#she like did a quick bit on the oppression of tin*people and we wanted to like have it all focused on like queer joy

[doppelnatur]

happy fight day women <3

[spakonarchive]

@luciferian-drama          /          cs.

The ride up the elevator from the underground compound to RobCo Headquarters was long and slow. Dorothy Reed kept her distance from Benny. He held the filter of his cigarette firmly between his lips, though he still had yet to light it up. She could feel him staring at her.

“Was hopin’ you’d be a little warmer,” he replied dryly. Her frown turned into a scowl, and from her periphery Dot saw his hands come up in surrender, “So we ain’t got time for a little detour, then. Figured you might wanna buy some more time to get your story straight. Last I heard you were a hostage.”

“I wasn’t,” she replied, and Benny clicked his tongue in his mouth. She’d forgotten this had been the only confidante she’d ever had. He plucked the cigarette from his mouth to roll it between his fingers. He was thinking.

“You don’t wanna tell the big man upstairs that, baby,” he spoke, “Not after I went through the trouble of making sure Victor gave you a fair heads up.”

She finally looked at him, “What are you doing here? Isn’t this secretarial stuff far below your paygrade?” It was accusing. He only shrugged flippantly.

“Ain’t above a little brown nosing.” He replied plainly, and she scoffed, disgusted.

“Anything to weasel into his good graces again,” she wasn’t impressed, “How much longer until you try and kill him?”

“Go ahead and warn him,” Benny’s smile was wide and ugly as he stepped in close. His hard and challenging stare wasn’t letting go of her own, something nervous and unsure, “After the little stunt you pulled I’m sure he’d believe you.”

It was an imposing building, one just as tall as Stark Industries. The walk from one elevator to the other was quiet, the sound of their footfalls echoing in the long and cavernous hallway. Benny didn’t speak again until they were back inside the office. Surprisingly vacant. It was night time -- she hadn’t had any idea. Being on solid ground again felt strange.

“You’re actually upset.” Benny sounded amazed. She glared at him again.

“What does House want?” he shrugged.

“Beats me. I’m not his favorite. He keeps me in the dark.” The way she smiled to herself was petty. The way he scoffed as she did so only made it feel a little bit better.

Robert Edwin House had a penthouse of an office on the top floor of his building. Desks and cubicles lined the way to the other half of the floor, encased in bullet proof glass. Dorothy’s old desk was there. It looked entirely untouched.

That wasn’t where they were going, however. Instead they were going into the den of Robert House. Past the waiting room that Dorothy had brought so many people to in another life. As the door opened on his office, it all looked the same. Rich and opulent, yet sleek and minimalist. A man of great wealth and no interest in anything but progress. He stood up from his desk.

“Ms. Reed,” He began and motioned at the seat across his desk. She took it obediently. Benny found a spot on a comfortable wingback chair, and finally lit his cigarette, “It is a great relief to see you recovered and in one piece. I take it the return home was comfortable.”

She nodded, unsure. House walked to the window, “It is late. No doubt you’re exhausted. I will make this quick. When we recovered the wreckage, I noticed something peculiar,” The cityscape illuminated his silhouette from the window. Dot’s hands fidgeted on her lap, “A rather decent sized portion of footage was lost. Deleted. It was not a system error.” He wasn’t accusing her, because he already knew. That much was obvious in the way he turned to look over his shoulder.

Her mouth opened, and then shut again, “Sir,” she began, and he waited patiently. He had nothing but time, it seemed. She spoke again, “I was scared.”

“Were you coerced, Miss Reed?” Her ears felt warm, “Unlike Victor, I will not be content by nonanswers. You will speak plainly, here and now: were you coerced?”

She took a deep breath, found the same person she’d been on Caligula, the same person she’d been when staring Fafnir the Terrible in the face. It was a little too late, but better late than never, maybe.

“No.”

If she wasn’t so scared, the look on Benny’s face probably would have made her laugh. House turned around fully to look at her; even he seemed surprised. It reminded her of the way her father looked at her when she’d told him she’d taken the job offer Robert House had given her.

“He’s not bad,” She said quietly, though House didn’t ask for an explanation.

“You truly expect me to stand here and believe that the scoundrel who summoned an alien army to destroy Midtown is ‘not bad’?”

Her hands balled into fists. She opened her mouth and shut it again, “He was lonely --”

“You sympathize with him. I’m expected to stand here and listen to a desperate attempt at pathos? Does a god know he has your pity?”

