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Kawamura
Supernova
- Joined
- Jan 9, 2009
It was four days after the death of James' little girl that they found him.
The patrol had come back to the Citadel with three bundles of human bodies, three survivors from the Enclave's cells that had been in transit after the abandonment of Raven Rock, all three wrapped in bleached white sheets like pictures of the baby Jesus in the pre-War Bible that Catherine had been so fond of. Lyons had warned her of the state of the bodies, that they two were alive but in bad condition, but she hadn't met Madison's eyes when she said it. Said she had thought it would be best if Dr. Li worked with James, because it would be good for him to have a familiar face if he woke up.
Madison understood brutality: she'd seen the victims of raiders. But she had never seen what an advanced sadist could do with the proper tools and time and sick brain. One of them had lost most of the skin of his left side, dead before the patrol had returned, his flesh slick and shiny like a molerat skinned for dinner. That he had survived so long was chilling, because it spoke of a skill she'd never seen so perfected; raiders, after all, did their bloodletting on a large scale over multiple bodies that they tore into pieces, and very few suffered for days like that poor man had. The other had been mostly alert, frighteningly so, and whatever she had told Lyons gave the paladin such a sour look that even her father would not approach her for days.
She had been afraid to look at James, but in comparison, his wounds were minor and clustered on his right side: removed fingernails (four), splintered bones (metacarpals and intermediate phalanges on fingers three and four, only the metacarpal in finger two) in his hand, two fractures along the length of the radius, several areas of burns and removed skin (all only a few square centimeters in area except for the patch right under his rib cage). Most alarming were the chemicals in his blood. He woke screaming and gibbering once before they could pump him full of pain killers. Her familiar face had been useless: nothing in his pale blue eyes said anything about recognition, even when she had shown a light into them to check for concussion.
It had been six days later that he had finally woken up, skin nearly the same colour as the greying pillow under his head, and rasped, â??Water.â? Four hours after that, Madison had broken the news to him. James had watched her, face gaunt from fever and worse, his left hand clammy as she held it, trying to offer support. To help, because she loved James and he was a good man and Margo had been a good child and it wasn't supposed to be like this and-- and--
James did not speak for eleven days and seven hours. Madison feared she had lost him again. She tried preparing herself, because everyone in the Wastes knew folks who had lost so much they just... gave up. Even sorts like James, the kind of people that seemed like they always had a plan, who practically vibrated on the spot with some sort internal energy source, even those sorts snapped when their world was suddenly empty of meaning. But, after eleven days, six hours and twelve minutes, when James simply disappeared, Madison knew she hadn't prepared well enough.
Because she had panicked and for the next forty minutes, most of the compound had been dedicated to finding him (his body, actually, since a suicide, so recently recovered, would not have become mirelurk food yet). On a whim, she'd gone to the Project's control area and, because she knew James, there he had been, the fingers of his undamaged hand pressed against the glass, face illuminated and made harsh by the artificial lights. He had greeted her distractedly then, in a tone so empty she wouldn't have believed it was his if she hadn't saw him speak, said, â??This was supposed to be for her.â?
He didn't cry. He was silent as she helped him back to his room, back to bed. Of course, he never invited her to lay next to him, though she had hovered, waiting in case he should consider it. James didn't reach out like that when he was hurt. He was private like that and to him the worst part of his... time with the Enclave must have been that his recovery was so public. But that was all right. Madison knew James, even after all these years, and she hadn't fallen in love with him because he was an extremely easy man to get into the head of.
It was all right because they had time now. They would find a way to work through this. Madison sunk down into the uncomfortable chair she'd set up next to James' bed, watching the man's face as he slept. At their age, their lines didn't disappear with sleep, but something about the thin, lined face was pleasant to her in its familiarity. James had always had a face that was only really handsome when it was moving, when those startlingly intelligent eyes were open and looking at you. She gently touched the fuzz that was growing back on his scalp, then pulled the blanket up to his shoulder.
Yes. They finally had time. And after so many years of hardship, they were finally going to be allowed to slow down. Together.
---
â??You want to leave,â? Madison echoed flatly.
