here, the smell of the air conditioner back home going full tilt, or how the freezer at the little shop down the street from home smelled on a hot day. Freon, it isn’t unpleasant but they’re so deep underground that it doesn't fully make sense for it to be so strong. Pod C7 is for Nora, C9 for Rosalie but by the time Shaun calms, Nora just grabs the pod next to the rep for Vault-Tec so Rosalie can keep making faces at her son.

The smell of Freon makes sense. But then, nothing does. Nora’s screams’ echo in her pod, a man says something about a backup.

It’s October. It is fucking cold and wet and Rosalie is coughing just like her mother did before she died. Which makes breathing even fucking harder when the tears and panic and overwhelming sense of despair threaten to choke her entirely. Pod C9 suffered system failure. Mom is dead, Nora is dead. Nate is dead too, but honestly Rosalie had been so focused on her mother’s care she’d only spoken to him a handful of times before she couch surfed for a few weeks. And then he’d been so absorbed in being a good soldier husband he’d barely said anything to her.

There is a hole in Nate’s head that reminds Rosalie of shooting watermelons with her mother in summer when she was little. Except it is brain matter and not melon all over his pod. The frost makes it pale, Rosalie almost reaches out to touch a bit of brain but manages to stop herself. Her mother would have laughed, her sister would have screamed. Shaun is gone.

Her clothing is still in a locker, it’s a snap to pile it onto the vault suit, it is so damn cold down here. She checks every single pod, every terminal, and a creeping feeling of ‘this is about to get so much worse’ rolls on in and stays firmly planted. Giant roaches are gross but make a popping noise when struck that cuts through the haze of terror and numbness just enough to get her to a Pip-Boy. Which gets her outside.

“October 23rd 2287” the heavy thing reads. Which is fucking… nonsense. It smells wrong outside. A smell like her grandma’s attic, and dad’s old RV. It’s nonsense outside too, some things are rusted to hell, others look like they’ve been here a month. Rotted skeletons and stable cardboard boxes. Rosalie’s thoughts are starting to get kinda foggy like they felt at school, focusing on walking down the path is hard, way harder than it was going up. The sound of gunshots goes off in the distance. Rosalie pauses just long enough to grab a knife and some ammo before running off down the hill.

The houses look like the shit you’d find in a rural town not far from home, “still standing for tax purposes.” she quotes her mother in her head while looking out on Sanctuary Hills.

“It’s really you!” It isn’t, not really. Codsworth sounds almost terrified when she explains that she is Rosalie and not Nora . He insists on giving her a private recording made by Nate, which is uncomfortable to be forced to receive. He then proceeds to insist she needs to go to Concord and won't hear otherwise. As she heads off he also insists on calling her Miss Nora. By the time Rosalie has been bitten by giant… rodents, and met a friendly enough dog, the heavy ass Pip-Boy declares the time four.

Rosalie feels on edge, too alert and almost hyper. Like she’d drank too much coffee and then had a sleeping pill after a rough day. The sound of gunshots are much louder, but fuck it. Today has been a bad day, why not add getting shot at to the mix?

The smell of blood and unwashed bodies is overwhelming. The taste of vomit is in her mouth and she doesn’t even get to reply to the man yelling at her to help ‘settlers’. Settlers, Raiders. It’s all nonsense. She’s been shot in the leg, barely, but the stimpack seems to have knitted the flesh mostly back together which is as much of a shock as it is gross . And getting shot doesn’t feel like she always thought it would to be honest. It’s a lot sharper but not as all consuming.

It’s October 24th 2287 when the big fuck off monster is dead, the old lady knew something was coming, what this something is she still doesn’t know, even as it lies dead at her feet. The man, Preston, gives her bottlecaps saying something about friends, and then he asks her to join them . It’s the first real choice she's had. Back to the shadow of the hill where her sister and brother-in-law are, dead, and back to a robot that insists she is her sister. Or forward towards Shaun and what or rather where the old lady, Mama Murphy, says will point her to him, Diamond City . The choice is easy enough, especially since the old woman knows that she is Rosalie and not Nora .

#don't worry This will be one of the very few(3) chapters I ever tag #fallout #fallout 4 #hancock x sole survivor #tho not yet in this chapter #I'll tag just not with general tags to save everyone from having fic spammed #FO #FO4 #sosu_rosalie #FFFO4 #FFFO #FFcstf

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nuclear-reactions · 7 years

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i was wondering if we could get the follow-up to the new vegas companions and benny watching the courier get tortured? like the after care. it made me tear up a bit lol it was very well written

(I’ll be honest,hearing people actually tear up reading my writing is,,a good, goodfeeling I’m sorry I revel in your pain like this but I do it’sincredible to make people feel things and it makes my day to getthese messages. The original can be found here )

Benny- He knowsall the old remedies. It’s been awhile since he’s had to use them,been awhile since he ever cared enough to use them. Stimpacks couldfuse bone together wrong, stuff worked too fast for its own good, butbroc flower and honey mesquite pods had been the cure-all in histribe since he was just an ankle biter. It was the slow route, butslow caution wasn’t always the wrong approach. That he could focus oncrushing and mixing herbs instead of watching Six shiver on hissheets, that was just a plus. They looked so vulnerable. Smaller thanhe’d ever seen them, which included when he stood above their gravethat night in Goodsprings, when they were arguably even morevulnerable in his presence. This was different. They shudder when heruns the cool mixture over their still raw wounds, handswhite-knuckled against the sheets, and he smooths a square of freshcloth over the biggest gash in their back to soak up the blood whichhad stained his sheets. “You know, I don’t just let anyone bleedall over my bed, doll. Aren’t you lucky?” They very nearly laugh.“Don’t feel too lucky.” He leans over to kiss the nape of theirneck. “You’ve got me. You’re the luckiest gambler in Vegas.”

