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purkinje-effect · 4 years

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The Anatomy of Melancholy, 62: Щeдрик

Table of Contents. Second Instar, Chapter 29. Go to previous. Go to next. Ex marks the spot. TWs: Injury and gore, eye trauma, needle projectiles, drug use, fatalities, body horror, explosions, joint gore, lethal scissoring.

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Melancholy couldn’t remember when his day had actually begun. So much had happened already. He’d had several of those this month, it seemed. The thought of ‘the longest night’ stuck with him as they passed Southwest through the Lowell Historical Park. Koliada. Korochun. Summer or winter solstice could both just as easily be upon them. The ritual bathing, the satyriadic dance, of the Unfolding...

His Pip-Boy indicated it was barely still September.

His head was starting to pound.

“Can I... have Berry?” He pressed his luck. “To think straight.”

“Based on my documentation, and based on what you’ve already taken, potential side effects of your taking a Berry Mentat are nausea, vomiting, and diarrhea. You’re not attempting the trifecta, now, are you, Sir?”

His face slacked beneath the burlap. Had the Handy really been documenting his Lexington bender? The DIA surveillance habits persisted.

“...Pozhaluysta?” He hadn’t meant to whine.

“Oh, all right. But no more!” It produced the lozenge for him, and presented it with caution. “For the rest of the night. And I mean it.”

He chewed it up rather than sucking on it, with a viscous murmur of gratitude.

Was it time for Mokosh? For Svarog? Tausen’s time was passing as Chernobog approached on foot... No, Equinox may have only just passed, but he could feel the charnel pull ahead. As his mental faculties sharpened, lyric trickled out of him. He couldn’t place what made sense anymore.

“Vyydy, vyydy, hospodaryu... Podyvysya, na kosharu...”

Koledari? ‘Choly-dari? Exhaustion robbed him of tears, so he laughed instead. He could be the swallow, welcoming prosperity in the wake of all this carnage, desperate and futile against a hologram of his faltering lucidity.

He glanced around at his enlisted. Had Berries always lit up the smoky, stygian magenta auras of the living, or was this something wholly new? His head pounded even harder than before. He definitely didn’t remember experiencing this during his Deenwood career.

The Voire Unit passed through the monolithic steles of Kerouac Park, and fire erupted before them. The Furriers spread out, many taking to the channels to cross into Back Central by water, demonstrating strong swimming skill in the twilight. The cars on the bridge into Back Central seemed less so scattered by the entropic chaos of two centuries abandoned, and more so strategically placed to force winding travel. Angel skirted over the crashing spray of multiple Molotovs with a heave, and glided down across the bridge. Once ‘Choly and Angel had crossed, an explosion rang behind them. Angel swiveled around so ‘Choly could see: the volatile overripe nuclear engine of a Chryslus had exploded from the flames. The car had taken out an entire section of the bridge.

The Riverhawk hadn’t made it more than a few dozen yards across. He could see the black cat slapping the steering wheel, and presumably cursing up a storm. The mummy standing in the cargo bed made eye contact with the burlap ghost, before the Pick-R-Up’s driver backed up to find another way in.

‘Choly sagged, truly separated for the moment, and finally noticing it.

Until he would next see his mummy, he focused instead on leading his mummers in his impassioned little kolyadka.

The way it just built up inside him, swelled, and poured out, it was like polishing tarnish off something long discarded inside himself. It came a little too loudly, and a little too strongly. Angel likely interpreted his surge of enthusiasm as a byproduct of the Calmex, the Mentat, or perhaps the combination. They both in their own ways had the effect of nettling his sense of social constructs. It would have concerned him, that Angel wasn’t getting onto him for letting his tongue run as it liked--but in such a state, to him expression was expression, and words were words. The anxiety typical of conforming out of a long-outdated survival habit had distilled into a different survival sense entirely.

He enterprised on the Berries’ unexpected illumination, graced by a moment where the grey matter fog receded a ways. He steadied the Syringer to take aim at three Rust Devils he could make out at a somewhat close range. Each pneumatic plunk of his darts punctuated his tune, unstifled by his focus.

“Pryletila--!”

“Lastivochka--!”

“Stala sobi shchebataty--”

Aim for space between joints. He reloaded with more flechettes, eyeing the sparks he’d drawn out of the Devils’ robotic armor from his first shots. No. Made from robots. Aim for electronic parts.

“Hospodarya--!”

“Vyklykaty--!”

The next clip of flechettes penetrated armor. He whistled low, and patted the air canister of his rifle.

