#americaredefined

This was one of those nights where sleep wasn’t coming easy.

[ cont from here ]

Wesley doesn’t think very much of the Enclave. It’s disappointing more than anything. Out in Springvale armed with a baseball bat and BB Gun, he’d see Eye-Bots and apart from attempting to make friends with a few, felt rather glad to have them around. Floating around, old tapes of the America Dream and ancient band music that actually gave Wesley hope that there was a better future out here.

He really like Eden, growing up with his dog Honey in Kentucky just like Abe Lincoln had. Wesley should’ve known. It didn’t occur to him that the recording on a loop were anything strange. It didn’t occur to him that Eden’s “secret bunker” was anything to scratch his head about. Wes had grown up in a Vault. But you couldn’t govern a damn country hidden away, could you? He should have known better.

He had already made one enormous mistake he would never be able to make up for. He couldn’t condemn thousands of people to die again. Once Wes realized that by “mutants” Eden meant anyone born in the Wasteland since the bombs fell... his mind was made up. The FEV and Eden’s plan would have killed all of them. Eden had to go.

He didn’t expect the Enclave to still be after him after killing his father, after the Purity Project had been complete, even if not to the “presidential” expectations. But here they were. And Wesley was making small talk with an Enclave solider, or whatever he was, teasing him even. And he was still breathing. That was a bit of a shocker.

“Same. Actually. Hey, look what we have in common. Okay, what’s the better comic: Grognak the Barbarian or Captain Cosmos?”

Little yellow flowers are in bloom, and Six loves the pop of color that breaks up the rusty colors of the Mojave. She’s thankful for the company that isn’t just her humming to herself as she harvests the parts of the plants that serve medicinal purposes. If she were alone out here, really alone out here, then instead of singing she’d probably be screaming.

There’s something else that isn’t Nathan or her out here. She can’t see it but she knows. She’s good about breathing, about convincing herself it’s a snake in the brush or a bird overhead, but the sky is too clear and there isn’t a snake. Six spins around quick from one bush to another like she’ll catch whatever is behind her. She never does. 

Her voice plays casual, light and breezy as she busies herself with the work.She doesn’t want to address her discomfort any more than she has to.

@america-redefined​ liked for a lyric starter !!

            dreams -- fleetwood mac

💗 Has my muse ever been in love?

Not truly. Lucy has had the occasional puppy crush throughout her years, but she’s spent so much time either alone or alone with her dad that she hasn’t had the opportunity to forge very close relationships with people, let alone romantic ones.

💑 What are my muse’s requirements for a potential partner?

She doesn’t exactly have a concrete list that she keeps in mind, but among the most important things she wants from a partner is understanding. She spends so much of her life not being understood because of her disability--she needs someone who understands her, not just by having the ability to sign, but by truly getting to know her. By getting around the barriers that keep her from being totally understood by someone.

They were crammed into a tiny cave like sardines in a can while the sandstorm screamed and shrieked outside. Lucy had strategically placed brush over the mouth of the cave to keep out most of the sand, but it still hissed through the gaps and scattered across the floor, and it didn’t block out the fuck-awful noise. Her face was glum, shoulders slumped as she wrote out a message. Turned it around so her “companion” could take a look.

poetry starters (accepting; no need to reply if you don’t want to!)

It was quiet now. Terror was empty, emptier. Later, it would be different; when the sun was gone and Ainsworth was in his chair half-awake and addled, he would hear the muffled clopping of footsteps again. The laughter. Their clanking cups and sloshing rum. A man would shout that the food’s gone bad, the ship buzzing, and another would hit the wrong note on his fiddle, high and tinny. In ten minutes, Captain Corrigan would yell for next watch. 

Lanterns swinging, planks groaning, the slow realization.

Ainsworth stilled. Someone used to sleep in the hammock here, but he could not remember.

”I do not… think it mattered. Mister Lone.” The words came out slow. They dragged over the floor, lingering, and died there. “But I am– happy to have come. There is much here, and to see this world with eyes as a child’s, in all of its beauty–“ He stopped, slow and careful. "Had I only one wish…”