Boone- To callwhat he does to their captors “righteous retribution” would bedoing it a disservice. This was a biblical ass kicking. He didn’tneed to be a mile away from his target to get the job done. Once thedust has settled, he spends the next three days keeping an eye onSix. Their injuries aren’t exactly life threatening- painful lookingas all hell, but nothing they haven’t suffered before, or sufferedworse. Still, he doesn’t sleep. Sleep had never been a friend to him,that was true, his head was too full, his thoughts always too loud,and his occasional good nights of rest were short lived and farbetween. But he doesn’t sleep, period. His eyes ache, he feels likehe hasn’t even closed them in seventy-two hours, which isn’t far fromthe truth. His sunglasses aren’t just an accessory or a shield fromthe bright Mojave sun. The world is blinding without them. If hesleeps, if something happens to them again, if Six falls asleep anddoesn’t wake up, if he isn’t there when they need him, if, if, if. Hesqueezes his eyes shut for the briefest moment until the buildingtide which settles to overwhelm him subsides. He opens them again,his gaze settling on Six’s back across the campfire. Slips of angryred wounds and ugly bruises peek out of the bandages wrapped tightlyaround their torso. His fingers clutch tighter to the gun in his lap.He won’t be caught off-guard again.

Arcade- His firstpanic attack had struck him when he was a teenager. He’d been stabbedby a strung out Freesider once, and somehow panic attacks were stillthe worse thing he experienced, if only because he knew howfundamentally irrational and useless they were. It wasn’t a properfight or flight response, it accomplished nothing, and only left himshivering and breathing hard for ten minutes, his heart hammering soachingly hard against his ribs he could feel his entire body pulsate.He at least gave Six the courtesy of getting them clear of danger andtreating their wounds at the nearest settlement before he evenallowed himself to be swallowed up. He has to steady himself againsta wall to keep from falling off the earth, wraps up his hands in thefabric of his coat to stop them from trembling so hard. He nearlylost them. Six could have died and he- The thought strikes him but hedoesn’t give it a foothold in his mind. He waits it out. He shakesand digs his nails into his coat until its over and he can breatheagain. He’s steadier now than he’s ever been. He has to be for them.He rakes a hand through his hair as he heads back inside to tend tothe courier’s injuries with a more critical eye now that he can thinkclearly.

Veronica- Shecries as she holds their bloodied face in her hands, but not forlong. Crying never did her any good, no matter the cause, and she hasno time for it. Instead, she focuses on Six. Her anchor. She needsthem and they need her, now more than ever. After they’re bandagedand full of Med-X and stims, she lays her head on their chest tolisten to the steady beat of their heart. Her body is tense, her neckaches because she isn’t truly leaning her weight on them, afraid toimpede their breathing too much, but she keeps her ear pressed totheir bare chest for hours while they sleep. It’s all she can reallythink to do, it keeps her grounded. Stops her from spiraling outthinking too much about what happened back there. When it feels likeshe can actually sleep, she does so curled up against their side,where she stays for most of the rest of their recovery.

Cass- She shouldhave paid more attention to that Follower drivel they tried teachingher. She could patch up small cuts and fashion tourniquets, but Sixis hurt. Really, really hurt, in ways she can’t begin to treat. Thedoc in the next town tells her the courier was lucky to be alive.They try treating her along with them- she just gives them dirtylooks until they get the message. Six takes priority. She’s not muchof a caregiver. She knows she can’t do anything to help, and soleaves the doctors to their work. Cass fills the time with- whatelse?- drinking. It means she doesn’t have to look at the mess oflacerations criss crossing over Six’s body. She drinks and she thinksand mostly drinks. She thinks a little, disproportionate compared tothe drinking. She’d actually prayed back there. It was brief, butthere. If God willed it, if they made it out, she would tell them howshe felt, how she really felt. She’d said that in her head. Sheglances up at the clouds and rolls her shoulders in a shrug. “Heatof the moment kind of thing. All that was…Sure you get those allthe time.” She feels an uncomfortable itch creep up her neck andhastily scratched at it. Her nails dig deeper and deeper until shecan no longer clamp down on an irritated growl and snaps up at thesky. “Fine! Shit! When they wake up, god da-ngh…Fuck.” Sheswipes up a pair of glasses and a bottle and sets both on the tableby Six’s bed. She’s going to need a few shots of courage if she wantsany hope of getting this little…confession out when they wake up.

