But He Stopped Pt 2

There's Battle Lines Being Drawn

We were sitting around the pit, dinner was the usual mole-rat. I picked at my scant servings. The drifters around me were muttering, casting me sidelong glances like I couldn't tell they were talking about me, about Paul. I scraped my food onto the plate of the kid next to me. Another fresh face, another newcomer needing to be shown the ropes.

Another body to add to Vic's count. I finished cruelly, stalking away from them all.

In the days following Paul's death everything had descended into chaos. Drifters were starting to strike back in subtle ways; breaking windows, stealing from the town, smuggling people out, supporting the Railroads efforts. A few even approached me trying to get my makeshift militia back on track. I was too busy being stoned out of my goddamned mind to care. My life was a series of highs without a low in sight. In less than 4 days I'd undone all the progress I'd made with Paul, our chem station no longer used for profit but for personal reasons. I raked a hand through my filthy, snarled hair and popped a tin of mentats with the other. The high was intense, knocking me off my feet in an alleyway. A half empty bottle of rum nearly toppled over as I fell on my ass. Greedily I grabbed the glass, drinking it dry in one go. As soon as the booze took effect I inhaled a hit of Jet.

Deep and slow in... and ouuuttt.

The high dragged, but in a weird way. The colors all seemed to be blurring, noises were almost melodic instead of harsh. I felt a giggle escape my throat as I grabbed for another inhaler. Psycho was in my hand instead. I injected it without hesitation. Immediately the adrenaline spiked through me, mixed with the slow buzz of Jet. I felt sick. Someone was talking to me, but I couldn't tell who they were. All the distinct lines had begun to merge, shapes weren't what they should have been; blobs and splatters.

Something was pressed into my hand, tilted up into my mouth. I drank greedily, not giving a damn what it was, not able to care. I felt the bottle leave me. I took another hit of Jet in the minutes that passed. Suddenly the world erupted in bright reds and greens and blues and every color in-between imaginable. Bursting, swirling, mixing... into rainbows, into dark greens and browns... Finally black.

~*~*~

"I don't give a rats ass about my wealth," He shouted, his powdered wig falling askew. "This is wrong, it's damned thievery."

"John!" The woman simpered in her fine clothing, billowing skirts devoured her legs. "You can't say such things. What if you were overheard-"

"Balderdash and nonsense." He scorned, his giant red coat clashed with the pastels of his surroundings. "I'll kill every last British bastard if I must to see America a free land."

He was in the forest then, his red coat giving him away. The men in the distance were shouting yelling, chasing him. He looked to his partner and grinned wickedly, raising his musket and shooting one of them.

"Let every man do what is right in his own eyes." He intoned at his fellow criminals look of horror.

The scene shifted to a man standing disheveled in front of an army, his wig was gone, his brown hair streamed sweaty around his face, blood splattered across his coat, blending into his red frock.

"FOR THE PEOPLE, OF THE PEOPLE!"

The screamed back at him, raising their weapons in a victors chorus.

A piece of parchment lay before him on a grand, richly colored desk. With a flourish of a fine feathered pen he signed the page.

'John Hancock'.

"King George will be able to read that!" He chuckled, the room following in amusement as he rose from the grand chair to allow the next man.

~*~*~

I felt sick, the world around me spinning. It was dark, I could barely make out the hint of a room. Glass reflected my image back at me. It was laughable. Down on the floor, a man in his late-twenties reduced to a sniveling, pathetic mess of bones and skin and a road of good intention. With a groan I stood, taking in my surroundings best I could. My eyes were so dry each blink felt like sandpaper ribbing against them. I stumbled to the grim covered window, smearing a finger down and peering out.

The gates were just beyond, the cobblestone streets below. Empty buildings faced the entrance. Drifters, prostitutes, thieves, and murderers all mingled down below. Just people of the Common wealth trying to survive in a world that begged for their demise. But for a minute, I could see it. I could see the people being safe, I could see people flocking to Goodneighbor. I saw the stores, I saw the people, I felt the change. I could make this place something. I could change it. All I had to do was... kill Vic. The idea didn't disturb me. I moved away from the window, running into one of the display cases, still disoriented.

"Ow." I hissed, rubbing my forehead and taking a step back.

My reflection was caught in the glass, mirrored in just such a way that the red frock from my drug-induced vision seemed to be on me. It was an odd moment of duality; looking at myself seeing this possibility. I could feel the fork in the road, the two life-changing decisions I could make. This moment, this second, was a pin point in the road map of my life. I could almost feel the pull of the clothes, feel the power I could draw from them, as I became myself again.

I could do this. I took off my shirt, wrapping it around my hand. I can be the freedom these people need. I have to do this. For Paul. For me. For Magnolia and those ghouls and ...

My fist smashed through the glass. A shard cut through my shirt. The sting made me pull back. I examined the wound, then reached back through and unlocked the case. The smell of must and time was overwhelming. I coughed once, clearing my throat carefully removing the red frock. It was still sturdy, the material thick and strong, better woven than anything we had now. I laid it on the floor reverently before pulling the leather belt through its clasp, setting it down on top of the red frock. My hands tingled as they touched the blue formal jacket. The brass buttons still gleamed, the once white frill trim had turned yellow with time, but was still just as strong as the rest of the get up. Carefully I removed the clothing, pulling the fabric over my drug sensitive skin.

I picked up the leather holster, slinging it over my shoulder. I tightened it to the smallest hole. Still a little too large. The fabric was like cream against my arms and bare chest. It was almost erotic. My nose flared as I picked up the red overcoat, dusting it off gently though the material was sound. I closed my eyes as I slid it on, feeling a new power coming over me; a new assurance that I had never felt before.

I opened my eyes, pulling my arms out in front of me. I looked... commanding. Almost. I readjusted the holster to lay across my hips. It sagged down further than I was comfortable with, but it would have to do for now. My eyes followed the displays to a tricorn hat in an adjacent case conveniently missing a door. Happily I grabbed the item, tossing it on my head with a sense of charisma I had never felt before.

Stepping out into the setting sun I felt reborn. I felt brand new. No longer was I John McDonough, pathetic waste of a man who let things happen to him. I was... I was...

"John Hancock." I grinned, my mouth kicking up at the corner when I noticed everyone staring at me.

And I was going to bring about a revolution.