“It’s not -- ” she stuttered. House looked at Benny and nodded. From his place in the corner of the room he stood up to leave for a moment. Silence enveloped the two who remained. When Benny returned, he wasn’t alone. Securitrons rolled in to line the walls. The man in the checkered suit tossed an imposing stack of papers in front of Dorothy.

“We’re at twelve minutes, sir,” he said in a low voice. She didn’t give it much thought, too busy staring at the large contract in front of her. At least, she surmised it was one by the first few pages she skimmed, “What is this?”

“Because of your insubordination, I had no choice but to terminate you,” he sounded cold. Dorothy was surprised that she was feeling something like relief, but it wasn’t. It couldn’t have been relief, because there was a mountain of paper in front of her that held a very large but between each and every line.

“You have been nothing but a loyal employee to me, Mr. Reed. Don’t think I have not seen it. I am willing to let bygones be bygones, provided this little stint of rebellion has finally worked its way out of your system.” He walked to the edge of the table now, but didn’t lean down into it to get into her face. Robert House was a man bigger than a need to threaten.

“You are a prodigal child, one desperate to be seen for the approval of your father. Whether that person is me or otherwise, I admit -- you have done what you’ve intended flawlessly. I see you. Before you is a document of termination and a new contract, one revised and amended. You will sign both.”

He pulled a pen from his inner suit pocket to place in front of her as he spoke. Dorothy stared at it all like it was a math problem. Bright blue eyes cut to House.

“You need me,” she said. He didn’t react. From the corner of her eye she saw Benny shift, “I’ve been in space. I’ve lived in it, I’ve seen it. I’ve learned things you need for your progress, your purpose. You need me.”

“Am I meant to be threatened?” House sounded bored, “I believe that the contract I’ve placed in front of you accurately expresses my interests at the given moment. Sign it.”

“Get him out of that cage.” She shot back. It wasn’t a negotiation, “And that collar -- it goes, too. He doesn’t deserve it.”

“You think this is a bargain,” House was unimpressed, “This is your attempt at leveraging this contract. Might I invite you to take a look around this room, where you are. This is not the lawless world of space. This is Robco Industries. You are in my domain.”

She stared up at him defiantly, “Then I’m not signing it.”

“You will.” House replied, “Though I have no reason to play this pedantic little game with you, I will barter -- Loki Laufeyson will be accommodated. I have plans for him as well, plans beyond a cage and a collar. He will not be a prisoner, of that you have my word. Do not think this is you having any sway -- I have planned this from the beginning.” 

Her gaze shifted back to the contract. House returned to the window for a final look, “What is the time, Benny?”

“Fifteen minutes.”

House nodded, “Benny, if you would finish this up,” House walked from the window back to his office, “I’ve another meeting to prepare for.”

“Sure thing, boss,” the sound of the door opening and closing once more was all that House departed with. The silence was oppressive. Benny reached into his pocket to pull a tin of cigarettes out. Dorothy stared at the documents on the table. She could hear Benny pace across the room.

“Wanna smoke, sweetheart?”

The way she took it was mechanical. He lit it up and she took a drag, the distinctive smell and taste of something particularly bitter, like the brand of an old man who wasn’t easily influenced or the choice of a young man with something to prove. It burned as she inhaled, and her eyes watered from it.

Was this worse for him? Was this better? House’s words rang in her ears. As long as she’d known him, as ruthless and strategic as he was, he never lied. Dorothy Reed took a deep breath and picked up the pen. At the very least, she could get him better odds at getting out of there.

She signed, one page after another. Initialed where she needed to. She would fix this. The cigarette between her teeth was burning down, and Benny slid an ash tray over at one point for her to tap them into. He’d glance at his watch from time to time.

Dorothy stared long and hard at the table where the contract had been. The dread spreading through her body was slow and horrifying. The alarms in the back of her head were blaring. The world was slowing down. The smoke in her lungs left them feeling burning. She didn’t take another drag.

“... What did I just sign, Benny?”

He reached into his jacket, a gun in hand. He lifted it to point it right at her forehead. Dorothy turned pale. No sound came out of her mouth. “Don’t matter now.”

BANG.

A step around the table to where her body had fallen over. He shook his head, regrettable. A waste. He aimed the gun again.

BANG.