#fallout new vegas #Rose Of Sharon Cassidy #arcade gannon #veronica santangelo #cass #craig boone #companion reactions #benny

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purkinje-effect · 7 years

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The Purkinje Effect, 2

Table of Contents

Galen awoke before dawn to three RadRoaches trying to chew him up. Before even fully conscious he’d pulled his knuckledusters from his pockets, kicked off the foot-long vermin, and used his fists to crush them into the dirt. With his hands covered in gelatinous bug guts, he gained his faculties a bit better, and licked his hands and weapons clean before removing the dusters from his hands and returning them to his pockets. Then, he sat up, and called it providence that breakfast had come to him. He brushed back his undercut, which had fallen to the left side as it always did, and took his shucking knife from his back pocket and unsheathed it. He’d made it out of boredom from a combination wrench back in the vault, but out here the shiv was a necessity. He fileted the abdomens of the three assailants, and ate the bitter, tender flesh raw, straight from the knife’s edge. A full stomach was quite reassuring, and the persistent aftertaste as he resumed his eastward travels was a reassurance everything would turn out fine.

The Quinsigamond settlers had told him that the biggest settlement in the Commonwealth was Diamond City, and that he’d likely find help there they themselves couldn’t provide him. From their description, he surmised that its population had dug its heels into Fenway Park. From the Interchange onward, raiders were the worst of his worries the next two days, as he made his way to the great green gates, and he skirted encountering them altogether. The park gates were open the early afternoon he arrived, with one guard in catcher gear standing watch near the ticket counter.

“What are you coming in for?” the young man called out, stopping Galen in his tracks.

“Hungry.” The scent of fresh soup reduced him to abstracts, and distracted him from answering more accurately.

“Ya got caps? Power Noodles don’t barter.”

“Yeah, I got caps.”

“Go see Takahashi then. He’ll get you hooked up. You look… like you should go see Doc Sun after you got a gut full a noodles, though. I don’t know what you been into, but that don’t look healthy.”

Rather than be bothered to argue, Galen simply thanked the young man and went inside.The shanty town was a landscape of shipping palettes and corrugated steel. After everything he’d seen since stepping foot above ground, this felt like the epitome of metropolitan life post-apocalypse, complete with people even dwelling in the box seats. He easily gleaned the location of the medical facility–Mega Surgery Center–to the right of the literal town square, but the night before he’d crammed his face full of Fancy Lads and shortening and had nothing left to eat. Descending the concrete stairs into the diamond, he had his eyes on the noodle stand symbolically located on the pitcher’s mound. The fastest way to his heart always had been through his stomach.

“Hey swatter swatter!” “Get your fix here!” “Guns, ammo, artillery–you name it!”

His head swam with calorie deficit and sensory overload, accustomed to the quiet of the open road for nearly two weeks now. Not even the vault back home got this rowdy during their weekly field day. The cries of the merchants’ booths boxed his ears a bit, and he found himself sitting at a bar stool at the noodle stand and staring vacantly at a lunchbox in front of him.

“Nani shimaso-ka?”

“Wh–” Galen’s head snapped up, startled, and he found a yellow barrel-bodied robot with a chef’s hat addressing him. One could see the Protectron’s processor whirring about behind a large glass panel which design wise represented the void where one might otherwise have expected a face. “I’m not Japanese, I’m Pin–”

“Just say yes,” the settler next to him interjected between slurps on her own bowl of fresh ramen. “It’s the only word he gets.”

He grimaced, then looked at the robot squarely while he put twenty caps on the counter between him and Takahashi.

“…Yes?”

Almost faster than his eyes could follow, the robot prepared and presented a bowl all for Galen. Fresh carrots and tato, with something he guessed was reconstituted iguana bits for the protein. It smelled exceptional. He was grateful the robot didn’t stand there and stare expectantly as he ate, since it took him some time to steel his nerves to consume something with fresh produce in it. The noodles even seemed like razorgrain meal instead of the instant squares found as prewar rations. It went down easily enough in three or four good chugs. The blond woman next to him noticed the pink stranger didn’t even bother with utensils, but she didn’t know it was because he’d resorted to eating them the day before.

“That’s some appetite, Blue,” he heard a second woman mumble lyrically to his other side. She had on a red coat and a press cap, and had dark hair.

“Blue?” he scoffed, leaning to add his bowl to the stack at the end of the counter. “Y'need your eyes checked.”

“You might not be wearing your vault suit right now, but… not a lot of Commonwealth folk have got a Pipboy.” She sat beside him, nonchalant, and playfully tapped the screen of the chrome device at his left wrist. “Besides, haven’t seen you before. Y'look a little lost. And I think I’d remember a gum rubber pink Vault Dweller.”

“You’re a reporter, aren’t you.”

“Ooohh, read me like a paper. But you, you seem like front page news. Guessing you noticed we gotta newsprint press on the town diamond.” All he did was nod, trying to ignore his gut’s disapproval of his choice of food while also being patient waiting for this young woman to get to the point. “Can I get an interview? The people of Diamond City could use an outside perspective.”

“Here’s your headline: Man from out of town says no.”

