Chapter Text
2278
For those living in a Yao Guai den, the Commonwealth Shakespeare Company are returning to Diamond City for one week only. After the disappearance of notable members, they have reconvened to bring us Hamlet, spearheaded by one Rex Goodman. Isn’t that amazing, Road?
Indeed it is, Miles. Wait, that’s the one with the skull, right?
… Yes, Road. It’s the one with the skull.
That is amazing.
Hah. You’re telling me. Now, folks, to celebrate, we’re giving away two front row tickets to their opening show. All you gotta do is come on air and give your best version of Hamlet’s famous soliloquy.
Is it BYO skull, Miles?
It sure is! This is Miles and Long Road of Diamond City Radio. And Maybe, just Maybe, you’ll sit and sigh, wishing that you too had tried your hand at getting these tickets.
The soft twang of guitar strings faded in, shortly followed by the croon of the Ink Spots. John lay on the couch in his living room, contemplating his Jet inhaler and bobbing his head to the slow tune. The edges of his vision blurred, the monotony of the space he occupied now dazzling under the chem’s influence. Paintings appeared lively, their oily colours saturated; the overhead bulb sparkled and flared. Even the walls, a lacklustre patchwork of browns and metals, glittered vibrantly. His skin prickled against the gentle itching of red couch fibres under every slow and wispy movement he made. Eyelids heavy, he allowed his mind to blank, enjoying the effects of the acrid aerosol in his hands, the slow tick of time, and the pleasant melody of Maybe.
A clicking of the door lock cut through the tune and John’s eyes snapped open. He scrambled, rolling over to hide the chem in his pocket while the world swayed and tilted. As the door opened, firm footsteps following, John rolled further, craning his neck to see beyond the arm of the couch.
Guy closed the door behind him, brows furrowing in borderline disapproval as he looked around the living area. “Turn that down would you?”
Of all the people to kill his high. John scoffed, propping himself up by his elbows. Just beyond his brother’s shoulder, a painting of a lighthouse hung from the wall. He fixed his gaze on it to steady his vision, the gull contained within appearing as if it would burst forth from the image. The painting’s placement was too convenient, allowing John to appear as if he were in fact looking at his brother. “Don’t tell me what to do; you don’t even live here anymore.” He spoke with intent, concentrating on every sound and each tongue flick in an effort to avoid the Jet slur.
Guy strode across the room, casting a side eye over John as he approached the radio. Miles’ jovial voice streamed through, Road laughing along; and that was the last time I tried raw mirelurk omelette… “What happened to your face?” Guy queried, a touch of suspicion in his voice as he turned down the volume. “Ma said you were in a fight.”
John unconsciously raised his fingertips to his lip. The sutures had been removed a few days prior, and the bruising was now reduced to mottled brown and green. “Some caravaner at the Dugout thought I was someone else.” He shrugged, lips turning downwards as if defeated and upset by the incident. Their parents had eaten up the story like a snack cake; it was no secret many of the caravan workers liked to let loose after hours. Drunken fights and rabblerousing at the Dugout were not unheard of. “’Sup anyway?”
Guy lifted his double-breasted jacket, reaching for the inner pocket to reveal a handful of pamphlets and folded papers. John immediately recognised them as electoral leaflets. Mayor Roberts had three candidates to contend with in the upcoming election, none of which had anything more to offer than cookie-cutter promises of prosperity and the occasional anti-nonhuman filler. “Ma wanted some info on candidates. Not sure why, she’s only going to vote for Roberts anyway. Is she here?” He tapped the papers against his palm, small eyes setting on John.
John shook his head, deciding it was time to sit up lest he attract additional unwanted questioning. “Out,” he replied curtly, shifting his weight and sliding his legs from the couch. His vision tilted again, the living room a brief and vibrant blur.
“Right, well, these are for her when she gets back.” Guy dropped the brochures onto the coffee table. They fanned out slowly, black inks warping over shimmering cream paper. “You don’t look so good, John. I’m not just talking about your face either.”
