Now or Never: Elder Maxson x Reader - Part 2

19 - Solider

A/N:  themes of depression and mention of suicidal thoughts in this chapter, as to be expected.

Such a beautiful sunrise doesn't belong amongst the wreckage of the old world. The hues of dusty pink and burnt orange are positively dazzling; it does nothing but highlight the crumbling mess of Scollay Square. But, my, is it beautiful. Hancock stares outward - his chem-dazed eyes tracing the place where old colours end and new begin. He has dragged out one of the old loveseats from his office. Add his used chem canisters to the lack of room, and Uri cannot see a place to stand. Not that it matters. She isn't confident her legs could carry her right now. Below, the last dregs of visiting drifters make their way out the mayor's bar. Blown-out eyes scour for spare mattresses to sleep the morning hours away. Some of them stumble in zagged lines; others jump at every small sound the wasteland makes, from distant gunfire to random coughs.

She doesn't understand how everything keeps moving. How can they carry on when the world has shifted? Just breathing is exerting copious effort on her behalf - so how is that ragged-looking ghoul inhaling jet? How is that guard laughing at whatever joke the other just told? Humour isn't an option anymore. Going on isn't an option anymore. Rather, it doesn't feel like one.

Maybe it's because they don't understand. Most of those Uri has met were born into this mockery of her world. No one else had to wake up two-hundred years later. Sink down from a world of bustling streets and arise to bleak nothingness. Her awakening from cryo sleep is a sick form of rebirth. Nothing like the movies used to be. When they got thrust into uncharted territories, they always came out better people.

Stupid fucking old world optimism. Uri is too tired to feel rage, but she tosses an empty jet inhaler off the balcony for good measure. Hancock watches it fall, but says nothing. There's a moment of shuffling, and then he's pushing a bottle of Gwinnett Stout into her hand. It tastes like piss, but she gulps it all the same. It does nothing to rid her of the gruelling bitterness, but it clouds her mind enough to dampen her mood. It's what she needs.

So, the fucking old-world hero arose with a mission. She hadn't really considered failure. Failure wasn't a notion 2077 was familiar with, so it shouldn't come as any surprise. For a pessimist, she was awfully hopeful that she'd save the day... God, who did she think she was? When has she ever got anything right? She can't even pick people right. Everyone has gone and died on her, and the one fucker who didn't is a goddamn psychopath. A sob lodges its way in her throat as her breathing hastens. Those eyes, so like Nora's. She was such a good person. Fuck everyone who told her otherwise. Nuclear war was inevitable. Uri could hardly blame her for going into defence. Much more money in it than backing up cheated soldiers.

And Nate. The typical all-American, with his butter-wouldn't-melt smile and eyes sweet as apple pie. He was so dedicated to his country - completely devoted to the US cause, despite its flaws. That faded after Anchorage. He never really told her what he saw, but he came back a changed man. Terrified for his family; for his country's future. He was due to speak the day the bombs dropped. The decorated veteran arguing that the war needed to end... All Shaun got from his father was his face. Goddamn apathetic warmonger that he grew up to be.

But she cannot feel resentment. Not really. Instead, guilt bubbles like battery acid in her chest. It's her fault this happened. If only she had got there sooner, or if she hadn't gone in the damn vault in the first place... She could've died with her uncle. Not had to worry about any of this. If she had, this god awful self-hatred wouldn't be eating her alive.

"Doin' some real hard thinking there, Sister." Hancock tries to pass off the comment as lazy, but Uri can detect the worry in the pinch where his eyebrows once were. She just shrugs, then plucks the cigarette from his fingers. It tastes old and bitter, but the smoke feels like sandpaper on a rough wood edge as it smoothes down the ache in her throat. Forces her to cough the sobs away.