She snorted at him and got up. “Wise guy, huh? Fine, be like that. You know where to find me if you change your mind.”

As she went off to the news stand titled “Publick Occurrences,” he turned the other direction with his eyes on the Mega Surgery Center.

“Ignore Piper,” the first woman mumbled, chewing on some gumdrops. “She’s the nosiest person in this place.”

“Guess if it pays the bills,” he replied offhandedly, not paying attention to her as he got up and walked over to speak to the doctor working at the equipment-crowded porch of the small building.

“What’s a bill?” she thought to herself aloud.

“What is it?” The impatient Japanese man in a white coat did not look up from what appeared to be a bloodwork panel. “It had better not be about cosmetic surgery again.”

“Cosmic… surgery?”

Not recognizing the voice, the doctor glanced to Galen a moment with a brief raised brow before returning to his work.

“Cosmetic. As in ‘not due to life threatening circumstances.’ Are you seeking treatment? The best thing I can recommend for heat stroke is plenty of rest and clean, cold water.”

“It’s not– heat stroke, doctor. I’ve come a very long way. Blackstone. Please, just. Hear me out.”

The man stopped what he was doing and set down his work to turn and face him attentively.

“This must be quite serious, if no one in Worcester or Providence could help you.” He offered a handshake, which Galen took. “I’m Dr. Sun, by the way.”

“Galen,” he introduced graciously. His stomach was turning on him sharply in that moment, and he did his best to hide it. “I’m from a Vault-Tec vault, and our food dispensers have been… malfunctioning. We aren’t sure for how long, but it’s been runnier’n usual. Our mechanic isn’t good with circuitry or any of that, but he estimates that the machines glitched out on the recipe and it’s been leaving out an ingredient. The technician maintaining the machines passed away, so there’s no telling. Everyone is… pink like this. Most of us didn’t really notice the difference because the rations have always been like a runny custard, at least, not until it was obvious not everyone is stomaching it so well.”

“Blackstone? I didn’t know there was a vault in the gorge.”

“We keep to ourselves. It’s hard to navigate the valley, with the wildlife.” Galen leaned back against the wall behind him.

“…Is your hydroponics sector still operating normally? I know it’s a hard shift to get accustomed to after years of the machines doing it for you–having Takahashi make our food has certainly spoiled us here–but if the dispensers aren’t blending and doling out what they’re designed to, you’ll have to learn how to cook again to supplement it, or replace it altogether.” The accusatory nature of his impatient tone grated on Galen.

“Hydro-whats now? Are you talking about our water supply, or– you mean farming? We stay below, in the vault. We don’t keep land above-ground for cultivating. We have a few folks who make supply runs to Quinsigamond every two weeks, but… the matter a what we’ve been eating to get by. That’s why I came.”

“You don’t have indoor crops! What a thing to have glossed over in construction!”

“We always had the food paste. Since day one. The nutritionists insisted it was a precise blend of vitamins and fortifyin’ ingredients. That it was an omni-source of vegetable, animal, and mineral nutrients.” He put his hands in his pockets to avoid holding his gut. “The doctor in Worcester called it 'pica,’ the situation we got going in recent years. We been healthier eating chalk, or even mud from the gorge, than we have been with the food our runners bring back. We was almost outta chalk when I left, it’s in such demand. The less capable of being defined as food, it seems the less off it makes our stomachs.” His stress broiled his discomfort into outright nausea, and he started sweating. “I don’t know what’s wrong with us, Doc. If we’re in withdrawal from chems in our food we didn’t agree to, or if we’ve eaten the paste so long that our bodies can’t digest anything else. I know I’m not the only one of us who’s sick. Really, genuinely sick. And believe me, I’ve tried Stimpacks and Med-X, even Rad-X, trying to get my gut to work with me rather'n against me.”

Sun’s face grew long and he stood silent for some time, the sound of the ceiling fan the only thing competing with the bustle of the town square. As the doctor spoke next, it became increasingly difficult for Galen to remain standing.

“Of course you’re all sick. You’re severely malnourished. I’m not versed in psychiatric care as much as I’d like, but I know for a fact that pica disorder has been proven a psychosomatic link to malnourishment. As far as your theory that your issue with going cold turkey off your food dispenser rations is chem withdrawal… I do have a treatment for that, if you’d like to try it. To rule out foul play, I mean.”

Before he could give the doctor an answer, he folded himself over the rail of the porch and retched. Those eating at Power Noodle on the clinic side tried their best to ignore it.

“Can’t… even. Keep down damn ramen.” He wiped his mouth with his sleeve and glanced up to where Takahashi worked oblivious to any correlation. He wondered if the Protectron had feelings capable of being hurt, and if it might assume Galen had disliked its cooking. He let out a tepid chuckle and stood again, both hands steady on the rails. “I was doin’ fine eating cutlery and shortening on my trip here. Ate some fusion cell ammunition too. I slept so well the night I ate the batteries, Doc. I think I’m dying. I think we’re all dying.”

“Do you at least feel better, having evacuated your stomach contents in my front gutter?”

