By some merciful providence, Hope awoke the next morning with a far milder headache than she had any right to. She’d lost track of the amount of liquor she’d knocked back by the time she and Hancock had stumbled out of the Third Rail, yelling drunken revolutionary chants at the night sky and giggling like children whenever someone on the street echoed one back. He’d walked her across Goodneighbor, stepping back once they reached her door and sweeping off his hat with a ridiculous bow which nearly sent him toppling to the pavement.
It had taken every ounce of self-control she had not to grab him by the coat and pull him into the elevator with her.
She played out that fantasy in her imagination later, phantom lips dragging along her neck in the shower, his body pressed against hers as she slipped into bed.
It was just the liquor, she lied to herself.
The sun was just beginning to stain the clouds a pale pink through the morning fog as she checked and double-checked her backpack, folded Daisy’s dress neatly, freshened herself up one last time, then descended with Dogmeat in the little elevator to meet Hancock at the gate. He was already waiting for her, leaning against the barricade with Fahrenheit and smoking a cigarette. He waved as she approached. Hope returned the wave, ducking behind the curtain into Daisy’s store to quietly deposit her dress on the counter, a note of gratitude folded on top. When she emerged, he was stooping down to lift his pack onto his shoulders. Hope had assumed he’d be the type to travel light - to take a gun and a chem stash and not much else - but not only was his backpack much larger than hers, he also had an empty duffel bag rolled up and strapped to the side.
“Have you packed half the chems in Goodneighbor into that thing?” asked Hope.
Hancock chuckled. “I’d need a way bigger bag for that.” He gave the straps a tug. “More like a brahmin. Or a herd of ‘em. Nah, this is just shit for the road. With a bit of the fun stuff to spice it up,” he added, with a wink.
“Sounds exciting,” said Hope, grinning. “You ready to go?”
“Sure am.” He nodded to Fahrenheit. “Try not to let this place burn down while I’m out, yeah?”
“Less chance of that with you gone.” She pulled a shotgun slug from her pocket and tossed it at him. He caught it deftly.
“In case you need it,” she said, walking away. “See ya ‘round.”
“See ya round,” he replied, tucking the slug into an inner pocket. He turned to Hope. “Well, then. Let’s get this freak show on the road.”
“What’s the story with that bullet?” asked Hope, as the neon sign of Goodneighbor receded into the dawn fog. They were heading northwest to Oberland Station, taking the riverside route out of Boston at Hancock’s suggestion, skirting the city along the bank where it was easier to spot a potential ambush from a distance.
“This one?” Hancock withdrew the slug from his pocket, flicking it into the air and catching it with a flourish before tucking it back away. “Ya know, I’ve never asked. Bet if I did, she’d spin some bullshit about me turnin’ feral, but we both know that ain’t what it is.” He smiled. “Don’t need to be said, really.”
Hope recalled a rough hand reaching down to her with a lit cigarette. The same hand which had drooped lazily from a couch to scratch Dogmeat behind the ears, right where he liked it.
“She seems a lot sweeter than she lets on.”
“She is, but don’t let her hear ya say that,” said Hancock, leaning into Hope like he was telling her a secret. “She likes bein’ big and scary.”
Hancock popped open a tin of Mentats as they walked, taking two before holding it out for Hope. She took one, enjoying the salty-sweet flavour as it fizzed on her tongue, each bubble tingling her awake as the chem entered her bloodstream. A sense of alert clarity washed over her, tuning her ears to each metallic groan of the buildings, along with distant voices and more-distant gunshots.
A few minutes after they reached the riverbank, Dogmeat stopped dead in the road, his hackles rising with a low growl. Hancock threw out a hand in front of Hope, pausing to squint through the fog at the outline of a footbridge ahead of them. He motioned her over to the shadow of a building. Hope followed, unslinging her rifle and peering down the scope. Large, hulking shapes were moving through the mist.
“Super mutants,” she said, lowering the rifle. Hancock withdrew a shotgun from a holster tucked somewhere beneath his coat.
“How do ya wanna play this?” he asked.
“I’ve got a revolver for close quarters, but when I’ve got cover and range,” Hope patted her rifle, “I like to snipe.”
“Great, ‘cause I like doin’ the exact opposite.” Hancock grinned, a slightly fierce edge to his expression as the adrenaline of combat began to hit them both. “I’ll go cause some chaos with the pup up close, you pick ‘em off.”
When Hancock said chaos, Hope realised - as she knelt in the shadow of a building, picking off the silhouettes of mutants between shotgun blasts and the flash of grenades - he meant it. The brutes were so distracted they didn’t seem to realise bullets were hitting them from more than one direction. Hancock’s much smaller shadow wove through the fog and the hulking figures as Hope aimed for headshots, dropping any which seemed to be coming at him from behind. She was so focused on that, and on keeping count of how many she’d taken out, she failed to notice the one running at her until he was almost on top of her.
