#(sitting here working on iconing while listening to various horror creature sounds)

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The Anatomy of Melancholy 65, More Than You Can Chew

Table of Contents. Second Instar, Chapter 32. Go to previous. Go to next. TW: PTSD triggers, recollection of suggested dubcon and noncon, implied possibility of sexual assault, body horror, alcohol, chems, manipulation, toxic dynamics, one step past friskiness, trenchant self-deprecation.

“Memory is all we are. Moments and feelings, captured in amber, strung on filaments of reason. Take a man's memories and you take all of him. Chip away a memory at a time and you destroy him as surely as if you hammered nail after nail through his skull.”  -- Mark Lawrence, King of Thorns

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“Something kicked the ‘Lurks up bad.”

Sticks did not look away from the window. As if to punctuate things, the ghoul closed up all but one of the shutters. He pulled up a chair to watch from that half-shuttered window, and motioned to keep it at a hush.

“You’re boarding up like a hurricane.”

‘Choly couldn’t finger what about it to object to. A groan gurgled from him when he rolled onto his back in the bed. Sticks had him all out of sorts just from so flippantly throwing him down. He disliked the reality that the orthotics seemed to diminish the severity of dislocations, but not prevent them altogether like they had when he’d first begun relying upon them. His back had slipped out for sure. To imagine it any worse made his head scream.

“What’s all the fuss, gentlemen?”

Angel, too, returned inside at a caution.

“Stay quiet and stay put. If I can figure out why they’re pissed, I can figure out how much we need to worry.”

The aquatic shrieking and viscous pounding coming from street level tried ‘Choly’s composure. He watched Sticks from the bed for a bit. He’d stay put, all right. Like he had a choice.

The ghoul rose, eyes out the window whenever possible, to kneel beside the bed. He fished out a bolt-action hunting rifle and a canvas bag that sounded like it contained bullets, and sat again to alternate between continuing to watch the esplanade and prepping an ammo clip. He deteriorated from anxiousness to confusion.

Various electrical sounds accompanied grinding whines which ‘Choly struggled to place. Then the distinctive hissing beam of a plasma gun rang out, and he couldn’t not shoot up on the mattress. When glass shattered, he thought at first to windows downstairs, but recalled the restaurant seemed to have long since lacked them in favor of fortification. An outcry rang indistinguishable from stress or bravado.

Soon things went near completely quiet outside. Sticks loosened up and glanced to ‘Choly with a strange wistfulness. He stood and pulled ‘Choly into a fierce hug. Kneeling, in a wet-eyed stupor 'Choly mirrored him.

“You’re alive...” The ghoul developed a broken, excited laugh, pressing his goateed chin into ‘Choly’s scalp. “You’re really alive...”

With a rapping on the door downstairs, a relieved sigh and a sniff broke Sticks away. Whimsy lit up his dark eyes. He slipped the cane off his back and returned it, in favor of the rifle. He patted ‘Choly on the upper arm and rubbed at it a bit with a small, aside smile.

“Stay up here and take it easy a spell.”

The ghoul went to lift the hatch door, descending downstairs. Shortly after, the chemist could faintly make out conversation. Left out, ‘Choly mustered himself to rise, and he approached the window to assess for himself what had happened.

“They-- Ah!” About to broadcast its eavesdropping, Angel instead sublimated with anticipation. “We have company for dinner. Forgive me, Sir, but I must go help them prepare the kitchen and dining area!”

‘Choly frowned and started to object, but the words were slower than either the ghoul or the robot. A dull, ringing pressure haloed his head. He grabbed his now-cold remainder of coffee, to sit and finish it off in resignation. He opened the shutters all the way, and pushed the window fully open, to observe and attempt to listen in. Once he’d exhausted the caffeine, he set his mug on the sill, and in alternations watched and worked to reset the joints which troubled him most, with an especial focus on the wrist and arm that had gone under him when tossed. Basic field medic training or no, he hoped he never had cause to grow accustomed to the sensation of palpating--and subsequently, popping--his own misaligned joints.

Wielding one-handed chainsaws and notched machetes, several dozen misshapen hunters shucked Merrilurk meat on the esplanade. The Furriers. Devils. Whatever they had become, ‘Choly had not seen them in clear light such as this until now. He watched as they reclaimed their rope darts from around the Merrilurks’ limbs, and pried meat from the aquatic creatures’ exoskeletons. He tried to crack his neck several times, only succeeding in worsening it before eventually breaking even again. He wondered if things with exoskeletons, lacking bones altogether, struggled as he did. He wondered, too, whether the hunters had to reset joints in any particular way.