“Move her while she’s still running warm,” the gun returned to his inner pocket, and his hand went up to motion towards one of the Securitrons posted at the door, “It’ll be a pain otherwise.”

“Yessir,” Victor replied. He picked her up like a sleeping child.

[kyidyl]

Not Deer

(This was inspired by that post that was circulating about the Not Deer in Appalachia and the town that I currently live in.  @leftturnat4thandbananas​ I especially thought you would enjoy this little bit of quarantine-induced madness.  You’ll probably recognize some of the things I’m describing.)

“Alexa, stop!,” Macey yelled at the black cylinder sitting on her night stand.  The alarm shut off, and I started packing up my stuff.  I caught her frown as she watched me.  

“What?,” I asked, “It’s almost curfew.  You know how my mom is about curfew.”  

“It’s snowing outside, and it’s dark,” she swung around so she was sitting on the edge of her bed and flipped her long, dark braid back over her shoulder.  

I finished packing my homework into my backpack and stood, “It’s always dark and cold when I go home in the winter.  I’ll be fine.” 

Both the argument and the concern in her brown eyes was familiar.  She was definitely the mom friend in our group, “It’s not always snowing.  People aren’t careful in the snow.”  

“They’re never careful on that road,” we both lived along a back road that wound through farms and woods.  It had a lot of curves, hills, and blind spots - and no sidewalk.  But it was the only way to get home, so it’s the way I went.  She stood up too, following me as I left her room and started down the steps.  

“You can stay the night, you know.  My mom won’t mind.”  

“I know, Mace, but I will.  You know I don’t like getting ready for school here.  All my stuff is at home.  I’ve either got to get up at the ass crack of dawn,” which never happened because we always stayed up late talking, “Or do a walk of shame.”  

I let my backpack down in the hallway with a thunk, and retrieved my coat from their closet.  I’d brought gloves, a scarf, and a hat, too even though I normally don’t.  I was glad I’d grabbed them.  She stood on the bottom step, chewing her bottom lip.  Her parents were out to dinner, so she couldn’t bug her dad to drive me, but I know she would have if they’d been here.  She tried one more tactic to get me to give up on my walk home, “What about your mom? Can she come get you?” 

I shook my head, “Dad has the car.  Listen, I’ve walked home in the snow before.  It’ll be totally fine.”  

She sighed and dropped her arms, “This is what you were talking about earlier, isn’t it.  The worrying.”  

“Yeah, but it’s ok.  I get why you do it,” I gave her a quick hug and hefted my backpack onto my shoulders, “I’ll see you at school tomorrow.”  

“Text me when you get home?”

“Of course! Later!”

“Later, Apple,” I smiled at her nickname for me and left.  After I closed the door behind me, I heard the lock click into place.  Her parents’ rules: if you’re home alone, you lock the door.  I shifted the weight of my books on my back, and looked around.  

Macey lived on a small farm, and so she had a long driveway between her house and the road.  I started walking, and the sand and rocks of the unpaved drive crunched under the soles of my shit-kickers.  Macey’s dad had salted the drive before they’d left, and the stones glimmered wetly in the moonlight.  It turned out that the snowing had stopped while we’d been hanging out, and the clouds had gone.  The ground was blanketed in a couple of inches of unblemished white.  Just enough to cover the grass, but not enough to get school canceled.  

The moon was out, bright and full, and it illuminated the flat, white expanse of the land that stretched out on either side.  The air smelled like ice and cold, like icicles and sleeping forest.  There was only a little wind, and it blew up swirls of loosely packed snowflakes from the ground.  Everything had that cushioned silence that follows a new snowfall.  

It took a few minutes for me to reach the actual road, and unlike the Romero family’s driveway, it hadn’t been touched by salt, sand, or plow.  Typical.  It probably would be covered until tomorrow morning.  Our little town wasn’t exactly proactive about things like that.  They preferred to suffer, I guess.  I gave an annoyed snort to the empty night,  

I was careful as I turned left onto the empty road, watching for the glow of headlights to give me some forewarning of a car.  None came, and I kept walking.  

Soon, the flat land of the farms gave way to the woods.  Houses, none of them of the new construction that made up the subdivisions further up the road, were set back from the road or behind a screen of trees.  This road had hills, and further along it the side of the road would give way to steep ditches and gullies.  Our here, there were plenty of animals.  My parents have hit deer especially a number of times; my dad even bought these weird things for his hood that are supposed to whistle and chase the deer away.  