Angel unloaded a length of its submachine clip without warning. ‘Choly could only hear ringing for some time, left to rely on his sight, and his touch-- Oh, god. He glared at his grip on the reins, nearly dropping the Syringer. When had his wrist turned that way? Never mind the thumb and elbow... He’d twisted up inside his wrist brace and reinforced glove, just from wielding the reins and steadying his aim at the same time. Had he been activated? He couldn’t be seeing this all wrong, the claret smoke whipping around him just like all the rest. He didn’t right his grip; Calmex accounted for what little steadiness he sustained. And he smiled inside himself, inside his burlap sack mask, as they came up on the five story Federal-style building once known as the Robert House Charter School.

“Vyydy vyydy... Hospodaryu... Pdoyvysya na kosharu, tam ovechky pokotylys, s yahnychyky narodylys--!”

He had to focus on drawing them from the woodworks... Couldn’t stay still. The carol didn’t only boost his morale. It would put all crosshairs squarely on him, and away from his enlisted, so they could disperse and lay their wire traps. All around him, he could see them working diligently. Barbed tripwires and snares. He smiled broadly through his song.

The Devils were the chaff, all the blessings these ‘Choly-dari could savor. He could hear some of the Furriers humming along. Though they knew his tune, English or otherwise, they mostly no longer knew the words. Those he could hear scripted their tune in affirmation of what they owed this iteration of their Unfolding, what they welcomed into the commune from these wretches.

'Choly doubled over from riding standing saddle, and crumpled atop Angel, who spirited him forward rather than away. Blinking through tears, he couldn’t see smoky silhouettes from the direction of the assault. The pummeling had definitely broken a rib through his orthotic corset.

Golf equipment. Of course. The Devils had to have looted the fairway and not just the clubhouse. They’d either gutted the Golf Green Protectrons, or stolen them in tact. And now, one of their favored forms of ammunition came as high velocity golf balls.

Another volley hailed down on him and Angel, and he forced himself to stand again trying to dodge as much as he could. Two balls got him in the left elbow and knee with a splintering crunch. Between his chem-enhanced reflexes and pain-obliviousness, he recovered one-handed and laughed it off through a slur of saliva.

Then a Rust Devil swept his other leg with a golf club, and he spilled. Hitting the concrete stifled his scream, unable to draw breath.

He patted around for his Syringer on the unlit broken street. The sound of heavy metal-clad footsteps approached him, and he could hear hoarse chuckling echoing inside the Eyebot helmet. The Devil choked up on the club and whisked it about, approaching to square up to ‘Choly’s head much like one would tee up. He couldn’t reach his rifle. He went for the Nagant at his hip instead. The Devil took a Pax Syringe to the eye, through the grate covering the front of the helmet, and keeled backwards with a heavy metallic thud.

It felt strange to the burlap ghost, to observe the weight of Mister Handy shells, when ported by something not designed to wear them.

The ghost and the Devil lay there sprawled on the street. Having focused on his Syringer rifle leading up to the battle, he couldn’t have guessed what kind of ammunition he’d last loaded into the Nagant. Such a game of chance, it was up to fate to dictate what ailment this modified revolver would dole. He could set the very Tryasovitsy into the world from the muzzle of this raider-forged device.

Angel broke away from its own fight eventually. It returned to its owner’s side to finish his job with its saw attachment. The Eyebot shell rolled away without the body attached.

“So good of you to save a little of your fight for me, too, Sir!” it praised.

‘Choly holstered the Nagant and grabbed the Devil’s club. He tried to stand, still heaving.

“You... need to work on your...” When he couldn’t put both hands on the club to do one better, he kicked at the head. “--sWING.”

Angel retrieved his Syringer for him. Though he appreciated it returned to him, he wouldn’t make much use of it with a broken, multiply-dislocated arm. It helped him sling it onto his back. He nearly questioned whether his joints had jumbled up how he believed they did, or if the chems had his sensory input more scrambled than usual. Before he could flip his Pip-Boy to the vitals menu, Angel scooped him up bridal style in two tendrils and sped off at maximum speed across the South Common.

He barely processed Sticks had called out a prearranged warning cry: Angel, descending!

The flare popped in the sky. He gaped at the charter school, but noticed the Pip-Boy chirp. It had just freshly finished recalibrating to being worn alongside the Vault Suit again. He glanced to it, but didn’t have the spit to swallow. It was even worse on the inside than he could tell from the outside.