James looked to her then turned his head back down to the boot he was currently lacing, mostly one-handedly in an exercise to increase the range of movement in his right hand again. Stupid Enclave. They'd damaged his non-dominant side, but he still wanted at least partial use of his right hand again. â??Madison, there's a lot of work to do. And I can't stay here, cooped up forever.â? He stood, taping his foot against the floor to adjust the fit of the shoe. Damned Vault boots lasted forever. Would outlast the dusty linens and Brahmin leathers of his clothes. Would probably outlast him, he thought as he rubbed at the short gray hair that wasn't as long as it had been before his time with Autumn's men.
â??There's work here.â?
Christ, but Madison knew how to make him feel guilty. She was taking this as personally as twenty years ago. â??Yes, but I'm not needed here. You know more about soil reclamation than I do.â? He'd already made up his mind, of course: he'd been stuck in the damned Brotherhood's compound for nearly two months now, though most of that had been spent recovering from the time he'd been stuck in the damned Enclave's compound (for much less than two months, thank God). James was tired of being stuck, especially when people still gave him that look of pity reserved for widowers who had also survived their children. He attempted a smile, but Madison wouldn't buy it, her frown deepening instead. After his time with the Enclave something was always just a bit off about him, he knew that. He'd seen it when he looked in the mirror, something dead that lurked around in the back of his eyes, something that had aged him to past Elder Lyons. He grabbed his bag. â??Let me do something useful.â?
â??There's useful work here.â? Madison was following him. No, not following, but walking beside him. They were roughly the same height, with her an inch shorter at five-five since both of them had come from nomadic stock, and wandering families just never had reliable food sources â??You don't need to go running across the Wastes for... for samples. We have the traveling merchants picking up dirt along their routes,â? she added as they stepped out into the main courtyard.
Rather than answer her, James chose that moment to go conveniently deaf and enjoy the sunshine. It was a warm day, as most days were in late summer on the Wastes. They'd be hitting the first of the rainy seasons soon, the sort that sent living things scrambling for cover from the deadly rain, but the day was still clear and most of the Paladins were out doing their work before it got too hot later in the afternoon. Fully armed Paladins jarringly strolled along paths lined with gardens, but the mix of war and agriculture didn't seem all that strange to anyone who had grown up with the constant justaposition of violence and domesticity. The only reason James even thought of the possible disconnect was because of Margo who, during those few days the had spoken together on the Wastes, had talked about how weird it was to see even pre-pubescent kids with actual guns.
(Of course, if memory served, she had said that while using a stick to prod at one of the hand-sized insects they'd pushed in the fire earlier to cook in their own shells as they waited for dawn at the old garage. Somethings she had gotten used to, she said, flashing him a smile that even now, standing among a few novices, reminded him of Catherine. Bugs, she had said, were tastier than some of the reconstituted food from the Vault.)
Even the fight wasn't surprising: put that many testosterone-fueled soldiers together and it had to get out somehow. (For the Brotherhood, that meant mostly fist fights, because sexual relations between squad mates were heavily frowned upon, which, James figured, explained a lot of the stiffness in many knights.) It was the occupants of the makeshift ring. Or, rather, one occupant. The other was a regular novice, a cocky kid with a big mouth and an even harder swing.
It was his opponent that was the oddball.
For one thing, he lacked the frame James had come to associate with the Brotherhood: instead of the heavy arms and back, there were the thinner, stringier muscles of a body that was producing muscle mass on a limited diet, muscles that were meant to be used to survive, not to operate power armor. For another, the way he was weaving spoke of a blood alcohol level that was most likely fatal to the inexperienced alcoholic, and that also wasn't much of a Paladin trait. â??You can't go alone,â? Madison said next to him as James rocked forward on his tiptoes, trying to give her the impression of someone who was interested in the fight.
It didn't really work.
â??At least take someone. One of the Knights.â? Madison didn't often touch him, being rather shy of physical contact herself, but she was close enough that he could feel her shoulder against his. Her form of holding hands, really. â??You're too old to go running around the Wastes, James. If you're going to kill yourself, at least do it here so there's a body to bury,â? she added sourly, tucking a nonexistent strand of hair behind her ear. Irritation, then. The corners of James' mouth twitched with something that could almost be classed a smile as he looked away from the fight.