As the landscape transitioned into woods, there was an old, broken barn.  Not even a barn, really, more like a two sheds stuck together.  Half of it was beaten, lilting boards and a slice for a door.  The other half was a rusting tin can of a structure, the metal walls little more than rust and the vines that held it together, and a set of open doors that led into gloom.  A barely-there metal roof was slanted over the rested half and pitched over the wooden half, and it was only slightly less rusted than the shed itself.  A useless decaying horse gate was off to the side, slanting drunkenly to the right, and a path into the woods was behind it.  

(picture to break up the wall o text.)

I hated that barn.  

It creeped me out.  The hairs on the back of my neck rose every time I got close.  Even as a little kid I hadn’t been curious enough to overcome that particular fear, and it hadn’t gotten better over the years.  Every time I walked home I crossed the street to avoid walking too closed to it and sprinted passed it.  But tonight, the snow and slickness made it dangerous for me to do either of those things.  My heart rate ticked up and I took my hands out of my pocket.  When it came to fight or flight, I was very much in the fight category.  It seemed like the wind blew a little harder, and suddenly I thought I could hear all kinds of noises that I hadn’t heard before.  

The cracking of a stick somewhere in the woods, almost like a gunshot in the dark.  

The fump has a pile of snow was pushed off of a branch somewhere.  

The flap and tumble of some unlucky bird.  

A barking dog menacing me from one of the homes nearby.  

These sounds were normal, but as I was walking in front of the sad, lonely little structure, they all seemed sinister.  They were living things, pulsing in the darkness when I wanted to be alone.  The sounds of my steps in the snow answered.  Shit kickers aren’t stealthy.  

I walked past that structure as fast as I could, the fear tightening my shoulders more with every step.  I clenched my teeth and my fists, and walked.  The stillness was oppressive now, where moments before it had been soothing.  Fear makes you see things in shadows.  

Which is why, when the winter-bared bones of the bush in front of the shed clacked and scraped together in a gust of wind, I screamed and ran.  Damn the snow, damn fight or flight, I was not looking to fight some supernatural entity tonight.  

Apparently, though, the laws of physics still applied to me.  I ran, but I didn’t get very far before I tripped have a big branch on the side of the road.  My feet slipped in the snow, and I went down face-first onto my hands and knees.  

In case you have ever wondered: snow does very little to cushion a fall onto rocks and rough pavement.  It only makes your clothes wet on top of giving you road rash.  And that ish hurts.  

“Great, Alisha, juuuust great.  Skinning your damned knees like a five year old because of some wind,” I grumbled aloud to myself as I stood and started brushing debris off the now-wet knees of my jeans.  I checked under my gloves, and while my hands stung, the gloves had saved me from the words of the skinning.  In fact, the worst was the throbbing on the back of my head where my backpack had slid up my back and smacked my head.  Well, that and the knowledge that whatever goblin lived in that shed was probably having a laugh at my expense.  

The fall did do one good thing, though.  It broke through the worst of my fear, and I laughed to myself as the adrenaline started wearing off.  I started down the road again, stomping in protest, my cold hands jammed back in my pockets.  

From here, the road got darker as the trees reached overhead.  Even in the winter they blocked most of the light from the moon, and out here in the country they didn’t bother with street lights.  The embankments on the side of the road rose and forced me to walk directly on the road instead of off to the side.  This was the most dangerous part, because this was also where the tight curves started.  I felt my adrenaline spike again, but this time there was nothing supernatural about it; I was alert for headlights bouncing off of the tree branches.  

As I walked, I listened to the world around me, my caution making my senses stretch further.  I heard the same things as before: the cracking of sticks in the forest as some creature shuffled around them, the huffing of a dog that probably just wanted to play, the whispered hush of snow rearranging itself in the trees, and the occasional noise of some small creatures settling in for the night.  They were the same noises I always heard around here at this time of year, familiar as the nose on my face.  It’s funny how the mind plays tricks.  

I found a good walking speed that wasn’t so fast it was dangerous, but wasn’t so slow that I’d be frozen before I got home, and the time passed quickly.  Before I knew it, I was almost at the little bridge before the turn off for my house.  Really, bridge was a generous word for the small overpass that took the road over the little creek.  It was just a flat stretch of road with a thin shoulder and a low concrete guardrail.  On the other side, the road curved out of view.  