They still wore masks, and draped, knotted garments, but they also had incorporated khaki elements of military garb, and reclaimed bits of their repurposed sheet metal armor where it still fit. He spotted several ‘familiar faces,’ but refused to speculate whether he knew any of them after yesterday. They had, he reminded himself, received no less than two doses of X-Cell-Root--hadn’t that risked them sluicing into other people with whom they’d come into physical contact?

“Bozhemoy, what a way to lose my fucking virginity.”

Forty-three years old a virgin. (Those two centuries on ice didn’t count, he hoped.) He couldn’t ever have begun to have fantasized the week’s debauchery in which he’d gotten embroiled. Surely, something as awkward as that, his memory couldn’t screw that up. Yet, Sticks had thought ‘Choly’s apparent perversion contradicted his declared inexperience. First drifting off to the Unfolding and its chaotic delirium of limbs, his mind readily snagged up in the things he and Sticks had done together. The row house had comforted and delighted him, but he couldn’t shake the possibility that Sticks had used his knowledge of ‘Choly’s anatomy to manipulate the course of events that had transpired in this room the day before. He’d never desired a penetrative act of any sort, let alone sought one. What had gotten into him?

Besides him, he sneered.

It was so unlike him. ...Or was it? He disliked not knowing in what sex acts the Unfolding may have included him. It left him even more queasy than it had at the time, the oft mentioned fact he’d blacked out amid it all.

Suddenly, he wanted nothing more than to become presentable. He put on his reinforced gloves and persisted again in brushing out his hair and pinning it up properly. He browsed the drawer Sticks had allotted him for clothes storage. Just about every garment he owned carried negative associations. He wished to never wear a military uniform again in his life, but he did miss the sense of support of the high leather martial collar he’d lost in Voire. He rubbed at his shorn nape, grousing at the radiating nausea from high up in his neck. Just seeing the golfing attire set him sideways. He stomped out onto the balcony to pluck down the Vault suit. He disliked it least. Besides the puncture tear, it had remained in good condition despite all it had endured.

Putting his shoes back on went more smoothly. He refastened his holster and harness also, taking after Sticks’s uncertainty whether to appear downstairs unarmed. He’d hesitated while he dressed, but retrieved his coat from the balcony also, to pair with the ushanka. The sensation of fur soothed him too much, for him not to. He routed in his brain for a more correct word. Bekesha-tulup. As he nodded, his cheek burrowed against the wide turned collar.

He noticed the clawfoot tub on the balcony, filled with laundry suds and bed sheets. He pulled his coat tighter together, and frowned, unable to ignore what the soiled linens represented.

Driven by a sense of abandonment and isolation, he hobbled from the gambreled half of the upper story and to the end of the gabled half, where he proceeded to lift the hatch door and tackle the stairs with a heavy reliance on his cane. His heart wanted to wait for Angel or Sticks to come check on him, to escort him down, but his soul needed him to do it himself. Slow and deliberate, he repeated with every step. The braces improved his odds, but not his confidence. The sharp, meaty sweetness of seafood affronted him before he even rounded the turn of the stairway.

The next he knew, he had spilled down into the employees’ mudroom. His cane clattered off somewhere nearby. As he managed to right himself in the floor, he got an eyeful of the state of his left leg. Thankfully, he had not had any solid food yet. His guts knotted up, and he gnashed his teeth so fiercely his jaw popped. His knee had dislocated at an angle he thought not possible of a leg. With ginger but imprecise meddling, he seethed, but did not think it broken. Broken. His eyes whipped to his Pip-Boy screen. It came a temporary relief, that it had not cracked.

At least his neck had gone back right again.

He pushed himself along at a slumping crawl until he could reach his cane, by the shaft of which he leveraged two-fisted to stand. On his feet, he smoothed down his hat and coat. Then, favoring his left leg for hours to come, he rounded the stairs into the kitchen.

Sticks rushed about tending to half a dozen workspaces. The ghoul donned the iconic white shirt, black apron and slacks, and bowtie of a prewar ice cream parlor uniform. The clatters, sizzles, and gurgles of food prep drowned out the chemist’s giggle. He needed the minor humor to offset the slight that neither the ghoul nor his robot had noticed his fall. He called out for Angel and approached Sticks. Before his mouth could open, he received a basket of dark-colored fries. The ghoul added a freshly griddle-toasted long bun with a single slice of grilled tato, and ladled chopped sauce-seared marbled green-red shellfish into it. With a squirt of chunky sauce to top it off, Sticks tossed the bottle back into its chilled cubby to resume food prep.