Three shells shrieked down. Two shattered windows on their way inside the charter school, while the third made a droning crater in the street. ‘Choly tried to observe the chaos of the Robert House Charter as it sped off into the distance behind them, but the Rad-I-Canned did not and would not affect the robots.

The Assaultrons and Protectrons made chase, only to slam face-down as they each came to the juncture between Thorndike and the Lowell Connector. The tripwires hadn’t just been set for the Devils. One Assaultron noticed the wire in time, and jumped. It lunged forward to connect a spray of flames from its arm attachment. ‘Choly tucked his head into his fur collar as best he could. The next thing he knew, he wasn’t on fire anymore. Angel’s incendiary laser disintegrated wiring throughout the Assaultron, rendering it inert to the street. His energy resistant coat had beaded off the accelerant.

Then the Eyebots and Mister Handies caught up. Or, at least they had been Mister Handies once. ‘Choly could feel Angel shudder in recognition of the scraps which remained of its brass chassis-stripped kindred, little more than flame thrusters welded with parts from unidentifiable equipment, rebar, and drill-like blades. A spray of lasers sliced off one of Angel’s ocular lenses, but it pressed onward still.

“It’s too late, Olivia!” the Eyebots jeered, resounding like megaphones in the streets. “Troy has fallen!”

And then, they noticed that the Rust Devils from the Robert House Charter had caught up to them as well. Except they were naked... and shaped all wrong. ‘Choly couldn’t help but gasp in grief in the recognition the Rad-I-Canned hadn’t just fused together Furrier with Devil, but Devil with Devil. Despite their uncertain number of limbs and heads, and awkward joint angles, they still galloped after him with uncanny speed and grace. One of the faces still wore a skeleton mask. He started crying, and couldn’t explain why.

Troy? he found himself wondering in confusion. This is... this is Lowell...

“My sensors suggest you are very badly injured, Mister Carey. Please let me administer a Stimpak.”

“Nn-- no. Med-X. Second Med... X. Can’t Stimpak without setting-- bones.” His eyes glazed over amid shallow breaths. “Bones.”

“I believe I can safely administer one additional Med-X,” it hesitated, but complied. It couldn’t get at him to inject the painkiller, especially not since it had kept its Gutsy tendril free carrying its owner. So it handed it to him, and he injected it himself, into his left shoulder, through the Vault Suit, with his still partially-mangled right hand. “You’re certainly pushing our terms of agreement tonight, Sir. If this weren’t medically necessary, I shall go on record that I would be refusing you.”

“Noted. But we both need to worry more about staying in one piece--!”

With a shriek of rubber, the Riverhawk fishtailed between the Unfolded Devils and their robots, and the ghost and his chariot. Sticks unloaded a wave of fire to stave back the onslaught. The Devils’ Sentry Bot swerved into view from the same direction the Pick-R-Up truck had gotten onto the Lowell Connector, and slammed into the front of the truck. The dual Fusion Cores of the glorified tank robot melted down and ruptured in a nuclear blast that sent dozens flying.

‘Choly could do nothing but look on in dread when the Riverhawk burst into a second wave of flames, likely from the Flamer tank igniting as well.

As they came up on the Deenwood Compound, ‘Choly set his eyes forward, and at first believed a hallucination had set itself upon the place. His broken arm jostled around as they throttled off the Connector and under the broken remnants of the Route 3 overpass. The entire base looked at first as though the underworldly magenta smoke of the Berries had lit it up, but the nearer they drew, the more hopeless he felt.

A flare had been fired directly onto the base, signaling the detonation of Rad-I-Canned shells. A haze of Klutz and X-Cell-Root hugged the ground. He frowned when laser fire chased close behind them again.

“Fuck-me-in-my-mouth, why can’t I fire back at them!” He nearly had whiplash, jerking between the robots closing in behind them, and the base gates coming up in front of them. He stuttered in panic. “--Wait! Angel I don’t have my bars. My bars. I DON’T--”

“Have some faith in me, Sir!” the Handy laughed, doing its best to sprint full speed, ignoring the fallen checkpoints. “What kind of Handy would I be!”

The gates had been slammed down, and robotic carnage lay strewn about. Sirens echoed in awful off-key alternations. ‘Choly didn’t know whether to worry more about the base’s robots potentially not recognizing him as an ally, or about what kind of firepower the Devils had mustered to manage such destruction. Even with the neurological boost of the Berry Mentat still barely flickering, he couldn’t calculate just how many of the base’s robots had fallen already.