(another pic to break up the wall o text.  Both images are screenshots of Google street view edited in PS.)

Here, the trees pulled back some and the moon was able to shine clearly on the flat surface of the bridge.  There, standing in the middle of the road, was a huge buck.  I’ve seen a lot of deer living out in the stix, but this was easily the biggest one I’d ever seen.  I’m 5′2, and this thing looked like its shoulder would be somewhere around my head.  I didn’t even know they could get that big.  The moon painted its orange-brown coat with silver, and threw the shadows created by its twisting antlers into sharp relief.  They were as big as him - thick and heavy, and wickedly sharp.  I couldn’t count the points from here, but it had to be at least twelve.  

Wait...antlers? It was February.  My dad liked to hunt, and even though I’d never gotten into he, he’d taught me a few things about deer.  One of those things was that the bucks dropped their antlers earlier than this, and it was a good time to go hunting for the shed racks in the woods.  This deer shouldn’t have any antlers this late in the season.  

I stopped in my tracks, and as I did, it whipped its head around to look at me.  There moonlight was a sharp little blade in the dark eyes of this thing as it stared at me from the other side of the river.  It stared, and stared, and as it did, the same fear grabbed hold of my guts and scratched its way across the nerves of my skin.  My heart was pounding, my muscles clamped tight.  This was nothing like the fear I’d felt while passing the shed.  It seemed like a cozy little refuge, now, as I started down this deer.  

I couldn’t understand why I felt this way - it had done nothing but be big and not shed its antlers yet.  That logic didn’t matter.  I wasn’t getting a single step closer to that thing.  I ground my teeth as I stared at it.  I wanted to look away, but I couldn’t.  Right now, my actions were being guided by a part of my brain that kept my ancestors alive.  

Predator, it screamed, that is a predator!

It made no sense.  It was a deer.  Sure, they’d eat meat sometimes if it was around.  They looked at gut piles like they were treats this time of year, but they didn’t kill and eat humans.  That was another thing my instincts were saying - hungry.  This thing was hungry.  I still couldn’t say why or how I knew any of this, but I knew it down to the red marrow of my bones.  

It was strange - the longer I stared down that deer, the more of a tug I felt to keep walking.  To cross the river.  But the terror was useful; it kept me from following that impulse.  The deer huffed, and its breath didn’t fog in the cold.  My brain filed that detail away automatically with the height and the antlers.  The animal sounded frustrated, although it shouldn’t have been possible for me to identify that emotion so clearly.  

Then it started pacing.  I watched in fascination horror as it moved with an awkward, stuttering gate.  It didn’t seem to know how to place its hooves, and it swayed back and forth, all while not taking its too-intelligent eyes off of its prey.  It didn’t know how to move properly, and I remembered that my dad had told me of an illness.  Chronic Wasting Disease - mad cow for deer.  He told me how to spot one, and to steer clear of it.  He told me it was neurological; that it made it hard for them to move.  

But this wasn’t that.  No, this deer moved like it was something else wearing the skin of a deer.  Like it was new to that body and didn’t know how to use it.  Its fumbling reminded me of the way a toddler moved - wobbling and unsure of what its muscles should do, but enthusiastic about being up and walking instead of crawling.  It was like that, but with far less innocence and far more jerks and twitches in its movement. It almost looked like it was adjusting its deer suit as it paced on its side of the river.  

It huffed again and then growled.  Not like a tiger or a dog would growl, more like a cat growling if that cat had the vocal cords of a high-pitched cow. I screamed in surprise and covered my ears at the sound.  

Come.  Here.  I could feel its anger and frustration pressing in on me, looking for purchase, looking for a crack in my terror.  

There was none.  It was all-encompassing.  It was terror of the sort that fueled strength.  Terror that sharpened your mind, that made time slow so you could think faster and survive.  It was the same kind of terror that had saved the earliest of my kind on the savannahs in Africa.  It was terror that whispered to me with a small, comforting voice, do not cross the moving water.  

Of course - it hadn’t even attempted to cross the stream, pacing back and forth over where the edge of the stream was rather than where the edge of the bridge was.  It couldn’t cross the moving water.  

As soon as I had the thought the creature’s growling was honed into a scream.  It stood on two legs, making it tower over me.  It was trying to be more threatening, but I knew now.  I knew as long as I stayed over here I was ok.  