“Now go on, shoo. Enjoy it while it’s hot and get out from underfoot. Once I’ve got everyone plated up, I’ll be along. If you want something to drink, Angel’s piloting the watering hole.”

'Choly sniffed at the briny, tart Merr-Roll-Lurk and stood there. His nausea waned. Though unlike the Jacob he knew, he didn’t question why Sticks had turned away the chance for Angel to cook in his place.

He nearly processed a generic disappointment that the place couldn’t serve a proper Nuka-Float without fresh milk for ice cream, but an airy wheeze came from behind him, paired with the sound of Angel’s thruster. He teetered as he looked back in the front-facing area which had once served ice cream. Behind the Mister Handy rushing up to him with an Ice-Cold Nuka-Cherry in pincer, he recognized the latch door of a walk-in freezer. Angel uncapped the beverage and offered both parts to him. He pocketed the cap before recognizing the bottle was for him, too.

“With how fiercely you’re shivering, I suggest you find a fireside seat, Mister Carey. I’m grateful you thought to dress warmly.”

‘Choly nodded, suddenly numb in the moment.

“Angel, did you choose to serve drinks? Did Sticks convince you not to cook?”

The Handy laughed sweetly.

“Mister Hawthorne is the one who required convincing to permit that I help! He is most enthusiastic a grill cook. Oh, Sir. I could hardly resist the opportunity to assist in hosting such a soirée.” With his murmured vague appeasement, it took his cane in one pincer to guide him with the other two at his sides. “Allow me to help you to a table. You seem a bit unsteady today.”

“A bit?” was all he could manage as they passed through the double-action swing doors into the dining area.

His ears rang. Their guests had removed their masks to eat, slinging them either off the side of their head or at their waist. He no longer felt so overdressed, the more he skimmed the restaurant. It felt more like a mess hall than a dining room, with its patrons bearing arms and a mishmash of military garb. Before now, he hadn’t really got the chance to admire the heavily embroidered leather work or extensive varied use of fur lining. Their dress fused design and utility.

Angel settled him at a two-seat table beside the fireplace in the back room, then returned to its post. A large figure on their knees fed the fire. He said hello to the unmistakable back of Reese’s head.

He pocketed his gloves to eat barehanded. It only took a bite for him to melt in the texture of warm bread. He knew he’d regret it later, but he craved inclusion, and he had to know why Sticks had made such a fuss for having the recipe. The longer he held the mouthful, the more the savory, bright sauce overtook him. The chopped long-grain meat contrasted the starchy tato. He let out a soft shocked moan. How could something like a Merrilurk taste good?

The figure stood with delight. Two patches of shoulder-length, irregularly blended indigo-ruby hair streaked the front of each ear, but they otherwise appeared mostly unchanged since their last encounter.

“So glad to share the legendary Glenn Johnny experience with you, Melancholy! May I join you?”

He held a hand over his mouth to cover his useless hurried chewing, and nodded when he couldn’t verbally welcome them. The goliath sat.

“Didn’t expect your lot out this way so soon after, well. You seemed to be settling in on base anyway.”

“It’s all accordingly.” They flashed him that lemniscate grin. “I’m sure Sticks has already told you our plans in the coming months.”

“Everybody keeps assuming I know the first thing that’s going on,” he blurted out, before taking another bite. “No, he’s been too busy in the kitchen to tell me anything.” Or help me when I fall down the stairs. He set down his food to grouse at his knee under the table with one hand, and gesticulate at the hunter with the other. “You, uh. Still go by Reese?”

“I’m confirmed Tiresias now.” They barked a laugh. “Everything’s gone far better than any of us anticipated, I assure you. The General’s plan would Unfold all the Rust Devils together, which pitted us against each other and likely wiped out both. But yours combined the Furriers and the Devils, which pits us against her, should the need arise. She steeply underestimated you, Colonel.”

Angel brought Tiresias another pair of Merr-Rolls-Lurk, which they accepted graciously. ‘Choly’s mind wadded up like cotton, trying to process just how badly he’d failed in eradicating the Devils--he had only worsened matters exponentially. The two ate together quietly for a bit before the hunter spoke again.

“We were afoot to reclaim battle salvage, but the opportunity to quarry after a clutch of Merrilurks appeared when we rounded the bridge between Back Central and Historic. We swam after them. The fight began in the water, and we drove them up onto land. We cornered them on the shore front outside this restaurant, and knew our fortune. We delivered this bounty to Glenn Johnny’s--to Sticks--by sheer chance. There he is!” they bellowed. “It’s like pulling teeth to get you to serve anymore! We’re all blessed you could not turn down so much peak season ‘Lurk.”