“…Ye, honestly.” Galen nudged his hood back and made a gesture toward the chair, to which Sun nodded and Galen sat, wiping his forehead and brow dry with his other sleeve. “What was that treatment? All I’ve got left is about thirteen caps and a good bit of prewar money, but I’ll compense you best I can for y'time, consultation, and resources.”

“It’s called Addictol.” Sun retrieved a small white inhaler from one of his stock drawers, and handed it over. “If it works, you were right about the tainted food source. If it doesn’t work, you were wrong that it’s been tampered with. Either way, the best thing I think your people can do is to stop eating the paste altogether and learn to cook and garden again.”

“So do I just.” Galen turned it this way and that with a gloved finger on the spray button on the back of it. “How much is one dose?”

“Take in the entire ampuole. Exhale completely first, then depress the button and inhale deeply until it’s empty. Hold the breath for at least five seconds, ten if you can.”

Galen followed the instructions, and pinched his nose after to make sure he didn’t absently exhale prematurely. The inhaler produced a concentrated saline vapor which felt like a salt-soak for his lungs. For a moment he couldn’t tell if the slow burn was from the salt or from holding his breath so long. The sting crept into his bloodstream, and lingered even after a deep and heavy exhalation. It took a bit for his breathing pattern to regulate itself, but by the time it evened out, the sting was over with.

“How do you feel?” Sun asked, having been watching.

“I could use a cigarette,” he admitted, trying to crack a joke. “How’m I supposed to feel, if it worked?”

“At least you’ve still your humor about you. Addictol has a slight sting to it as it enters your blood through the capillaries in your lungs. What were your symptoms prior to taking it? Rationalize.”

“Nausea. Fatigue. My head felt full of lead.” He conceded to the compulsion and swallowed the inhaler. “Nope, still craving plastic and metal. Not quite so tired now, or nauseated. Head’s still in a fog.”

“…How long have you been… ingesting like that? And what kinds of things?”

“I told you. Ammunition. Chalk. Flatware. Empty containers. As far as how long, though? What year is it? I think my Pipboy might be malfunctioning. The dispensers started fritzing somewhere around twenty… ninety-eight? I’ve personally been eatin’ chalk since about a month before the mechanic officially decreed the dispensers F.U.B.A.R.”

“It’s April 23, 2285. You’re not making any sense. Even if you meant 2*1*98, that would make you over eighty years old, were you old enough to remember the machines failing. You look like you’re no further than past your thirties.” Sun forcibly looked at the screen of Galen’s Pipboy, to discern that the date which it displayed was correct. “Promise me you’ll stop eating this paste. And that you’ll discourage your neighbors and family from doing so. You’re delusional from malnutrition, and if you keep eating objects instead of food, you’ll end up poisoning yourself. Fusion cells have lead and nuclear material in them. And many of the things you listed are sharp, or don’t break down in the human body. If you don’t die of poisoning, you’ll require extractive surgery to remove the things you swallowed from your alimentary canal.”

“I know it sounds weird, Doc. I’ve lost track of time myself. Most of us has. I’m gonna have a hard time convincin’ em to stop eating it though. Even if you’re right, they don’t exactly listen to me.” He didn’t want to concern the doctor any further with more detailed explanation of his and his people’s condition, let alone argue with him over the fact he remembered the day the bombs fell. So, he produced a medium sized candy tin from his bag, and removed the lid to display about a cup of pink paste. “I ate the last of my paste rations a few days ago, but when I left I took a sample of it and kept it separate to share with doctors. Can I leave some with you, and have you analyze it? Are you able to do that?”

“I’m not a nutritionist,” the doctor declined, shakily picking up a glass stirrer and poking at the surface of the foodstuff. “Are you sure that’s what the *food* dispenser is producing? That does not look fit for human consumption.”

“Since day one. It just got a little runnier after the machines messed up.” He put the lid back on the tin and made a second offering motion toward the doctor, who again declined.

“I don’t know of any nutritionist in the Commonwealth, but I’m certain you’ll have better luck discussing this with Drs. Duff and Scara at the Science! Center on 2nd Street here. They’re very skilled chemists. Maybe they can tell you what is in it, to better determine what it lacks.” Sun gestured behind Galen, to one of the guards holding an injured arm. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ve got another patient. Come back and tell me what the ladies have to say. I’d be interested to learn more about this. Your case is most unusual.”

#dr. sun #piper wright #takahashi #fallout 4 #fallout 4 fanfic #fo4 fanfic #fo4 oc #mild emetophobia tw near the end #the purkinje effect #geek

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dalishpariah · 7 years

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something I wrote like a month ago & just got around to editing ^u^ i love my sole survivor w all my heart so here’s some pre-relationship ficlet w her partner nick valentine <33

warning for: wasteland-typical violence mention (nothing gratuitous), some icky stuff about stingwings + insect stings & vomit

if you’d rather read on ao3 here’s the link ^u^

It was a bad fucking week. Burning through stimpacks and Med-X like it was going out of style, Winona was pretty sure she had one of every possible injury the wasteland had to offer. A gash in her thigh from a raider switchblade, a burned hand from a close brush with a Forged, a big purple bruise from an especially enthusiastic feral.