“No,” I said, my voice stead and calm.  I wasn’t loud, but my voice carried in the snowy stillness and into the moon-bright night, “I won’t cross.  You can’t have me.”  

It screamed at me again, eyes narrowing in an almost human expression of incredulity.  Inside my clothes, my skin was hot from the anger coming from the not-deer, sweat trickling down my spine, but I planted my boots and fisted my hands and would not move.  I could taste ice on my tongue, and I took a deep breath through my mouth, letting the cold soothe me.  

Then, there was a sound.  High pitched and clear, it came from somewhere in the woods or fields around us.  It was sweet, and some of the heat of the not-deer’s anger seeped away from my skin.  Its had flung around awkwardly towards the sound and it went back on all fours with a loud thud.  It snorted and pawed the ground, but it hesitated.  Then, the call came again, louder this time.  With a final, angry look at me, it took off into the forest away from me and the road home.  

I stood there on that road waiting, too afraid to cross, until I was sure that I couldn’t hear it crashing through the bushes anymore.  Then I took off like a shot, snow be damned.  I ran across the creek, my feet sliding as I took a sharp right onto the road that led to my house, down that road and up to my house.  I ran straight in the front door, locked it behind me, and pounded up the steps to my room.  

I texted Macey when I got my backpack off, but I knew it was going to be a long, sleepless night.  

[solesurvivorpaigeargot]

Instinctssss

WIP Sampler Basket

[Summary on this one is a re-write of Hancock’s first affinity dialog, within the context of his and Paige’s relationship. I shall post a snippet. EDIT: I attempted to put a read-more in this, but something fucky is going on with Tumblr’s dash rn. Apologies for the long post]

The cork came loose with a satisfying pop, and Paige found the now-opened bottle being offered back to her.

“Everything... okay?” Paige quested gently, hand wrapping around the glass neck. She didn't take a drink though, watching him curiously. Next to him, she saw him both in profile and more head-on in the reflection of the dirty mirror as he turned his attention back to the bag to rifle through its contents. His affect had changed-- he'd been on a grinning high when he handed the whiskey over, but now? His brow furrowed down over dark eyes, and the smile had turned into a pensive, flat line across his face.

“Yeah, yeah, it ain't the bad kind of talk. Just... what went down. I know it was a bit ago, now, but... I guess I just wanna say my piece and get it off my mind. When I sent Fahrenheit down there, I figured someone was gonna end up with a bullet in their head. I didn't like it-- that sorta dictatorial shit, ain't usually my style-- and you got caught up in the middle of it.” He scoffed, shaking his head as his hand emerged from the bag with a tin of mentats between his forefinger and thumb, the other three fingers curled around the long end of an inhaler for jet. “Hell, you managed to talk Bobbi down.” “Wasn't easy-- it could have gone either way; she tried to trick both of us.” Paige noted, finally knocking back a swig from the newly opened bottle-- damn if that wasn't a blast from the past. The taste was different, of course- two centuries of aging tended to have an effect, but she could still recognize the base flavor, and the nostalgia went well with the burn when she swallowed.

“And most folks woulda blasted her brains out for that-- Fahrenheit was ready to, on my say-so.”

Hancock departed from the bureau, snagging the armrest of the nearby chair and noisily dragging it across the patched floor until he could pitch it back, turn it on one of its wooden feet, and plonk it down near the bed before letting himself down into the seat with all the grace of a ton of bricks getting dropped off a roof. He splayed out, elbows out past the armrests and his legs kicked all the way out; heels on the floor and the toes of his boots pointed up and out.

“Guys like me use their sway to do that kinda harm, to folk who don't deserve it... makes me sick.”

Paige had followed after him, bottle in hand, to eventually pass him and put herself down on the edge of the bed. She didn't speak-- she didn't need to. He wanted to talk; all she had to do was listen.

“... hell, that sorta bull's the whole reason I became mayor in the first place.” He continued. “Some ass named Vic ran the town for I don't know how long before that. Guy was scum. Used us drifters like his own personal piggy bank. He had this... goon squad he'd use to keep people in line. Every so often, he'd left them off the leash; go blow off some steam on the populace at large.”

The memory made him angry; he couldn't stay slouched in the chair. The chems he'd picked up got stashed in some pocket inside his red coat as his body came up and pitched forward, and he gathered in his legs to brace his elbows on his knees, hands gesturing along as he recounted the leadership he'd replaced.