â??I thought you always said I deserved to end up on a hook in one of those raider camps,â? he remarked cheerfully.
The patrol had come back to the Citadel with three bundles of human bodies, three survivors from the Enclave's cells that had been in transit after the abandonment of Raven Rock, all three wrapped in bleached white sheets like pictures of the baby Jesus in the pre-War Bible that Catherine had been so fond of. Lyons had warned her of the state of the bodies, that they two were alive but in bad condition, but she hadn't met Madison's eyes when she said it. Said she had thought it would be best if Dr. Li worked with James, because it would be good for him to have a familiar face if he woke up.
Madison understood brutality: she'd seen the victims of raiders. But she had never seen what an advanced sadist could do with the proper tools and time and sick brain. One of them had lost most of the skin of his left side, dead before the patrol had returned, his flesh slick and shiny like a molerat skinned for dinner. That he had survived so long was chilling, because it spoke of a skill she'd never seen so perfected; raiders, after all, did their bloodletting on a large scale over multiple bodies that they tore into pieces, and very few suffered for days like that poor man had. The other had been mostly alert, frighteningly so, and whatever she had told Lyons gave the paladin such a sour look that even her father would not approach her for days.
She had been afraid to look at James, but in comparison, his wounds were minor and clustered on his right side: removed fingernails (four), splintered bones (metacarpals and intermediate phalanges on fingers three and four, only the metacarpal in finger two) in his hand, two fractures along the length of the radius, several areas of burns and removed skin (all only a few square centimeters in area except for the patch right under his rib cage). Most alarming were the chemicals in his blood. He woke screaming and gibbering once before they could pump him full of pain killers. Her familiar face had been useless: nothing in his pale blue eyes said anything about recognition, even when she had shown a light into them to check for concussion.
It had been six days later that he had finally woken up, skin nearly the same colour as the greying pillow under his head, and rasped, â??Water.â? Four hours after that, Madison had broken the news to him. James had watched her, face gaunt from fever and worse, his left hand clammy as she held it, trying to offer support. To help, because she loved James and he was a good man and Margo had been a good child and it wasn't supposed to be like this and-- and--
James did not speak for eleven days and seven hours. Madison feared she had lost him again. She tried preparing herself, because everyone in the Wastes knew folks who had lost so much they just... gave up. Even sorts like James, the kind of people that seemed like they always had a plan, who practically vibrated on the spot with some sort internal energy source, even those sorts snapped when their world was suddenly empty of meaning. But, after eleven days, six hours and twelve minutes, when James simply disappeared, Madison knew she hadn't prepared well enough.
Because she had panicked and for the next forty minutes, most of the compound had been dedicated to finding him (his body, actually, since a suicide, so recently recovered, would not have become mirelurk food yet). On a whim, she'd gone to the Project's control area and, because she knew James, there he had been, the fingers of his undamaged hand pressed against the glass, face illuminated and made harsh by the artificial lights. He had greeted her distractedly then, in a tone so empty she wouldn't have believed it was his if she hadn't saw him speak, said, â??This was supposed to be for her.â?
He didn't cry. He was silent as she helped him back to his room, back to bed. Of course, he never invited her to lay next to him, though she had hovered, waiting in case he should consider it. James didn't reach out like that when he was hurt. He was private like that and to him the worst part of his... time with the Enclave must have been that his recovery was so public. But that was all right. Madison knew James, even after all these years, and she hadn't fallen in love with him because he was an extremely easy man to get into the head of.
It was all right because they had time now. They would find a way to work through this. Madison sunk down into the uncomfortable chair she'd set up next to James' bed, watching the man's face as he slept. At their age, their lines didn't disappear with sleep, but something about the thin, lined face was pleasant to her in its familiarity. James had always had a face that was only really handsome when it was moving, when those startlingly intelligent eyes were open and looking at you. She gently touched the fuzz that was growing back on his scalp, then pulled the blanket up to his shoulder.
Yes. They finally had time. And after so many years of hardship, they were finally going to be allowed to slow down. Together.
---
â??You want to leave,â? Madison echoed flatly.
