3.6 ? ? not great not terrible

“I’m sure for most people, it’s unnatural to live inside Ant Lane. I for one don’t blame them.”

They could have easily found Little Boy Blue by the presence of Children of Atom scurrying about on mechanic’s errands, but ‘Choly trusted the clicking of his Pip-Boy to inform him just how close he could get. He shuffled nearer until the Geiger counter’s feedback accelerated into a rapid, irregular pace, then took a few steps back in compromise. With a pleasant, melancholy murmur, he found a cracked bumper block to sit upon, and he watched from a distance.

Sticks eventually surfaced from the hood at the back of the blue coupe, laden with sweat and grease. Despite the workout, the challenge had the ghoul grinning and bubbly. He pulled a rag from his apron and wiped his face down, before rounding back to the driver’s seat to root around in the cabin.

‘Choly next identified Fresnel emerging from under the hood, in her plaid flannel and a pair of jeans, worn over a high-neck undergarment. He couldn’t make out what she told the three Atomites nearby, but they rushed off to abide by it. Sticks emerged and glanced around, only to roll his eyes and shoulders and flapped a hand at whatever request their assistants had left to accomplish. Fresnel vanished back under the hood, and for some time, Sticks resumed his preoccupation with things in the front seat.

He decided to put on his radio drama. The tape would be safe out here for an afternoon, and he could tell if any risk arose by any observable changes in the quality of the playback. He slid it into the tape deck of his Pip-Boy and clicked it shut, then selected ‘audio source: holotape’ in his Radio menu. He stretched out his legs and glanced over to Angel, who had curled up its tendrils under itself just like it had inside.

At times like this, his nerves craved a cigarette.

The hallmark introduction clanged, and the play started. He had enjoyed Lights Out all his life, and remembered this episode, but he didn’t remember details all that well. The two women began to bicker over the appropriateness of horror as a genre, only for their shared office to fall to near-total darkness.

“Well, you’re scared, too!”

“I’m not, I’m not, I’m not! Series of coincidences, that’s all. What could it be? I mean, what? Who ever heard of anything happening in a place like this? Well, what are you looking at me like that for? This is no haunted house--"

‘Choly found himself spacing out a ways. His eyes watched the mechanics labor over the car, but his gaze was miles beyond it.

“Up at the ceiling. Ohh. Oh no. Green. The lights now… It’s green. Green. All the lights. Green. You lied to me. You said it was the electricians. Look at the light. It’s green! Makes your face green. You look dead. You hear me? Dead! You’ll be dead. I’ll be dead. We’ll be dead, dead, dead--"

“--Stop it! Stop it! You’re not going to drive me crazy just because there’s something wrong with the electricity. You look around. Everything’s all right. Everything’s all right. Nothing’s wrong here. Nothing.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Daria finishes up her transcription after hours. It's just us in the wide, empty office. I pace nearby, hands in my pockets blindly jumbling their contents. She fumbles through a passage; from her skewed, scrunched lips, I presume the handwriting confounds her. Compulsion snags me. I straighten in place.

“ ‘A note to the sound department:,’ ” I announce in English, pantomiming my annotation, “ ‘At this point in the play, I want the sound of a body being turned inside out. I suggest the use of a wet rubber glove to plant the picture of a human being deliberately turned.’ ”

She doesn’t look up from her work, or even really pause, despite my restrained chuckles. Her poor attempts at ignoring my nuisance endear me.

‘You’d get in so much trouble if someone were to find out about your American radio habits.’

A trace of lyric etches her tone.

‘Now who do you know that doesn’t collect their share of bones? I don’t see you handing me to Gosteleradio.’[98-2]

She slides over the carriage to return with a click and whir, and scoffs.

‘Where else would I get such entertainment? You don’t need wiped holotapes to bother me with strange stories.’

Dripping with sleaze, I hop up on the corner of her desk, shoving over stacks of papers in the process. She almost scrambles to right the paperwork, but stops herself short. I lean over to her, to plant a smooch on her smooth, bright cheek.