John could feel his brother watching him, but he kept his focus on the papers. “I’m fine,” he replied flippantly. “You just woke me from a nap.” Knowing how to best divert the conversation, he slid a leaflet in closer. “Speaking of ugly mugs,” John began, holding up a page with A vote for Cole is a vote for Confidence! sprawled across it in bold serif lettering. A balding man in round spectacles smiled back from the paper in black and white. “When do we get to see you on one of these?”
Guy began rebuttoning his coat, still studying him closely. “Roberts is going to win, as he always does. Do you know why?”
“Because he doesn’t look like this guy?” John fluttered Cole’s brochure in the air, relieved that the diversion worked. Times like these, Guy’s self-absorbance paid off. He flicked it back onto the table and sank back into the couch, spreading his arms out along the back and resting his ankle over his knee.
“Roberts is familiar. The economy is stable. Trade negotiations with Quincy are en route.” Guy sniggered at his own pun, his entire body quivering. John humoured his brother with a light snort, trying hard not to roll his eyes. “And until his term limit is up, the people are going to stick with what they know. They like that kind of security.”
John raised his brows, sceptical of his motives. “What? You gonna wait for the city to destabilise or something?” he asked with a light flick of the wrist.
“My time will come, John,” Guy affirmed, ignoring the comment and smoothing down his jacket. Then he paused, eyes still boring into John. “You really don’t look well. You’re slurring.”
Guy’s words made John’s spine run cold. The light danced over the smooth buttons of his brother’s patched tan suit. The material itself almost glowed, and every grey streak in his hair shone sharply in the diffuse light. Guy’s beady eyes were the only things that didn’t shine in saturated brilliance; they remained small and dark, recessed into his face. John’s gut knotted. “I just told you, I’m fine.”
“No. You’re not.” Guy crossed the small space to stand before John, grabbing him by the jaw and tilting his head upwards to examine him suspiciously. “What are you on?”
John slapped his hands away, scrabbling to the other corner of the couch in a bid for space. “What the fuck, man? Don’t touch me.”
“Spill it, John. Your eyes are bloodshot, but you don’t smell like booze. Are you high?”
“I told you. I just woke up. I don’t remember you ever looking like Sleeping Beauty when you get up.” Recalling his run-in with Valentine, John tried to keep his cool, but a lump had already formed in his throat and he could feel his words stammering. He was not going to mention the synth’s tip-off; no point dragging an innocent bystander into it.
“Your friend died because of chems,” Guy reminded him bitterly.
“Whoa.” John’s heart sputtered and he rose from the couch to better face his brother. The world was still a blur of sparkling lights and vivid colours, but the boil of anger in his gut was enough to focus him. He knew the comment was made to hurt. This was a new low, even for Guy. “Don’t you fucking talk about him again.”
Guy scanned him up and down, lips tight and brows lightly furrowed. It was clear he’d made up his mind. “I knew I’d catch you in the act one day. What is it, John? Jet? Med-X?” He made a grab for his arms, intent on finding track marks.
John pushed Guy away. “Fuck off. You the fun police now?”
“You better keep your filthy habit quiet.” Guy moved in closer, jabbing him in the shoulder with a pudgy finger, eyes flashing. “I will not have you soil my reputation.” He paused, continuing to eye John with a hostile expression. “Nor will I have my brother live a life of degeneracy.”
The words hit hard, and John recalled the conversation with Anthony. The anger subsided, giving way to a strange sense of calm. He narrowed his eyes, leaning in closer and smirking right into his brother’s face. “Why? Afraid of what your friends will think? Oh that’s right.” He relaxed back. “You got no friends.”
“You disappoint me.” Guy leaned back in, sniffing John loudly. “Clean up before ma sees you… unless you want to disappoint her too.” He backed out of the small space between the coffee table and the couch and strode towards the door.
“Hey, Guy?” John asked, turning around and crossing his arms smugly. “You know the best bit?”