And now, this. Before the war, Winona didn’t like bugs much. A wasp chasing her into hiding in a neighbour’s pool at age eight and stinging her face when she surfaced for air used to be her worst insect-related misadventure, but the wasteland was competitive. Every bad experience prewar Massachusetts dished out had to be trumped by its irradiated counterpart.

Nick caught up to her, assessed the stingwing, and then stomped the the rest of the life out of it. It was dead enough it wasn’t worth the bullet.The synth only quit when he was damn sure it was dead, and approached his fallen companion. Her periphery ran greyish and bleary like watery ink. The toxic rush of the sting twitched her muscles and guts.

“Shit. It got you?” he asked, getting down to one knee beside her.

“Great work Detect-” Winona seized and then decided to cut the snark, gripping the sting site under her sleeve. Her guts wanted to clench and coil together and she curled in on herself, fetal on the stubbly pavement before vomiting out what little food was in her stomach. It was somehow especially disgusting catching a glance at the faded pink of what was once a Fancy Lads Snack Cake. What the hell kind of colourant stuck around two hundred years and survived her stomach acid?

Valentine did what he could to keep her hair out of the vomit, grimacing with concern. “Damn. Hold still.”

She could hear him rummaging through his bag and she focused her attention on the cold, stubby asphalt on under cheek. The stimpack punctured her thigh and she grimaced; it was better to focus on all the gross dirt on the road than the pain.

“Fuck,” she breathed.

“Ya shouldn’t tense up like that, it’ll make it hurt more,” Valentine commented, voice not without sympathy. He eased her to sit slowly, skeletal metal hand on her lower back to support her balance. “How’s that head feel?”

“Not as bad as my arm,” she snorted.

“Yeah, well let’s be thankful you didn’t get stung in the head,” he chuckled, some relief slipping into his voice. “Especially not by one of those bad boys.”

“A wasp stung my face once,” she said, exhausted. Weakness was seeping into her muscles now and she exhaled sharply to orient herself again. It was nowhere near quitting time, not in the middle of the wasteland without shelter in sight. “Pre-war, luckily.”

“Sounds unlucky to me regardless,” he said, amber eyes following her closely. “Can you walk?”

“Oh yeah.” She started to stand, feeling him lean more weight into the hand supporting her back when she did. Halfway onto her feet, a rush of nausea flooded back into her head and she fell forward onto one knee, palms planted into the rough road for stability. “Fuck. Maybe not.”

“I think you need a doctor,” Nick said, concerned. He lit a cigarette and stuck it between his lips, still crouched at her side.

“I don’t have the caps for a doctor,” she replied, opening her eyes again. Something that war couldn’t change, it seemed, was insurmountable medical expense. “I’ll get Sturges to give me a look when I get back to Sanctuary. He fixes machines, he can...probably fix people.”

“I’ll get the fee,” Nick replied. “I never looked into just how venomous those suckers are. Didn’t really apply to me. But I don’t want you getting more sick out here.”

“A caravaner mentioned it’s only really bad if you get stung more than once,” she said, leaning back on her heels. It was hard not to be stubborn. “Seriously, Valentine. I’m okay.”

Nick snorted. “You’re stubborn like an ox, y’know.”

“Made me a good lawyer.” She shot him a little smirk, a trickle of cold sweat running a clean streak in the dirt on her jaw.

“I’ll bet. C’mere.” He leaned down, one arm around her waist and the other under her knee.

“Hey, hey---wait,” she said, “what are-?”

“You’re not arguing your way out of this one,” Nick said, hoisting her up with a strength surprising considering his slight metal frame. “We’re sitting ducks out here and you’re not about to be walking straight any time soon.”

God, he really was one of the good ones. It’d been maybe four or five months since she first saw the wasteland, but one of her first lessons learned after leaving the safety of the Sanctuary bubble was that everyone was usually out for themselves. If she weren’t with Nick Valentine, she might’ve woken up alone without her caps and gun. Or dead. And here he was, carrying her down the empty road, no hands free to use a weapon.

Despite resigning to being carried, it was hard not to argue. “You’re a walking target,” she muttered softly. “Someone’s gonna shoot you in the back.”

“And here I thought I was supposed to be the experienced wasteland cynic,” he chortled. Winona plunked her head against his chest and let her eyes close to fend off another wave of nausea, trying not to think about the pain in her arm. The whir of parts under Nick’s trench coat was a minor comfort.

Without any way to tell how much time had passed, she cracked an eye open when it felt like at least an hour. The sun was going down and it was starting to get cold.

“Shit,” she mumbled, catching sight of an embarrassing pink puke smear on his tie. “I got vomit on you. Sorry.”

Under the coat, some part of his machinery rumbled with a chuckle. “If you think that’s the worst bodily fluid I’ve had on me in my line of work, I’d like to retract my comment about you being a cynic.”

“I’m really not a cynic,” she snorted softly. “Not usually.”

“You’re more optimistic than most folks, if they were in your shoes,” he agreed, slowly setting her down in the back of a broken down minivan. It was hard to tell how long it would be until they reached a settlement, and better to pack in for the night with one of them unable to fight.