‘I’m nothing if not entertaining.’

Her smirk wins out over her frustration, and she pecks a short kiss onto my lips. Starting with a pat at my lapels, she slowly caresses them along my flat chest, only to throw her hands in her lap.

‘You damned stilyagi, wearing men’s clothes, tempting women.[98-3] But you can't have my undivided attention. Not yet.’ Her breath staggers, belying her composure. She flusters. ‘You’re such a terrible influence on me. Can you stop and let me finish? The sooner I’m done, the sooner we can go back to your place.’

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

‘Choly straightened. His heart raced, and his blood ran hot. Both clammy hands shot behind to steady him. He focused on his breathing. Though the recording had finished its playback, he couldn't say how long ago. He could still visualize and feel every naked, ravishing curve of Daria, from her pale pert nipples to her lush ebony hair perfumed with amber and cherries. How they would go at it until they ached the next day. A soft, distressed moan escaped his lips at the raw arousal and intent he once had felt for the woman.

That was a lifetime ago--if it were true. Yet, far too vivid, and far too foreign to him, it couldn’t have been a daydream. And it had to have been true, because he had never in his life felt attraction to any normal human being, let alone for it to feel so right and replete. Had he? The way his body only throbbed more intently when he tried to calm himself, it repulsed him. God help him, the sex had been so good.

“Perhaps we ought to set aside the horror genre for a spell, Mister Carey. The twist seems to have hampered your attempts at relaxation.”

He stared at the tape deck of his Pip-Boy at length. His throat adhered to itself, despite repeated attempts to swallow.

“Series of coincidences, that’s all,” he murmured, pale and hollow. “Someone wanted me to pick this holotape, to hear it now.” His eyes strained out toward the still-choked river. “Why do I remember it. Why do I remember it now.”

Angel lifted itself up on its tendrils, and urged ‘Choly to stand.

“Come along, Sir. Everyone’s taking a break above us. Why don’t we go see Mister Sticks?”

In a dull haze, he struggled to his feet.

“You’re right,” he told Angel. “I need to be around people right now. Not all these… ghosts… in my drafty skull.”

“There we go,” it encouraged as best it could.

As it shepherded him back up the ramp, their rickety joints would rightfully have produced a horrid din of scraping and scrabbling. Or, they felt that way, anyway. Gradually, the Pip-Boy’s sputtering clicks faded before ceasing altogether.

“I wasn’t a virgin,” he mouthed silently, through an eye twitch. “Wasn’t, even then…”[98-4]

Since then, have I grown queerer still?

On the Upper Level, Sticks and Fresnel sat around a communal cooking pit fashioned from cinder blocks, rebar, and concrete rubble. He hadn’t noticed Maury until now, sitting comfortably with Sticks, Fresnel, and several Satellites. A warm chat wove amongst them.

“Ah, ‘Choly’s here,” Sticks said. He patted a welcoming knee. “I’m surprised you stepped out here. I was beginning to think you were getting allergic to sunlight, and between that and your smoothies…”

“Worry when I cast no reflection,” ‘Choly muttered. He rolled his eyes and squeezed into the circle to sit across Sticks’s leg. He needed the proximity of leaning into his chest more than he would admit. The bouquet of engine grease, rust, and river scum invited him in, to spite his drab olive. A sigh punctuated his anxiety. He retained a twinge of self-awareness. “It’s been a while since I smelled fresh cooking other than razorgrain porridge.”

“We’ve been making kitchen sink stew for weeks,” Maury replied. “Minus an actual kitchen sink, as you can see. A little bit of whatever we can find. The variety is getting tiresome.”

“I can respect the desire for a little consistency,” Fresnel said. She smiled at ‘Choly, but his eye contact faltered in favor of getting a better look at her dark under-armor’s moto-quilted leather collar. “Even if it isn’t the same food each time, it’s nice when food can be predictable.”

