moved !

I’ve remade this blog @royalmuses​ so that I could have it as my main!

“Of course she did, I said so didn’t I and aren’t I always right? I am.” Paris saw that she was weaponless and that made her safe. “And he’s fine, just fine…” Still, the scene of Neil being pulled into space played in his mind. He had no idea why he and only he had been left behind. Still, if he’d known what was about to happen, perhaps he wouldn’t have yelled at the other two so much.    At least Neil had returned safely. He now considered that Chell was likely the reason, as she’d been the reason for most good things happening around her lately (depending on how you looked at it). It was possible he’d judged her too harshly as a threat…no, he was never wrong. Nope, not ever. He knew soooo many facts. He knew for a fact that he was right. Ladies were scary and always a threat. “She sent you away you know, you’re supposed to stay away when she sends you, that’s Newton’s 3rd law.” Paris got back to tinkering, his cast down eyes a perfect complimentary colour to his broken friend.

          Neil considered this, and nodded. He could count on Paris and his knowledge, advice, facts. Even when the others may tease, the sun-bright core had found where to put his trust and that was essentially that. Paris was his dearest friend. He’d been afraid he’d never see him again.

          ❝That’s good. I came back, too,❞ Neil informed Chell, ❝I saw space.❞

          Chell had generally tended toward stony silence since she’d come to Aperture the first time, woman on a mission, but that was not something that would get her far with the robots and anyway, she was starting to get tired of projecting that version of herself.

          She gave the space-obsessed core a thumbs-up. She even smiled a little while she did it. He was undeserving of ire, anyway, odd though he was. He was an outcast like herself. a bit on the fringes, and he was one of the few who had only been friendly toward her, trying hard to share his love of space. Perhaps this was why she’d concerned herself so much which whether he was hurt, whether he could be fixed. 

          「 I bet it was beautiful, 」 she signed, which seemed to make him very happy.

It takes him such a short amount of time to get there, but the street seems to stretch out for miles before him, an endless amount of ground to cover with so little precious time afforded in which to cover it.

Their last conversation flashes through his mind like a corroded reel of film, those words and that blow he’d slung against Nick Valentine with an intent to hurt. He hadn’t imagined that the next time they would meet would be like this. If he had, he never would have let him leave like that, never would have banished him from Goodneighbor.

He bursts into the Memory Den like a fourth bullet, making a scene of himself like always, but unlike usual, not at all thinking about doing it.

“Help!”

It is not a plea; it is an order, a demand for immediate attention spoken in the same tone of voice that one would command soldiers. His voice seems to fill the whole building.

          The lobby is predictably quiet until he comes tearing in, the sound of his shout bringing both Dr. Amari and Irma hurrying out of one of the side rooms to see what’s going on, a certain worry to their faces that doesn’t seem to become them. On seeing the cause of Hancock’s call for help, Amari gasps, and Irma looks horrified. 

          ❝Nick! What’s happened?❞ Irma cries, an outburst of emotion at a sight too horrible to mind how it might make her look. Even with her flair for the dramatic, her reaction seems to drive home how awful the situation really is, and how Nick looks danging from Hancock’s arms.

          Dr. Amari, lacking the same attachment, is quick to approach Hancock and his burden, however, her eye analytical. She doesn’t wait for explanations, but turns on her heel and gestures for the ghoul to follow, barely taking the time to urgently bid him, ❝Come with me, quickly!❞ 

The moment of inaction lasts for far too long. He can find no evidence of life from a precursory look, but more importantly, he doesn’t know how to find evidence of life, so there’s no point at all in wasting precious seconds looking for it. The warmth is good, but he can hardly say if it’s good enough.

Hefting himself up on the edge of the dumpster for leverage, he does the only thing he can– he works his arms urgently under the synth’s still body, thankful now for the strength that has served him so well. With a heft, he’s lifted Nick from the unceremonious grave and into a hold against his chest.

His dear confidant feels no more alive in his arms.

Not thinking about this, he makes sure that the other man is secure, and then he’s beating the ground again. There will be no help just standing out here.

           Even at this hour, Hancock is most likely to find help in The Memory Den, in the capable hands of Dr. Amari. Her crowd owes him anyway, for looking the other way while they run other synths in and out of town. Besides that, her place is the closest by. 