“You got me.” The ghoul sat at a row of tables nearby. “The hatchlings aren’t the firmest meat, but they make the best rolls.”

‘Choly made eye contact with him, looked down at his food, then back to him. His mouth felt thick.

The ghoul picked up one of the two rolls he’d served himself. Despite the boisterousness, Sticks had sat close enough they could hear one another.

“So, how do you like it?”

“Surprisingly edible. It is edible, right?” The whole room broke into laughter, and his ears rang. “Is it bad I’m more blown away by the bread? Fresh, griddle-toasted bread? How did you even have this much bread at the ready?”

“You can freeze dough, you know.” Sticks took a bite. “You really have been starved since you came out, haven’t you?”

“Angel’s been cooking from prepackaged prewar holdovers and foraged produce. It’s... it’s made do. Does its best. The kinds of ingredient compromises it’s got to make these days don’t necessarily lend well to the recipes it knows. It can’t taste or smell, so substitutions are total guesswork. Things just aren’t its fault!” His ears burned. “Not that it really matters whether Angel’s a good cook or not. You know my gut’s got other plans. That I’ve got to have my Melancholia.”

“You’ve been eating prewar food?” Sticks’s face screwed up at the thought. “No wonder your insides are a mess.”

‘Choly’s face ran hot.

“Say, Tiresias... You called these rolls legendary. How’d you know this place once made a big deal about them?”

“This establishment was a hub even decades after the Great War. Survivors from all around the Merrimack kept it running as a crux of Lowell hospitality. Over time, the locals either died or Deenwood conscripted them. Sticks eventually inherited Glenn Johnny’s, as one of the last people who cared to keep it running. He’s done such a marvelous job of it, wouldn’t you say? But he hasn’t held regular hours in decades!”

Sticks jeered playfully at the ribbing.

“Yeah, yeah, trained by the best. Let it alone. Nobody’ll ever make ‘em like Phil, but I know my rolls are good enough you’ll get ‘em no matter when I step in the kitchen.”

“My heart warms to know you still pride your work.”

‘Choly picked at his tato fries, which had sopped any sauce which dribbled off the roll. Sticks cemented business arrangements by cooking. That’s all this was, right? Everyone involved was simply communicating their goals. Everyone... Was he consorting with raiders again?

“So... what’s become of Laverne’s offer?” Sticks started with a low lyric. “Seeing as I held up my end, I think I deserve that level of compensation. Of course, there’s also the little matter of my extensive hospitality...”

Tiresias frowned, and took the time to finish off their third roll to form a thought.

“The General’s requisitioned the Towers as an extension of Deenwood, and declared it a restricted building, even from the Unfolded. We couldn’t get your reward out of there before she instated security measures. We’ve only got access to what we’ve reclaimed from Back Central. Lucky, you found a working Pip-Boy, yes?”

“I am not just gonna give Sticks a Mark-V, Tiresias. Prove to me he’s done more than cook us dinner.”

The Unfolded that had spoken held incredulity in their knobby, asymmetrical musculature.

“I earned one fair n’ square, and you know this. Russian dressing’s just the icing on this cake.”

‘Choly took notice that every single Unfolded he could see from his seat wore one model of Pip-Boy or another. These raiders operated with more than some vague structure, even before. Some Nuka-Cherry washed down his dread, then another two swigs sought to drown it. His scalp prickled when Tiresias raised a hand to insist that Sticks stay.

“Don’t quit us. Your arrangement with the Rust Devils stands fulfilled,” they insisted, in something of a speech, to Lucky’s disgust. “You upheld your end of all bargains. Outfitting the Furriers with fresh ballistics weave. Guaranteeing the Rust Devils could breach Deenwood and get at its robotics. And orchestrating that the Furriers kept the Devils on point, so that the General could bestow the Unfolding upon the lot of us. And of course, opening up your kitchen today. The ‘Lurk boil is both a tradition for the parts of us that have lived here in some capacity for many decades, and a virgin experience for the newest pieces of us. It rings true as a celebration of the Enlisted continuing to harbor ties with you, through Colonel Melancholy.”

‘Choly sputtered, speechless. Surely, Sticks hadn’t promised them anything without consulting him first!

“On account of you, and in spite of you,” Tiresias continued, “we present to you a Mark-V Pip-Boy. It’s not the Mark-VI prototype promised you, but we can hope it compares to your expectations.”

“I get you bent over backwards for one of these things.” Lucky grunted, retaining a firm grip on his knapsack. “I get it, but I don’t respect it. What monetary value could you possibly give me for it? These things are damn near priceless now, and you know it."

“You’re wringing me dry here, but I’ve got about three hundred caps to my name.”