“Anything is better than porridge and prewar rations,” Sticks groaned. Warming to grin, he rubbed at ‘Choly’s shoulder, and wrapped his gloved hand around it to squeeze. ‘Choly leaned into Sticks’s chest. “Of course, these fine folks know their way around improvised recipes. I don’t even have to ask what’s in it, to know I’ll like it.”

“You know what they say about necessity and invention,” Maury chirped.

Like strands of spiderweb trailing the air, potent recollection of appetent lips and heaving flesh persisted after ‘Choly. He disguised the prickling of his skin as an attempt to get more comfortable in Sticks’s lap. The ghoul picked up on the surreptitiousness, and decided to take credit for the untoward shiver by dragging him closer by the hip.

As he tried to sit back up, his head grazed Sticks’s shoulder. The thread count of the cotton shirt loosed no more than a few strands of hair. Sticks tucked them behind his ear with an absent smile. ‘Choly’s breath stitched in his ribs, and the corners of his lips twitched. He'd kept his shoulder length hair tucked into a neat semblance of a duck’s arse for years, before succumbing to the exhilarating fuck-you of chopping it all off himself into a chubchik when conscripted.[98-5] This shorn, masculine style of bangs had served to tether his sense of gender while a soldier, but it took years for his hair to grow back out after his time in the Soviet army, so he could resume his tendency toward a trim, tidy updo. He had always preferred it pinned up, and yet he also often caught himself savoring the ways Sticks might loose its fine chignon waves. The ghoul evoked so many unexpected proclivities in him, and yet--

“Perhaps Mister Maury would be inclined to help me update my recipe database,” Angel wondered. “I struggle direly with ingredient definitions these days. Mister Sticks is supposed to help me as well, but things have been quite hairy as of late. Soon, then, perhaps…?”

“The robot wants to learn from me?” Maury glanced up from stirring the stew pot. His other hand gripped the layers of scarves draped around his shoulders. “The robot can want?”

‘Choly teetered ever so slightly.

“One thing at a time, chap,” Sticks said. ‘Choly attempted to match breathing patterns with him as he spoke, to self-regulate, but it only served to entangle himself in physicality. “I made you a promise. I'll keep to it. Unlike those stiffs in The Hall, my word means something.”

He wanted to neck so badly in that moment, convinced thoroughly that if only he could lay into his lover with impenitent, gnawing osculation, he could rewire this short circuitry. That's all this was--he'd simply gone too long without indulging his sense of eros. A part of him, still toeing the past, must crave plump, warm lips against his own, but nothing could really, truly satisfy his sensibilities quite like a cracked, leathery, gnashing mouth. Until this moment, he wouldn't have even questioned whether any fraction of his past self could have survived.

He kept repeating to himself, You have Sticks. You have everything you've dreamed of, and then some. Happiness, beyond all things best left forgotten. What's the use in remembering who you used to be? What's the use in pretending you haven't changed as much as you think? Besides, if you're so convinced everything's as made-up as you insist, what's stopping you from having made all this up, too! Narrative be damned! Whatever may be, just enjoy it.

“What did they do to you now?” Fresnel teased.

“Not just me, but all of us. This whole Certs debacle… They really tried to screw us over for good this time.”

I'm nothing, if not entertaining. …If not entertaining, I'm Nothing.

“You gripe about Certs every opportunity you get.” Maury shrugged at him. “This again…”

Daria’s spectral fingertips traced ‘Choly’s hips, and dipped between them. His buttocks clenched, only to tremble pathetically against Sticks's leg as he tried to forget the woman's touch. Her ravenous, impassioned sucking. Her digital adroit. She would work him to a begging, sopping mess before letting him tuck her entire fist deep inside him. He quaked inside with grief that any slip in his body language might betray the illusion of his attempts to sustain attentiveness or decorum.

“They've really shown their true colors today. They don't intend to pay out. They never intended to pay out. They're cheapskates.”

Sticks sat up straighter, still balancing ‘Choly on his thigh. The ghoul bounced his leg ever so slightly. It couldn't have been a simple restless tic. ‘Choly squinted his eyes tight, and gagged. Eventually, he pushed through his mental viscosity to place a begging hand on Sticks’s knee. He gripped it with firm intent. Sticks’s leg stopped.