The brute had a huge bat with rusted nails poking from it in all directions. She rolled to the side as he swung it down, dropping her rifle and reaching for her pistol as he hefted the bat again with a roar. She sucked in a breath, scrambling back - then the mutant’s vast chest exploded in a spray of blood and viscera. The creature fell to the side, revealing Hancock, shotgun raised and a wild grin on his face. He strode toward Hope, tucking the gun away.
“Now that was fun!” He extended a hand, pulling her to her feet. “Damn, you were poppin’ em off so fast, I could barely get a shot in.”
“From where I’m standing, you just saved my ass,” she said.
“Nah, I shouldn’t have let him get that close in the first place. Slipped the net.” Hancock kicked at a great, green arm with the toe of his boot. “If you’re snipin’, it’s my job to keep ‘em off ya. But hey, we’re both still breathin’.”
“We’re both breathing, and we made a pile of dead super mutants,” said Hope. “And the sun’s barely even up.”
Hancock laughed. “That’s what I’d call a damn good start to the day. Come on, let’s book it before the chaos attracts anythin’ else. Super Mutants never have good loot.”
He turned to look at where Dogmeat was tearing at the exposed flesh of one dead mutant, his muzzle stained red, and laughed under his breath.
“Unless you’re real hungry, I guess.”
The fog had cleared by the time they reached the outskirts of Boston City, the denser city making way for trees and a cluster of ruined houses. Hope had just suggested picking through them for anything the settlers at Oberland might find useful when the teeth-tingling clatter of a Vertibird reached their ears, growing louder at surprising speed.
Hancock dragged her into the side of a building as the machine swooped overhead, filling the air with a horrendous clamour which set Hope’s nerves on edge immediately.
Even before the bombs, Vertibirds rarely meant anything good.
Especially before the bombs.
Hancock usually wore his billowy white shirt open at the chest, but now he was frantically buttoning it up as high as it would go. Then he pulled off his hat and swept his hair forward to cover more of his face, before placing it back on his head, tilted low. Hope heard the heavy clang of the Vertibird depositing someone wearing power armour, then voices moving through the wrecked houses as the aircraft retreated. She put a hand in the bristles of Dogmeat’s fur as he growled softly.
“Do you think they’ll attack us?” she said.
“You? Nah. Me? Flip a cap.” Hancock grimaced. “They don’t always murder us on sight, but they sure as hell ain’t fond of ghouls.”
Hope clenched her fists, her jaw tensing. Some things were apparently perennial, apocalypse or not, and it infuriated her that stupid, violent prejudice was one of them. She motioned for Hancock to stay put, then peered around the building they were crouched behind.
“There are three of them,” she said, pulling back. “One in power armour, two in some kind of uniform. They’re just picking through the houses.”
Hancock breathed out sharply through his nose. “They’re no better than scavvers and raiders, for all their fuckin’ airs,” he said. “Think we can sneak past ‘em?”
“I think so,” said Hope. “They’re moving further into the houses. Let’s just walk. Stay behind me. You don’t look very… ghoul-y from a distance, and if we pretend to be harmless travellers, maybe they won’t pay us any attention. There’s an empty little shack just down the road, we can bunker up there until they’re gone.”
Hancock nodded, rising to his feet with Hope and staying one step behind her as they passed by the group. As predicted, they were too far away and too occupied with their task to pay more than a cursory glance toward a pair of travellers and a dog. The moment they were out of sight, Hope picked up the pace, making for a small shack with stands of dried, long-since-rotted vegetables out the front. She waved Hancock through.
“Used to know the guy who ran this place,” he said as he entered. “Guess he ain’t around anymore.”
“Oh…” Hope paused, unsure of what to say. “I’m sorry.”
Hancock toyed with a cigarette box, his eyes downcast. “It’s alright. He was old. Got more years than most. Still… gonna miss droppin’ in when I pass by.” He took a cigarette and lit it, then walked over to a locked door at the back and fished a bobby pin from his pocket. “He told me once that if he dropped off the perch, I should take whatever I wanted from back here.”
The door clicked open to reveal a small chem lab tucked behind the vegetable stall. Hope joined Hancock in fishing through drawers filled with a variety of raw materials, liquids and rotting fungi. She had to muffle a shout of excitement when she pulled open one to find a dozen glass jars filled with Daytripper.
“Ooooh, jackpot!” Hancock leaned over her shoulder to take a bottle, shaking it. “These are homebrew, but ol’ Doug was damn good at it. I know some pre-war ghouls who swear it’s as good as the original.”
“I’d be surprised if the pre-war stuff could even get you high after two-hundred years,” said Hope. “They’d lose potency if you so much as left them in a hot car.”