The back of the van was once carpeted, but years of squatter use wore it down to the plastic-y floor beneath it. Winona tugged off her bag and set it behind herself to use as a pillow, pausing and brushing her bare black hair.

“Where the fuck is my hat.”

The urgency of the demand made Nick laugh. “I got it,” he replied, producing it from his own satchel as proof. “I wouldn’t leave something like that behind.”

“Thank God. What the hell would I tell Preston?” she said, tugging it back over her head.

“Like he’d care if you wear the General’s uniform or not,” Nick teased, opening up a bottle of dirty water and soaking a cloth. He handed it to Winona and she cleaned her face weakly, rubbing her teeth with the rough fibres to try to scrub off the plaque. At this point, the lack of mirrors felt like a blessing, considering the equal lack of showers or general hygeine.

“I wouldn’t feel right without the hat,” she admitted, laughing. Her voice was raw and weary now, and she settled down in the corner of the back seat and wall. “It’d be like you, without your coat. It’s part of the gimmick.”

“Gimmick?” he smirked.

“I know it’s a gimmick, Nick. We all do,” she said, shuffling her coat off her shoulders and using the light of her Pip-Boy to inspect the sting. The stinger wasn’t still in her skin as far as she could tell, but the wound was puffy and angry red.

“Get some rest,” he said. “I’ll keep watch.”

He always kept watch. Another reason why he was one of the good ones. Sure, he didn’t /need/ to sleep, but it would be nice if he could set himself into rest mode once in awhile during their travels. He’d never accept it though. ‘You organic folk need it more than I do’, he’d say.

“Thanks.” She settled in and closed her eyes, hearing Nick sit beside her against the inner wall of the van and cross his ankles. His gun laid across his ankles and the presence of any loaded gun near her head made the hair on the back of her neck stand briefly, but she relaxed again soon enough.

Sleep came instantly, deep and consuming. Before the war, the most uncomfortable place Winona ever had to sleep was on an airplane, but it was another experience the wasteland had to compete with. There had been flickering subway bathrooms with the door barred in close quarters with Piper, listening to shuffling ferals all night on the other side. There had been up in a tree with Hancock, trying to avoid any wandering mongrels. Given those experiences alone, the crumbled minivan felt like a five star hotel.

Being stung by a stingwing was exhausting, but even her body expending all its energy trying to sweat out the venom wasn’t enough to keep her survival instincts out of commission. She woke when she heard Nick’s gun go off and sat up, grabbing her shotgun immediately and lifting it. The detective was a few feet ahead, using the butt of his gun to fend off a second bloatfly before twisting it over again and shooting it. The bloatflies felt like old friends compared to the stingwings.

“You good? Are there anymore?” she demanded quickly, anxiously, voice husky from sleep.

“I’m good. Go back to sleep Nonny,” he said, after a second and third glance around. The sun was starting to peer over the horizon again, bleaching the night sky in the east a pale blue.

Winona sat back slowly, putting the safety back onto her gun. She was exhausted and disoriented, but a little smirk still found her lips. “What’d you call me?”

“Err---” He seemed surprised that she noticed, and she wondered if he even realized he’d said it. “I won’t, if you don’t like it.”

“I like it,” she said, pleased. She grinned a little. The pain of the sting was almost gone, now just really raw and tender under her sleeve.

Valentine shifted and looked away for a second, lighting up another cigarette. “Well.” She’d never made him speechless before.

“Come on,” she said, deciding to relieve him of the embarrassment of being called out on the nickname. A shift in conversation would do nicely, even if she would much rather tease him. She pulled her back up onto her shoulder, scooting down to the edge of the van. “Come on. I bet we can make Goodneighbor before noon if we get a move on.”

#fallout 4 #nick valentine #sole survivor #f!sole survivor #nick valentine x sole survivor #nick valentine x f!sole survivor #my writing #winona

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nyotasaimiri · 7 years

Text

Trust

We’ll be out of spoiler tags again next week. Thanks for sticking with me so far!

Nyota tried not to relax too much as warm water ran through her hair, washing away blood and grime. The heat felt strange but pleasant as it trickled over the layered bandage and nanowrapping around her throat.

“Don’t ya doze off in there,” Lumen had warned her as he finished cleaning and bandaging the worst wounds. “That stimpack’ll start patchin’ ya and keep the pain down, but yer in for a rude awakenin’ if ya fall asleep sittin’ up.” The medic would have been much happier if she’d rested right after he finished, but Nyota had no desire to fall asleep with blood in her hair. She’d done that once before. It had taken hours to coax the matting out.

Not much threat of it anyway, the Apex thought, tilting her head back to keep water out of her eyes and trying to ignore the sudden flare of pain that moving brought. I’m too tired to sleep. She almost laughed at the irony. She started to remove her undershirt so it wouldn’t get soaked and sucked in a sharp breath as pain shot through her chest.

There was a quiet sound outside. “Do you… need help, Captain Saimiri?”