Then again, the Rust Devils had discarded their armor amongst the fallen robots, and telling it all apart couldn’t have been more difficult by spotlight.

The carnage interested the Devils more than Angel and ‘Choly did, and the two passed through unhindered while the Unfolded figures scavenged giddily. The Rad-I-Canned seemed to have dissipated enough as to not cause much trouble, though the droning whine resonating throughout Deenwood nettled something deep inside ‘Choly which got him to wriggling. Angel held him tighter to keep him from pulling off his hood or coat, but didn’t keep him from unfastening the collar of his Vault Suit.

“Where’s General Francis?” ‘Choly asked Angel, his eyes scanning everywhere, even the rooftops. “General Francis? Where!?”

“The Research Development Wing, is what I’m hearing from what remains of the Gutsies.”

If ‘Choly could deflate more in the moment, he would have.

As they came up on the R & D building, it became clear that the Devils had planned this all along. They had waited until the Furriers exhausted all their numbers in Back Central, so that they could enterprise on the obstruction to infiltrate the base with significantly better odds. It had been almost too easy to get away from the school, all things considered. They had to have stationed just enough Devils at the charter school to look the part of occupation, and sent the rest upon Deenwood.

But how could they have known the Furriers had planned to sweep the charter school first?

The flare. Maybe Sticks had survived the crash. In a twisted logic, the Devils had been corralled onto base, so it stood to reason to signal the shells be fired into the greatest concentration of raiders. If they knew what that stuff did, they wouldn’t have fired it themselves. Would they?

His brain-spark fizzled out, and the glowing Berry aura-smoke faded. He encountered a Furrier-Devil who’d clearly Unfolded all three times that day. Unable to process exactly where its faces smeared across its form, he screamed.

The pain of broken ribs knocked the breath right out of him again, in his effort to voice his distress.

Angel and ‘Choly followed the sounds of metal shredding and screams down the corridors to Wing II. The Handy entered open double doors at a caution. A Rust Devil exited her Power Armor, then seized what she’d held in its grip to hold out toward Olivia. The General heaved in hysterics. ‘Choly’s hand went to his mouth when he identified a headless Assaultron body laying inert at the Power Armor’s feet.

The Devils’ leader pulled a few wires in Helen’s head and fired off the Assaultron’s ocular laser with a sadistic lack of precision, incinerating a terminal behind Olivia rather than hitting her. The droning whine of the Rad-I-Canned shells had them both disrobing. She fired again, strafing the side of Olivia’s face.

“To think this is all it took to get you to show some skin,” the sixty-some woman sneered. She ripped off her road goggles one-handed, and in kind peeled away her leathers. Scars and tattoos covered her entire body. “Now there’s nothing standing between you and me.”

The ghoulish woman rose. With tears streaming down her face, she cupped her hands to her mouth. An inhaler dropped to the floor, and the rest of her clothes came off. Broken determination lit up her dark eyes, and she threw herself at the raider.

“Laverne, you’ve never once understood what you’ve been begging for.” She glared at her, to guarantee her once-lover knew their flesh had already begun to tangle. “Let’s hope I exceed your expectations.”

'Choly couldn’t not look on as the pair slurred together in a kiss and fell to the floor in a paroxysm of dialectical melting flesh.

Once it became difficult to tell where Olivia ended and Laverne began, Angel dropped ‘Choly to the floor and vanished. He seethed, having landed on his broken arm. He ripped off his burlap hood as soon as he could muster the will. He hobbled to the first office chair he could find. He could barely see straight through the pain, let alone summon the breath or volume to cry out for Angel.

The sirens changed over to a different set of alternations.

The loudspeakers bleated in a stern masculine voice:

“THIS UNITED STATES MILITARY BASE HAS BEEN COMPROMISED. NO SURVIVING ORDER OF COMMAND REMAINING. THE DEFENSE INTELLIGENCE AGENCY DISALLOWS THIS PROPERTY TO FALL INTO ENEMY HANDS. SELF-DESTRUCT SEQUENCE HAS BEEN INITIATED! SELF-DESTRUCT HAS BEEN INITIATED! YOU HAVE FOUR MINUTES TO SURVIVE.”

Trembling, ‘Choly stared again at the writhing mass in the floor, which no longer bore any humanoid likeness. His soul left him.

“Fuck.”

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#fallout 4 #fo4 #fo4 fanfic #fallout 4 fanfic #fallout #sole survivor #the anatomy of melancholy #melancholy #angel #sticks #olivia francis #laverne #yes i tagged this lethal scissoring. fight me

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