“Which is exactly why these are better,” said Hancock, winking at her. “You don’t have to eat the whole fuckin’ bottle. Let’s take ‘em all. Waste not, want not.” He opened his bag and began packing the little bottles into it. An idea occurred to Hope, dangerous and enticing.
“Hey, Hancock. I followed the train line down from Tenpines to Oberland. Same route we’re taking back up. Aside from a few wild dogs and some feral ghouls, it was pretty quiet and actually kinda scenic. Be a nice route for some Daytripper.”
The smile which spread across Hancock’s face could light a city. “You’re speakin’ my language, sunshine,” he said, his voice low and warm. “I’m keen. Word to the wise, don’t take too much on the road. Gotta have your wits about ya… just in case.”
“Oh, I’m well practiced where Daytripper’s concerned,” said Hope, grinning.
“Well then,” rumbled Hancock. “I’m lookin’ forward to it.”
The clanging of power armour had receded far enough into the distance that Hope and Hancock were both keen to move on rather than use the shack, its air musty from the rot of the vegetables, as a lunch stop. Hancock lingered quietly at the threshold for a moment, hat held in his hands.
“Rest in peace buddy. Thanks for the gift.”
They walked a little ways further into the forest, stopping at the rail bridge where the road met the train line. Hope dug through her bag, withdrawing some jerky and a jar of what seemed to be tato chutney. Hancock contributed some sharp brahmin cheese and a tin full of crackers - made from razorgrain, apparently - to dip in it. If Hope squinted a little, their lunch was almost like a charcuterie board.
“Can you tell me much about these ‘Brotherhood of Steel’ people?” Hope asked, between mouthfuls. ”Nick seemed to think they were bad news as well.”
“Yeah, he would… they’d scrap him for parts. They’re bad news for pretty much everyone, and worse news if you’re not human.” Hancock paused to shove a chutney-laden cracker in his mouth. “They ain’t been seen in the Commonwealth for decades - not in force, at least - but travellers bring news and none of it’s great. From what I’ve heard, they’re some kinda… religious military cult obsessed with collectin’ pre-war tech. If that means rippin’ it outta vaults or settlements, well… too fuckin’ bad for those folk. They say they’re gonna to use it to rebuild civilisation, but everyone knows that’s a load of bull. They’re out for power.”
Hope’s appetite abandoned her.
“You’re saying they could attack settlements?”
“Maybe not attack ‘em, but they’ll expect to be ‘given’ whatever the fuck they ask for.” The look on his face told Hope this ‘giving’ was not likely to be optional.
“You mentioned they hate ghouls…” she said, darkly.
“They hate all non-humans. Ghouls included.” Hancock pulled a face. “Not like that’s anything new. Ghouls ain’t exactly welcome in a lot of places.”
“For fucks sake, why?” Hope threw her head back. “It never changes, it’s always something. It’s the colour of your skin, or the shape of your eyes, or your fucking political beliefs.” She sighed. “Every ghoul I’ve met - well, aside from Bobbi - every ghoul I’ve met has been perfectly nice.”
“You’ve met feral ghouls, haven’t ya?” Hancock’s voice was quiet.
“That’s why.” He turned to Hope, meeting her blue eyes with his black ones. There was a deep pain haunting them, and when he spoke, his voice was heavy. “A lot of folk see a ghoul, and all they see is a monster that could turn feral any second. It’s fear. It’s also a load of bullshit - ghouls don’t turn feral all of a sudden, it’s a process - but it’s still what plenty of folk believe. At least, it’s what they say they believe.” He laughed, bitterly. “Some people just like hatin’ everyone that’s different.”
Hope was quiet for a long while. There was steel in her voice when she broke the silence.
“I need to get the warning out, make sure every Minutemen settlement has somewhere safe for ghouls to hide if the Brotherhood show up.”
Hancock’s brows shot up. “Wait, you have ghouls in your settlements?”
Hope nodded. “It’s part of the agreement. Any settlement that wants ongoing Minutemen protection is obliged to offer safe harbour to anyone who needs it, and a home for anyone willing to pitch in and help. That includes ghouls.”
Hancock was very still for a moment, wearing an expression of wonderment. “...I could kiss you.” His voice was wobbling. “That’s the best news I’ve heard in years.”
“Much as I’d love to take you up on that,” said Hope, with a flirtatious smile, “it was Preston’s idea. I hadn’t even met a ghoul yet, feral or otherwise. You’ll have to kiss him.”
“Shame, doubt he’s as hot as you,” Hancock chuckled. “Think he’ll settle for a thank-you bouquet?”
A vision of Preston’s baffled panic at a bouquet-carrying Hancock attempting to land a kiss on him flashed into Hope’s imagination, and she snorted with laughter.
“Yeah, I think he’ll settle for that.”
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