“Think about it,” Sticks said. “Why else would The Hall freeze repairs on the property it owns? They're shooting themselves in the foot because it's the cheaper option. Classic bureaucratic maneuver. Just think of the good we’re doing, to go on this little ramble. It’s going to be more important than ever for Ant to keep its economic ties with the outside world.”

“--What, what are you even on about?” ‘Choly put his limp, haggard cheek against Sticks’s shoulder. “I didn't hear the announcement this morning, and I don't know what these ‘Certs’ are.”

“You're Lucky to keep being out of the loop on some of this malarkey, babe. The Hall’s been paying everyone for the repairs to the mall in Certs. Mall certificates. You remember those, right?”

‘Choly nodded, mentally sapped. Just this context alone started to percolate incredulity, but Sticks continued, much to the malaise of everyone present. Yet, ‘Choly welcomed any clinical, economic topic over his present preoccupation.

“Certs are worth what The Hall says they're worth. You know what they say about invention…” The ghoul wagged a lyrical finger at Maury. Maury chuffed and smiled, shaking his head. “These things work a lot like how they did before the War. You can only spend them in the Concourse, and only with Laners who abide by the logic of face value. Everyone thinks The Hall will just… pay up, all up front, the moment repairs are done, but I've said it before, and I'll say it again: that pay day will never come. See, it isn't just that they haven't got enough pulls to pay everyone the value of their labor. If it were that simple, they'd pay people in caps when they ran out of pulls, then in cash, and so on. They lose equity if they exhaust their coffers in full. It's no coincidence they'd value Certs in the only currency exclusive to the settlement, either: even if they do pay out one day, a guy can still only spend his earnings here. The Hall can't afford to invest in their own population here, but they're simultaneously reliant on us to fix everything. Cheapskates.”

“Your theory makes an alarming amount of sense, if true,” Fresnel uttered. “I've spoken with several Laners who believe Certs will accrue value, not lose it. It's going to destroy people who've been stockpiling Certs, thinking they've amassed great wealth during a harrowing time.”

“Some, more than others. I hate to break Orqueida’s heart, but poor soul, she really thinks those Certs are worth something. I didn't want to be right.”

“Perhaps the girl will do the smart thing,” Maury supposed, ”and use them to buy all the supplies you all will need next week. They might not even be worth the paper they're written on before you return.”

“You make it sound like no one's cashing in their Certs right now,” ‘Choly said.

“No one can,” Maury continued. He started ladling out servings into bowls, and started with the two Satellites sitting nearest him. “Certs have what Sticks calls ‘speculative value.’ The idea is that people hold onto them, in the hopes they'll eventually be paid.”

“One big whopping I.O.U. is what it is,” Sticks went on. “Write up however many slips of paper that say they’re worth pulls. Draw the Mayor's face on it, for all I care. The only thing that's worth a pull is a pull. Thing is, Mindy. What you've got to understand… These Certs have a clause written on them. They've got this fine print. You know how fine print goes.”

Again, ‘Choly nodded.

“There's a clause that states, clear as day, that The Hall will only cash in on Certs once repairs are completed in full. And as of this morning, The Hall will not contract another minute’s worth of labor for said repairs. It would take them disregarding the terms and conditions of their own damn play money, for this to amount to something. Or, I don't know, requiring the remainder of the work be done completely pro bono. I saw this all coming a mile away.”

The two Satellites ‘Choly didn't know groaned.

“Sticks is so financially bright,” Maury praised, perking up. “He advised all of us in Covered Parking to trade away our Certs, so we wouldn't end up holding mere slips of paper when the time came and passed without us being paid. It wasn't easy to keep the Laners from jumping to some conclusion that we're rejecting their money. We respect pulls, not Certs.”

“You had their best interests in mind, but couldn't convince Orqueida not to hoard them?” ‘Choly snipped, trying not to seethe. “If you're so smart with money, why are you screwing over Laners over this, instead of scheming up some way to screw over The Hall for engineering this inconceivable exploitation?”