“Folks with homes could lock their doors, but us drifters, we got it bad. There was one night, some drifter said something to them. I don't even remember what, but they cracked him open like a can of Cram on the pavement, and we all just stood there. Did nothin'.”

Paige had heard stories like his before-- not exactly the same, of course. No, her stories came from before the bombs fell, when she'd been working public defense-- a lawyer for those who couldn't afford defense in a court of law. Working for those at the bottom of the ladder? Fear was the driving motivation of most things. Fear for life. Fear for family. Fear for oneself. It drove a lot of good people to do terrible things-- all because they were trapped at the bottom of the heap.

She recognized the edge in his voice. It was angry... and ashamed.

“Outnumbered and outgunned, sometimes nothing is the only thing you can do that doesn't get you killed.” Paige noted, softly. “You can't blame yourself for that.”

He scoffed. “You're right... but it was still spineless.” He rebutted, shaking his head. “I felt like I was less than nothing. Afterwards, I got so high, I blacked out completely.”

His eyes closed for a second, as if reflecting back to that exact moment. Maybe he was.

“When I came to, I was on the floor of the old statehouse. Right in front of the clothes of John Hancock. John Hancock, first American hoodlum and defender of the people.” He paused a moment, possibly second-guessing telling the story but going on anyway. “I... might've still been high, but those clothes spoke to me, told me what I needed to do. I smashed the case, put 'em on, started a new life; as Hancock.” The name was practically growled out-- there was weight to it for him, even now. “After that, I went clean for a bit. Got organized, convinced Kleo to loan me some hardware... Got a crew of drifters together and headed out into the ruins, started training. Next time Vic's boys went on their tear, we'd be ready for 'em.”

“Guessing that was one hell of a negotiation with Kleo.” Paige posited with a faint smirk. “You try to charm the bolts off of her?”

He blinked, and actually let out a faint laugh that interrupted the gravity of the story he'd been telling. “You'd be surprised how quick she warms up to someone who knows how to work munitions into sweet talk... plus she didn't have any love for Vic's crew-- not that it's my story to tell.”

“Still, it's smart; gather up support, make allies, get armed, fight back... Vic may not have been the British Empire, but sounds like you got the right kind of inspiration going.”

“Right?” There was a note of relief, at being understood. “Same wavelength-- justice for the oppressed.”

“So you got a militia together.” Paige encouraged. “What came next?”

“We waited for the next time they were gonna go through and raise hell-- night of, we all got loaded, let Vic's boys get good and hammered, and burst from the windows and rooftops where we'd been hiding. They never even saw it coming; we didn't have to fire a shot. We didn't have to, but we sure fucking did. It was a massacre. Once we'd mopped up, we strolled right into Vic's quarters in the statehouse, wrapped a rope around his neck, and threw him off the balcony.” He straightened up, recovering from the slouch he'd been holding for the majority of the story so far and letting his hands hang between his thighs. “And there I am, gun in hand, draped in Hancock's duds, looking at all the people of Goodneighbor assembled below. I had to say something-- the first time I said 'em? They didn't even feel like my words: Of the people, for the people... it was my inaugural address. Became Mayor Hancock of Goodneighbor that day. And from then on, I vowed I'd never stand by and watch. Ever. Again.”

Paige was quiet for a moment, considering the story, sensing it as he looked to her for some kind of assessment or reaction-- or maybe just an opening to ask questions.

“Vic woulda shot me for not killing Bobbi.”

He blinked. Another beat of quiet, as he considered that.

“... yeah, he woulda. Or worse-- you're too pretty to just shoot...” He made a face, not elaborating on that particularly disgusting thought. “You got a point, though. I ain't Vic... just didn't like that what I did made me feel a little closer to him; sitting up in the statehouse and deciding someone's gonna die who might not have fully earned it. Getting innocents caught up in the crossfire who definitely didn't.”

“You were worried you'd become him... is that part of why you decided to go with me? Climb back down and remember what it was like to look up at the balcony, rather than stand on it?”

“I ain't really the ponderous type.” He reminded her, picking up that smirk of his again. “When an instinct takes hold, I listen. This time around, instinct said I should join up with you... seems it was a good one.”

“Maybe your instincts are just a sucker for a pretty face.” Paige suggested with a sly smile of her own before kicking back another swig of her whiskey. “Or is it just girls with hardware?”

“That would explain why I bet on Kleo.”