“Three hundred!” he snorted. “I was thinking more three thousand!”

Not even Lucky’s superior could budge him on this. But did he still acknowledge his C.O.?

“I’ll close whatever value gap Sticks lacks,” ‘Choly said, reflexively.

Sticks reciprocated his stare with poorly-stifled indignity.

Lucky clicked his tongue.

“If you’re offering to trade your Four for my Five, nuh uh. No way. Nobody’s ever happy to get stuck with one of those.”

With a gasp ‘Choly flinched into coddling the device on his wrist. He’d often compared the Mark-IV he’d procured to escape Vault 111′s hydraulic door, to the Mark-III Deenwood had assigned him during active duty... but he couldn’t speculate what order of magnitude must separate a Mark-IV from a Mark-V, to to elicit such distaste in Lucky. For his mannerisms, he supposed this Unfolded must’ve at least partly been Felix. The black cat mask at his waist confirmed it for him.

“I’d never be without one myself. Something else. What about. What about--” Context stuffed his lungs full, when the option came to him. As the words spilled from him, he prayed the offer distracted them from Angel. “Whataboutmysackofgolfclubs?”

“Come again?”

Lucky let out a pointed chuckle as he sat on the ledge of the table.

“Am I... highballing?”

“Pssh. No. No. I just remember, you were an avid golfer. Can’t believe you traveled all this way with ‘em. Lowballing something fierce. Even if you’ve got a full set, that’s only, what, six hundred caps? Try again, champ.”

‘Choly glanced to Tiresias and Sticks, coming up empty. What could he possibly have that Lucky would want? He gulped and motioned for Lucky to get in close. He ineffectually swallowed, and whispered in his ear,

“I don’t have any X-Cell-Root, but do you have any interest in a couple doses of regular X-Cell? The kind that existed prewar?”

Lucky straightened and wobbled on his mismatched feet to think, donning his mask for emphasis.

“Also not worth the couple grand of my asking price, but definitely more interesting of what you’ve tossed in the pot so far. Keep going.”

“I traded all my caps for ammo yesterday.” His ears burned again. “What... what about prewar bonds? Or my gold and silver?”

“Screw paper! Buuuut...” Lucky raised an eyebrow. “How much gold and silver we talking?”

“I’ll get Angel to fetch it for me. Now, I can prove I’ve got what I’m offering, but I realize you haven’t even shown me you’ve got a spare Mark-V to begin with.”

Lucky’s eyes bittered up. He slapped ‘Choly in the middle of the back. ‘Choly couldn’t hide his queasiness.

“I’ll be right back.”

‘Choly jerked back when a mask appeared inches from his face. Before he knew it, an Unfolded with far too long a torso to be healthy, and far too many arms, draped herself across his lap, coiled behind the chair, and draped herself around his shoulders dreamily.

“C.O. Melancholy,” the skeleton cooed, “you didn’t greet me, so I must greet you.”

“Hh hello, Bones. Is it still--” The Nuka-Cherry had started settling his flesh heavier, and his head slurred a bit.

“--Certainly.” She set his hat in his lap to pet his hair. “You look to have withstood triplicate Unfoldings in tact. Even before yesterday, I would have adored to explore you in full...” She sniffed his hair.

Stifling a shiver resulted in an even more intense shiver.

“I, I really apPREciate your talents and gifts.” He couldn’t quite get a grip on the hands in his hair, or along his sides, or down his front, or-- He squeaked. “I’m sure the alterations you made to my coat dID A LOt for my surviving yesterday. Could yOU NOT--”

“Oh, you’re most welcome.” She only paused enough to remove her mask and rub her cheek against his. “Even without a full uniform, you still very much look the part of a commanding officer. Tiresias has been instated our Sergeant First Class. Lucky and I have joint duty over the outfit’s quartermastery. If he can dote tech and weapons upon you, I can certainly dress you... and undress you, as the case may be.”

To emphasize her words, she began to unzip his Vault suit, and slipped a hand against his clavicle.

Sticks whipped to his feet with a snarl.

“GET THE FUCK OFF HIM!” He was stymied by the eyes of everyone in the room, ‘Choly’s included. Softly, he backpedaled, “He doesn’t want you like that. ...You’re upsetting him...”

“I’ll only accept such an accusation from him.” Bones hugged him closer. She pressed her smeared, nearly double-wide mouth sweetly to his face. “It’s not true, is it? Tell him.”

Every surface of ‘Choly’s mouth stuck to itself, and he self-inflicted a scowl as he leveraged a hand between her face and his.

“He means to say, the only attraction I’m capable of is debasing. Fetishistic.”