‘Choly felt Sticks’s fingers tracing the laces of his Surgical Leathers through his shirt. His irritation sublimated into awkwardness, and his heart ratcheted, between his lusting after the specter of Daria, and Sticks’s lusting after the specter in his lap.

“Don't blow a gasket,” Sticks soothed. “One, I can't just make people do whatever I want, even if it's for their own good. The more I've tried to convince her, the more adamant she's gotten that I'm just trying to get rich off this. She's not the only one this situation has made paranoid as sin. If she wants my help sorting all this out, she'll ask me for it. Hopefully, she'll come around before the Concourse catches on to what The Hall is pulling. Two, give it time. Have a little faith in me, why don't you.”

Something about the whole situation felt off. He wondered what currency the Mayor had been donating to Sutter Grove. But he was too tired to hash out whether speculating were constructive, or if he were simply inventing reasons to worry. It would take little persuasion on his part at this point, to coax his leather-skinned companion to act on all those little nips and teases once they retired for the evening.

He resigned to a coy smile. Just the notion of bedding Sticks tonight cast out a tether to moor him to reality.

“We've all had a long day. Can we stop talking business and just… eat? So we can have some quiet, and maybe get to bed at a reasonable hour?”

“Grandpa ‘Choly, looking to get in bed before the sun’s even down,” Sticks ribbed.

And yet, ‘Choly found that the more pyretic his recollections became, the less he genuinely desired to act upon them. He knew he craved some unknown nourishment, but remained unconvinced Sticks alone might provide it.[98-6]

“Another proof that I'm not a vampire. I'm not nocturnal.”

“All right, then, Daywalker,” Maury smirked, clever and delighted. He ladled up a shallow metal bowl and gave it to ‘Choly. “Don't bite.”

For a while, conversation quietened with everyone's mouths full. ‘Choly couldn't place any one particular ingredient or even flavor to the strange stew, but true to Sticks's description, he found it delicious nonetheless. It would stick to the ribs, and had an indescribable complexity to it. He thought briefly to ask whether it contained any dairy, but it seemed unlikely, all things given, and he doubted Maury or any who'd helped him prepare the meal would have remembered anyway. He couldn't help but agree with Sticks: This was leagues better than razorgrain porridge or ancient preserved rations.

“So how much work do you suspect you have left on Blue?” he asked them.

“Less than either of us believed,” Fresnel replied. She ate another bite, chewing thoroughly, before elaborating. “The rads which saturate Blue have energized me as I work. That said, much of the restoration is the interior. Engine damages were minor. It surely is a shame it couldn't just be myself and Sticks, to go North. It feels like something of a waste, to scour Atom’s touch from the inside of the auto.”

“You and I might enjoy that glow,” Sticks started with a smirk, “but you and I both also know I would prefer it if my vehicle could have passengers who aren't immune to it.”

“I can respect that.” She grinned into her dish. “After all, Her Light still courses through the engine itself.”

“The, ah, sooner that engine can be secured,” Maury uttered, the corners of his mouth twitching, “the sooner Covered Parking can rest easy. I admit freely, that I started helping Sticks with the vehicle, prior to the storm, because I had wanted to keep an eye on the invertible. I hope you understand that I appreciate that you haven't invited me along, despite my involvement. I fear my heart would give out on the spot if I so much as thought of stepping inside one myself.”

“Quite all right, pal,” Sticks replied. “We can't have that. You're best suited to holding down the fort here, and we all know that. We appreciate all you've done for Blue. We appreciate you. All of you,” he added, motioning around at the six or so who'd since joined the circle once servings began making rounds.

“Thank you for dinner,” ‘Choly agreed, quietly.

“It's nothing,” Maury chirped, beaming.

“Oh! mais it is everything!” Fresnel insisted, with warmth and enthusiasm. “Come now, Monsieur Maury. Accept the praise! Acknowledge all Atom has provided us.”

She rose from her seat and extended both hands to Maury, encouraging him to stand. He hesitated, but complied, and she had him escort her back down to ground level.