Nyota’s breath hissed between her teeth as she gingerly lowered her arms again. “I think so,” she admitted. “I can’t raise my arms.” It hurt her pride, having to ask, being unable to take care of herself for something as simple as this.

A short silence, then the door clicked open. Oldarva stepped over to her, shrugging off her outer jacket and hanging it next to Nyota’s ruined one.

“You can call for Hadley,” Nyota offered, glancing at her. “It’s going to take you ages to get dry.”

“I’m already here,” Oldarva said. “Besides, humans can be funny about showers. You’d think they’d never had to share a bathroom before…”

“Theirs have curtains,” Nyota said, remembering her room at the Protectorate. It was getting harder to keep her mind focused. The two stimpacks had saved her life, but left her feeling exhausted, drained.

“What, curtains? Really?” Oldarva sounded envious. Her fingers were gentle as she teased the knots out of Nyota’s hair. “You’ve got split ends,” she said eventually. “When was the last time you looked after yourself?”

Nyota blinked, surprised. “Several months ago,” she said. Her voice was distant. “I kept meaning to ask Marcy to trim it for me before Graduation, but we never found the time…”

“Marcy?” Oldarva’s fingers dropped to her shoulders.

“A human I met on Earth. We joined the Protectorate at the same time. She was a dear friend of mine.” Nyota found herself smiling fondly.

Another silence. Oldarva’s hands moved up her neck again. Nyota tried not to flinch as her fingers moved over the still-raw gash where she’d dug out the microchip. “What was it like?” the tailor asked.

“The Protectorate?”

“The Miniknog.” Her hand lingered near the bandage before moving back to the base of Nyota’s neck.

Nyota exhaled slowly. She should have expected that one. “Orderly. Exact. It… made sense. I... liked it there, until...” She fell silent, and felt Oldarva tense.

“How did you join?” Oldarva’s tone was almost too casual.

The captain snorted. “Join? No. You’re chosen. Do you remember, when you were a child, how sometimes your classmates would vanish? You’d be told they had been sent to… alternative lessons, and to carry on with your studies…”

Oldarva’s hands went still.

“I was seven,” Nyota said quietly, looking down. “There were twelve of us. I was the oldest. Too old, some of them said. But I survived. Not everyone did. Some broke the rules. Some … didn’t make the cut.” It hurt to talk about, a deeper hurt than her broken skin and cracked bones. It was like digging at a chain that had grown in and slowly healed over. She wanted to get the chains out.

Oldarva started combing through Nyota’s hair again. Nyota could feel the uncertainty in her touch. “Whatever you ask,” the captain promised, “I will answer it honestly. I owe you that.”

Several seconds passed. Then Nyota heard a small noise, saw Oldarva’s shoulders shake out of the corner of her eye, felt the tremor in her hands. Is she… crying?

“Captain Saimiri, I… want to trust you, and I don’t know why,” Oldarva whispered. Her voice shook. “I know I shouldn’t. I heard… what you told Lumen and Namina. You were one of them. They took my brother. They… broke him. When you… When you said you were Miniknog, I wanted so much to hate you.”

Nyota held perfectly still as Oldarva reached out and touched her throat. The tailor’s face was at once exhilarated and terrified. She could overpower me, kill me, so easily right now, Nyota thought, holding her breath, and she’s realizing it. She’s never had power like this before...

“I wanted to hate you,” Oldarva repeated after a long moment, lowering her hand. “But I… can’t. You saved me, and I don’t know why. You’re the only person here who knows what we came from.” She looked up and met Nyota’s eyes. “How have you done it?” she asked, her voice thick and cracking. “How have you lived out here, with no one to tell you how to think?” Her voice dropped so quiet that Nyota had to strain to hear it. “I feel so lost.”

Nyota reached out and put a hand on Oldarva’s shoulder, ignoring the protest her body raised at the movement. It was like looking at an echo of herself, the day her world cracked. She found herself repeating the words the Protectorate guard had told her then, when he’d followed the stoic soldier out of the room and found a broken young woman in Miniknog armor that suddenly didn’t fit anymore.

“I can’t tell you to trust me,” she murmured. “I can’t tell you what’s right and what’s wrong. You’ll have to decide that for yourself. But you can decide. No one can take that from you now. There... is a kind of strength that comes from knowing that.”

Oldarva rubbed her eyes, though she made no move to pull away. “Is it always so… hard?”

“I wish I could say it gets easier,” Nyota told her. “It doesn’t. You get used to it, but it’s never easy. I started looking for answers eight years ago and I still don’t have them.”

She sighed, then turned off the water, watching the last drops swirl down the drain. “My offer still stands. If you want to leave, I will take you to the Outpost and help you start a new life. I’ll be sorry to see you go, but I won’t stop you.” She pushed herself to her feet and shook some of the water out of her hair. “You probably don’t want to listen to me right now, but talk to the others. That’s what kept me sane.”

Oldarva laughed through her tears and passed Nyota a towel. “Are any of us sane, really?” she asked. “But... thank you, Captain.”

#story post #nyota saimiri #oldarva #now go sleep dangit captain #stimpaks might jump-start healing but they don't fix everything #this one had the working title of Shower Scenes and Verbal Trust Falls

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