“A purely carnal arrangement is more than pleasing a thought. Oh! Unless...” She rose up on the back of the chair to get sing-songy with the ghoul. “You don’t wish to share him?”

Exasperated, the ghoul pushed the remainder of his food to the nearest Unfolded, who accepted it with enthusiasm. He slouched back in his chair and crossed his arms to stew in silence.

‘Choly flushed so deeply in mortification that his face may as well have bruised.

“Knock that off.” Lucky returned inside, oblivious to the conversation temperature. “We’re busy here.”

He shoved Bones out of ‘Choly’s lap. She kept her grip on the back of the chair to right herself. With a harrumph, she leaned in to kiss ‘Choly on the face one more time before lousing in one of the wall booths.

He pulled up a chair and set the requested device in his lap. His three shoulders skewed when he saw on which wrist ‘Choly wore his. Smoothing at his peppery chin-length hair, produced an ahem and gestured that he’d proved he could deliver.

“Well I’ll be damned.” Sticks rose expectantly with an awed smile. “I’m humbled.”

“Angel,” ‘Choly called, thinking that by now it surely would have produced itself. “Angel come here.” When it finally did, he asked it at a hush, “Be a dear. I need my security box. And the two ampuoles of X-Cell.”

Rather than demonstrate its storage compartment before them, Angel rushed off then returned with the requested items.

“Will you be needing anything else at present, Sir? I’m caught in something time-sensitive.”

“No. Thank y--” It had already left again. “What gives?”

Before he could even really survey its contents, Lucky had already grabbed the box from him to look it over himself. Tiresias shriek-laughed at his impatience, boxing ‘Choly’s ears in the small enclosed space.

“I’ve gotta ask, Melancholy. Ain’t even October yet. Why the fuck were you singing a Christmas carol last night?”

“Not to me,” he defended a little too quickly. He glanced over his shoulder at Bones pouting. “Not to me, it isn’t. The lyrics swept me up in the moment. I guess I didn’t think I remembered it all.”

Lucky nodded thoughtfully, and placed the Mark-V on the table.

“So a Five for your precious metals, two amps, your golf clubs,” he glanced knowingly to Sticks, “and three hundred caps from the ol’ ghoul.”

When ‘Choly nodded, Lucky poured the box into his knapsack with a chortle, then tossed it down on the table with just the cash in it. Sticks briefly excused himself, only to plop down a Glenn Johnny’s doggie bag on the table with an emphatic jingling and a frown. Without hesitation or gratitude, the ghoul snatched up the Pip-Boy and got to trying to latch it on. Pocketing the bag, the black cat jumped to make him sit back down, and stripped back the leather wrist to point out the various required hookups to the glove’s ports. Unable to observe the process with Lucky between the two, ‘Choly hemmed and shoved a few fries in his mouth, then picked at his own Pip-Boy amid conversation.

“I couldn’t help but notice,” ‘Choly asked Tiresias. “You’ve all got Pip-Boys. They’re all different models. I recognize a few Mark-III’s, and the Mark-IV’s like mine... and know now that the grey ones are Mark-V’s. But there’s a few I don’t think are any of those. Just how many unreleased models did RobCo have in development?”

“A few, I suppose. Never really poked around back there.” They pulled inside themselves a moment, and put their witch mask back on to recompose. “The General’s model is a 3000-Series, Mark-V. We have 3000-Series, from Mark-I to the prototype Mark-V’s. The bombs interrupted RobCo’s projects, of course.”

“You’re mostly seeing a spectrum of remastered junk parts.” Lucky didn’t look up from his rigging effort. Sticks squirmed a bit, pinned in place by someone occupied only with guaranteeing Sticks didn’t mess it up. “Only a few of us have Pip-Boys 100% factory-issue. Even a mix of 2000-Series parts, where we could line ‘em up. More than I’d like, but they get the job done. Fives, though. The Fives might not have got fully finished, but they’re a helluva lot better than the Fours. Slated to hit the market in 2079.”

“This one has got a deck, right? Is it ambidextrous?”

“Duh. Not that it matters for Sticks. And it’s got two. RobCo was working on fusing their terminal word processors with the, ah, personal information processor. The pips. The 3000-V was the first foray into that undertaking. Full data entry capacity, with a processor for each deck. Once the company got it streamlined enough to market, they put all their attention on refining all the bells and whistles on their next prototype.”

When Lucky finally sat back, ‘Choly awed to see just how quickly Sticks’s Mark-V ticked away at its boot sequence. The screen’s slimmer font displayed easily twice the lines of text at once as the Mark-IV, and even from afar looked easier on the eyes. He pursed his lips and focused on his health page, and left Sticks to get acquainted with his new toy.