Sticks pressed his face near ‘Choly's ear.

“You good to sit tight while I help these fine folks with the dishes?” he asked him. “Not much daylight left.”

“That's sweet of you,” he agreed, letting Sticks squeeze out from under him. A bit unlike him, though, to take on a menial task like that, when numerous others could handle it.

“It's the least I can do for their hospitality.”

“Oh! Do let me help, Sir,” Angel begged in delight, following him.

As the group rounded up the various tins and dishes to rinse, ‘Choly sat by the fire and watched. He still had so much to take care of before they headed out in two days. He needed to craft a fresh batch of Melancholia. And he needed to do one more pass of maintenance on Angel, and refuel it. And he needed to return the Lights Out holotape to Sacristan Haidinger, along with a copy. He could ask Sticks to copy the holotape with his more advanced dual-deck Pip-Boy model, while he drew the blood required to concoct the Melancholia. But, he shook the idea from his head with the two-fold dread, not just from a likelihood he’d have to confess the cause of his sexual restlessness was not Sticks, but more so for the certainty that he would insist ‘Choly then owed him a favor--he was forever adamant to be repaid in kind for just about any favor, no matter how small or convenient, and this would be no different.

He whet his lips and hemmed.

No, I’ll duplicate it without bothering him with it. Yes. I’ll format one of the JBD holotapes, and use that. But… I think I’ll give it another listen first. Maybe… several.

He rattled back to the present when someone rustled his shoulder.

“Did you really mean it that you wanted to go to bed early tonight?” Sticks ribbed.

When ‘Choly glanced up at him, the ghoul winked. He extended both hands to ‘Choly and helped him stand. Despite the mixed messages, all that mattered in that moment was the opportunity to spend time with the man of his dreams. Nonetheless entangled in the silvering cobwebs of the past, he needed more than anything to acclimate to the present, and be elated for the future.[98-7]

_____________________________

[98-0] Arch Oboler’s Lights Out, episode “Murder in the Script Department.” To pair the audio with the text, if desired: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gPqvsdjJq1M

[98-1] “So in love with the wrong world.” Florence & the Machine’s “Blinding.”

[98-2] Рентгениздат. Röntgenizdat. During the Soviet era’s deep censorship, Russia saw extensive black market trafficking of all sorts of non-Russian media, most notably music. Also called ribs, bones, or bone music, old x-ray film was repurposed to cut “blank” records, upon which would then be recorded music from all over the world. The records made this way retain their x-ray images.

[98-2] Гостелерадио СССР (Gosteleradio). A prominent authority in Soviet censorship, this state committee regulated all television and radio media, especially non-Russian content. A separate committee also regulated printed work.

[98-3] Стиляги (Stilyagi). The prevalent Soviet counterculture in the post-WWII era, it embraced whatever Western fashion trends and culture it could get away with. Many stilyagi fashioned their own clothing from old textiles because it was otherwise impossible to obtain garments in the styles they sought, both in cut and color.

[98-4] Chapter 50, “Mouthful.” The first time ‘Choly and Sticks laid together, ‘Choly swore to him he was a virgin, entirely convinced at the time that his recollection of this particular aspect of his past was accurate.

[98-5] Чубчик (chubchik), duck’s arse. A common rebellious hairstyle amongst drafted Soviet soldiers in WWII was a shorn head with clean-cut bangs, often thought to have originated from a desire to find ways to fly in the face of rules and regulations, by finding acts that still follow them. The military regulation merely stated the maximum length of hair and the neatness of the style, and said nothing of the appropriateness of bangs. The average Soviet porting chubchik was considered a hoodlum or bad boy, and it still has a reputation to this day. A duck’s arse was one of several mid-century Western styles quintessential to stilyagi fashion.

[98-6] Unknown nourishment. Kafka’s Metamorphosis. What sets a human apart from any other creature is the pursuit of some intangible quality, of which Gregor Samsa recognizes that his sister has found and benefits from, but which he himself never quite grasps.