          Nick looks eerily peaceful, even hanging from Hancock’s arms. He doesn’t look like himself without the hat. It seems wrong for him not to have some comment to share, some quip or introspect on things. Goodneighbor is rushing past and he’s completely gone for it.

Hancock feels his heart drain out of his chest and all the heat leave his body. For a moment, his brain rejects the horrific image in front of him, refusing to process exactly what and who it is– but that doesn’t change the awful reality that sinks in against his will.

Why is Nick back here?

The question hits him not in anger but in dread, so hard and heavy that it knocks the breath right out of him. Not why did this happen, but why was this allowed to happen? And right out from underneath Hancock, not a hundred yards from where he had been standing, seething, silently cursing this very synth in his anger and his vanity.

How does he check for vitals in a synth? His hands have moved of their own accord already, hovering over the twisted neck and lifeless face, but they don’t know what to do from there, where to go for the equivalent of a pulse.

“–Nick?”

          He can offer no response, verbally or otherwise; only the touch of Hancock’s hands affects any movement inside the dumpster, as the synth is unnaturally still (as the grave). His weathered synthetic skin is still warm to the touch, as is the metal visible through the tearing. 

          There is no sound that would indicate life, no light from his gold eyes now closed and dark. Finding the equivalent of a pulse is a more difficult matter than simply touching his throat, which already was missing whole sections of skin. Perhaps only the function of something internal would tell, if indeed anything in him was still functioning. Upon closer inspection, there are more shards on his coat.

Hancock processes both of these things at damn near the same moment, and the two conflicting impulses that rise within him attack each other like snakes.

He came out here for a fight, and there is an offer of one right in front of him, in the form of some violent thugs that definitely have a few of the answers he’s been looking for. Overtaking them would be easy; he knows these streets too well for them to allow anyone to slip through his fingers. He’s already thinking of how he could run ahead and cut them off, but–

Oh, that fluid is clearly something bad. And those gleaming metal shards… What was hit? Something powered by the fresh blue pool? A weapon? Or….

Leveling his pistol, he takes a few shots, aiming for the legs, but he is not successful in hitting any of the fleeing strangers.

He does not give chase. With a loud, frustrated curse and a thickly, singularly bad feeling in his throat, he takes the option he knows he has to. He hurries over to the dumpster and looks in.

          What he finds inside makes the air turn cold and the world go dark. It is a tangle of long, patched brown coat and limbs, a shirt soaked in that blue fluid. Head twisted back, jaw not set right, grey face half-covered by a familiar hat. A BODY shot three times.  

          NICK VALENTINE. 

          The turncoat. His dear friend.

          Nick is a mess, lying in the garbage where he’s been hurriedly thrown, after an attack that was clearly anything but random. He’s got sickening, all-consuming dark holes in his shirt that soak through the thin material and stick his tie to it. His leg is hanging on the lip of the dumpster, the thing that drew Hancock here in the first place. Victim of an assassination Hancock barely missed.

Swim-in-Pool Supply, Las Vegas, 1995

“Heya, Nickie. Fancy you comin’ in here. Don’t you worry, pally, we ain’t the discriminatory type around here.” Benny had moved into another section of the grandstands and built himself a little palace. He’d done it mostly out of sheer fuckin’ will, but when had he not put everything into lucrative business deals or wild, outlandish plans? It was his M.O., and he was stickin’ to it.

He’d seen Valentine’s Detective Agency, and he’d known that Nick was some kinda private dick (ha). So, havin’ a fella like that in his pocket would be mighty fine.

          Well, well, well! The casino is every bit as extravagant as he would have expected out of Benny Gecko, even grander inside than it looks on the surface. If people in Diamond City thought the Detective Agency’s neon sign was an eyesore, then they never could have been prepared for this. It’s all flashing lights and loud everything, from the décor to the games to the guy running the joint, all putting Valentine’s little heart on the wall to shame. It’s like a piece of New Vegas right here in the Commonwealth, a vast departure from the seedy bars and questionable fighting rings that the local underbelly tends to favour. It’s an almost guaranteed success.

          Nick would be a fool not to come in and check the place out. His ability to do his job well depends on staying informed, and he couldn’t miss an opportunity to make a personal appearance, between making himself known and seizing the chance to see Benny face to face. It’s everything he thought it would be.