As Lucky spoke next, ‘Choly’s attention paled in recognition. Systemic CFC-based connective tissue damage. Antigen dysregulation. Chronic arthritis and arthralgia. Syncope. Neurological damage, with memory lacunae. Shell-shock. Addictions to Med-X, Calmex, and Mentats. Every chem he’d taken the night before. He hadn’t taken anything all day. Not since the Addictol. Something inside him broke, lacking the cognitive capacity to discern from the diagnostics what, if not Addictol, Olivia could have possibly tricked him into dosing himself with. The Pip-Boy sure as fuck couldn’t seem to tell him.

“Mmh, hmm. Melancholy. You mentioned memory... I have to ask you. I could be adjusting better to my Unfolding. Confirmation only did so much. Talking to you might help me with that, if that’s all right with you.” When ‘Choly didn’t shut him out, Lucky scooted his chair to sit with him and Tiresias. “It’s the Gen’s fault Lowell’s devoid of what you’d call normal life.”

Sticks groaned, snapping ‘Choly back to reality a ways.

“Are you really gonna start from the War, onward?”

“I guess so.” Lucky shrank a bit, stuck in his head and feeling sorry for it. “That’s the trouble of it. I feel like I remember that far back. That amounts to something, right?” Tiresias’s nod spurred him on. “I’ve remembered a lot of things lately I don’t think I should. Memories tend to start to muddy, the more times they survive the Unfolding. Doesn’t sit easy inside me.”

“Go on.” Tiresias rubbed at the cheek of their mask. “Let it manifest.”

“The Gen paid locals to volunteer for chem trials. Over time, when people didn’t come home, the settlements started distrusting her. Didn’t take long before she couldn’t get enough volunteers for whatever she was doing week to week. So she started abducting people. Called it getting drafted. But, that’s all common history fact. We all remember bits of the Lowellites we used to be. And most of us remember how important this restaurant’s always been to us. What’s got me all screwed up is, I can’t quite place exactly why my gut instinct’s to distrust you and fly to anger. Part of me doesn’t just remember reporting to you before the War. Part of me... wait.” Lucky looked to Sticks, and pointed like he had the ghoul’s name on the tip of his tongue. “Glenn Johnny. John. Johnny. No, Johh... honey. I was Jahani.”

‘Choly’s stomach clenched up hard enough he could taste seafood in his sinuses. His lips drew back tight.

“This doesn’t appear to be proper dinner conversation,” Sticks joked. He flew to stand behind ‘Choly, and gripped his shoulders square in reassurance. He then held up his left arm. “Shouldn’t we be discussing the in’s and out’s of how to use one of these things! Huh! Huh!”

“Jahani. Heydar Jahani.” ‘Choly couldn’t tell if he was staring at him or through him. Sticks slouched and let go when his persuasion failed. “You had a reason to approach me specifically about this?”

“So the memory is a sharp one.” Lucky crumpled inside, though the affirmation intensified him. “Heydar Jahani, huh. You got into the Vault. I had to make my own. Why was that, again?”

“Are you asking me, why you avoided dying in Vault 111? You really are Lucky. I mean, look at me.” Tears froze him in place. His eyes glazed over as he slipped out of the present. “How the hell did you get from Sanctuary Hills to Lowell?”

“I... I don’t know. It... was hell trying to wait out the fallout. I was so sick, even before. I returned to base, hoping to scav chems. Not to be sick anymore. But the Gen had already risen to General, and she was only interested in giving me more chems that no one had taken before. I had no choice but to trust her. She always... sounded like she demanded no one die from the chems she gave us. Like she could boss around the universe. If we became something else, like she became something else, it wasn’t killing us. She could make peace with just about anything short of losing a test subject. So we did. And we all became something completely new, too.”

‘Choly didn’t stop just because he’d drawn blood digging his fingernail along his chin scar.

“I don’t know what you want me to say. What, are you going to read me, too? Or do you expect me to apologize for what I did to you over two hundred years ago?”

“Read you?” Lucky had to process that ‘Choly had interpreted his narrative as a measure of the General’s character. He began to scoff and sniff. “You were my C.O. for three years. And you were like a husk, every time you dosed us. You check out a lot, don’t you? When you don’t like that you like doing things?”

Lucky lunged at him and snarled. Bones sprang back between them, only for ‘Choly to shove her back out of reflex.

“Lucky.” Tiresias didn’t need to stand to reach and seize the black cat’s wrist from where they sat. They demanded his eye contact. “Unlatch before you get snagged up in indisputable insubordination. It’s bristling enough, for you to go against your S.F.C., but another entirely to slander your colonel. You sought guidance in him, not accusations. You lose control of the manifestation.”