James looked to her then turned his head back down to the boot he was currently lacing, mostly one-handedly in an exercise to increase the range of movement in his right hand again. Stupid Enclave. They'd damaged his non-dominant side, but he still wanted at least partial use of his right hand again. â??Madison, there's a lot of work to do. And I can't stay here, cooped up forever.â? He stood, taping his foot against the floor to adjust the fit of the shoe. Damned Vault boots lasted forever. Would outlast the dusty linens and Brahmin leathers of his clothes. Would probably outlast him, he thought as he rubbed at the short gray hair that wasn't as long as it had been before his time with Autumn's men.
â??There's work here.â?
Christ, but Madison knew how to make him feel guilty. She was taking this as personally as twenty years ago. â??Yes, but I'm not needed here. You know more about soil reclamation than I do.â? He'd already made up his mind, of course: he'd been stuck in the damned Brotherhood's compound for nearly two months now, though most of that had been spent recovering from the time he'd been stuck in the damned Enclave's compound (for much less than two months, thank God). James was tired of being stuck, especially when people still gave him that look of pity reserved for widowers who had also survived their children. He attempted a smile, but Madison wouldn't buy it, her frown deepening instead. After his time with the Enclave something was always just a bit off about him, he knew that. He'd seen it when he looked in the mirror, something dead that lurked around in the back of his eyes, something that had aged him to past Elder Lyons. He grabbed his bag. â??Let me do something useful.â?
â??There's useful work here.â? Madison was following him. No, not following, but walking beside him. They were roughly the same height, with her an inch shorter at five-five since both of them had come from nomadic stock, and wandering families just never had reliable food sources â??You don't need to go running across the Wastes for... for samples. We have the traveling merchants picking up dirt along their routes,â? she added as they stepped out into the main courtyard.
Rather than answer her, James chose that moment to go conveniently deaf and enjoy the sunshine. It was a warm day, as most days were in late summer on the Wastes. They'd be hitting the first of the rainy seasons soon, the sort that sent living things scrambling for cover from the deadly rain, but the day was still clear and most of the Paladins were out doing their work before it got too hot later in the afternoon. Fully armed Paladins jarringly strolled along paths lined with gardens, but the mix of war and agriculture didn't seem all that strange to anyone who had grown up with the constant justaposition of violence and domesticity. The only reason James even thought of the possible disconnect was because of Margo who, during those few days the had spoken together on the Wastes, had talked about how weird it was to see even pre-pubescent kids with actual guns.
(Of course, if memory served, she had said that while using a stick to prod at one of the hand-sized insects they'd pushed in the fire earlier to cook in their own shells as they waited for dawn at the old garage. Somethings she had gotten used to, she said, flashing him a smile that even now, standing among a few novices, reminded him of Catherine. Bugs, she had said, were tastier than some of the reconstituted food from the Vault.)
Even the fight wasn't surprising: put that many testosterone-fueled soldiers together and it had to get out somehow. (For the Brotherhood, that meant mostly fist fights, because sexual relations between squad mates were heavily frowned upon, which, James figured, explained a lot of the stiffness in many knights.) It was the occupants of the makeshift ring. Or, rather, one occupant. The other was a regular novice, a cocky kid with a big mouth and an even harder swing.
It was his opponent that was the oddball.
For one thing, he lacked the frame James had come to associate with the Brotherhood: instead of the heavy arms and back, there were the thinner, stringier muscles of a body that was producing muscle mass on a limited diet, muscles that were meant to be used to survive, not to operate power armor. For another, the way he was weaving spoke of a blood alcohol level that was most likely fatal to the inexperienced alcoholic, and that also wasn't much of a Paladin trait. â??You can't go alone,â? Madison said next to him as James rocked forward on his tiptoes, trying to give her the impression of someone who was interested in the fight.
It didn't really work.
â??At least take someone. One of the Knights.â? Madison didn't often touch him, being rather shy of physical contact herself, but she was close enough that he could feel her shoulder against his. Her form of holding hands, really. â??You're too old to go running around the Wastes, James. If you're going to kill yourself, at least do it here so there's a body to bury,â? she added sourly, tucking a nonexistent strand of hair behind her ear. Irritation, then. The corners of James' mouth twitched with something that could almost be classed a smile as he looked away from the fight.
â??I thought you always said I deserved to end up on a hook in one of those raider camps,â? he remarked cheerfully.