“The manifestation is the only thing I’m in control of.” He hissed at Tiresias and struggled against their grip, only to keep snipping at ‘Choly. “The manifestation is my only clarity. Did you ever have a conscience! That’s why just the thought of you pisses me off! Your roommate promised me CM, but you never followed through! It’s your fault I got Psycho-sick. It’s your fault I had to be Psycho-sick all those years in my bomb shelter. And it’s your fault I’m even still kicking today.”

“You still have a Psycho addiction, despite being a part of so many communal X-Cell-Root doses?“ ‘Choly’s face couldn’t turn down any deeper in his deer-eyed shock. “Does that mean that you... all...?”

“Why the fuck do you care now when you didn’t care when you dosed me over and over! I can’t be the only one here you fucked over, either!”

“It’s not his fault if I couldn’t make good on that offer in time. If I had known you were still alive, I would’ve tried to find you some Psycho and returned with it. Considering what happened to me, you can understand why I wouldn’t think you made it.” Lucky’s head whipped up to glare wild at Sticks. “Besides! What good would a couple doses have done you holed up in the ground for years?”

‘Choly was too far gone to defend the ghoul, and the ghoul was too dumbstruck he’d even slipped up in the first place.

“No conscience, Melancholy! No scruples, Sticks! Is that why they kept you on! Promoted you! They only commissioned the broken and the insane! I don’t know if I believe in karma, but she definitely shat on the two of you! FUCK!!” He wagged a vitriolic finger at Sticks. “At least you aren’t my sergeant anymore.”

“LUCKY.” The witch roared, standing to yank the cat forward with enough force it likely dislocated his side-shoulder. “I will tear you limb from LIMB if you do not unlatch his instant. Ground this, or I put you in the ground!”

“I... I like doing things.” At a dusty hush, ‘Choly couldn’t focus his eyes. His hands tucked themselves into his hat, to feel of the fur.

“Ohh, Sir. Sir.” Angel swayed back into the room, and used its tendrils to address him. “Sir, I have something that requires your immediate attention for a yet undetermined duration.”

“Christ, you have the worst timing in the world.” Sticks helped Angel help ‘Choly stand. “What’s so pressing you didn’t interrupt sooner?”

“I’m afraid that’s not to your pay grade, Private,” it snubbed, concerned only with ushering its owner out of the dining hall and upstairs.

“I enjoy it,” ‘Choly said again hobbling back through the kitchen.

The wraith of uncertainty cut furrows in his face in directions skin shouldn’t form natural creases.

He found himself with Angel on the covered balcony. He could still hear the Unfolded arguing beneath them, but he could also hear the inebriated handful that had decided to fool around on the pavilion stage to entertain themselves. The Mister Handy urged him over to the bathtub, over which hung a string of lights. The scent of soap sobered him. His jaw slacked.

“I know how badly you’ve--”

“Poshol ty! Nev’yebenno v rot! --Vanna s penoy.”

“Do stop cursing at me and enjoy it while the water’s hot, Mister Carey.”

He screwed up his face and began to strip like his life depended on it. Angel collected his effects as they came off, nearly worried he’d fling something off the ledge.

“Angel, I don’t know what I did to deserve you,” he lauded, standing nude before the tub. “This is the only reward I have wanted from the moment I thawed out.”

“As I was saying, I know.”

He slid into the tub and enveloped himself in the dense, fragrant suds. In an instant, his stresses deliquesced, and he forgot even his time or place. The suds stung his chin scrape, but he didn’t care. He tipped his head back into the water and loosed his mess of hair from its pins, then stretched out with a groaning sigh. The tears ran again, indistinguishable from the bathwater.

“I think I wouldn’t have been driven to murder if I’d only had a bubble bath.”

Glass shattered downstairs. ‘Choly didn’t so much as flinch, relaxed to the point he could forget in the moment that anything could be wrong. Angel fretted and paced all about the balcony.

“Ohh, I do wish I had the confidence to break up the impending bar fight, but they’ve inherited those scoundrels’ robotics prowess, haven’t they? Ohhh... that will be such a mess come morning. Surely, Mister Hawthorne can handle this. It’s his establishment, after all...”

“Ogromnoe spasibo, moy Angel. Ya khochu byt’ s toboy vsegda.”

“You’re intoxicated, Sir. But I love you, too.”

“Don’t leave me.”

“I won’t.”

“You haven’t been moderating me.”

“There are other more serious slips in verbiage these days than people knowing a military chemist is bilingual.”

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