“What?” Guy snapped, eyes reduced to fuzzy narrow slits. His hand rest upon the doorhandle, ready to leave.
“Unless you want to go around boasting about your little brother’s interests, there ain’t nothing you can do.”
Guy stared him down for an elongated moment and left without a word, slamming the door behind him. John felt his heart sink in relief, the lump in his throat dissolving. At most, Guy would tell their parents. What else could he do without risking his beloved reputation? Still, the ugly head of guilt began peering through the cracks in John’s gut. He’d finally found a niche. It might not have been the most acceptable, but it was his, and he wasn’t harming anybody. Nor was not looking to disappoint. He dropped back into the couch, fishing for the Jet in his pocket.
-
Diamond City was closing up for the night, the markets floodlit by Power Noodles. The air was cold and damp, light rain sprinkling from the sky, droplets flashing like diamonds under the lighting. John pulled down the roller shutter to the shopfront, the mechanism jamming at the half-way point. A regular occurrence, he jiggled it until the ratchet freed and pulled it the rest of the way. Happy with the lock, he headed inside where he was greeted by his parents at the dining table. The smell of hot dinner filled the room. Gamey, probably radstag. He noticed the table was empty, bar the cracked vase in the centre.
“You want me to set the table?” he called, taking a Nuka Cola from the counter.
“Sit down, John,” his father asked, voice solemn.
John cracked open the bottle, pocketing the cap and looking at his parents in confusion. Martha’s eyes were low as she fiddled with a dishcloth. “Sure…” he said, hesitantly taking a seat. Suddenly he didn’t feel so thirsty and he set the cola down without taking a drink.
“We found these under your mattress.” Pat produced an empty Mentats tin and a Jet inhaler from his pocket, placing them on the table.
Guy, he thought bitterly. His palms went tacky and he felt like a cornered doe. “You’re going through my things now…?”
“Your brother…” his mother started before pausing, trying to find her words. She barely looked at him. “We know you boys don’t always get along. We had to make sure.”
“Do you care to explain?” his father pressed, tone incensed.
John hesitated. There was no point in trying to deny the chems. His parents would never buy a story that Guy planted them; he was the proverbial golden child after all. The best he could do was keep calm and hope his father would contain his anger. He glanced at his mother; her face was expressionless, like she had forced her mind elsewhere to avoid facing reality. “So I tried a few things,” he said, holding a shrug. “There’s not much to do in Diamond City.”
“Is this what you do when you disappear?” His mother finally looked at him. The disappointment behind her eyes cut his abdomen open, leaving his insides to spill outwards. He’d never seen her so let down before.
“What? No,” John replied, disheartened. “No, ma… that’s because I’m kinda seeing someone.” While he would admit that much, there was no way he would confess to running off to Goodneighbor. Such an admission would only serve to upset his parents further.
His mother opened and closed her mouth, while his father kept stern eyes upon him. She must have been wondering why he’d never mentioned a relationship. Why he’d never brought someone home to meet them. John briefly wondered if he’d dug himself in deeper. “Are they… encouraging this?” she asked hesitantly.
John rubbed his palms together, they were hot and sticky. He chose his words carefully. “Look, it’s not really a big deal. I’m careful. I don’t use often.”
Patrick slammed his hand down with a thud that made the items rattle and John and Martha both jump in their seats. “It is a big deal, John. Do you have any idea what could happen to you? And what about your brother? You know what Diamond City is like.”
John’s mouth fell agape at the mention of Guy. The void in his gut was filled with boiling water. “Hang on…” he fumbled for his words. “Guy? You’re worried about Guy?!”
Martha reached out and took his hand. “John, honey…”
His father interjected, face reddening. “What a stupid thing to say. Of course we’re concerned about you, but you also need to understand that your actions affect others.”
“What if you overdose? Or… something happens to you?” his mother said, squeezing his hand.
He knew she was referring to Liam. It was a freak accident. It could have happened to anyone, high or not. Annoyed, he pulled his hand away and focussed his attention on his father. “I’m an adult. I can make my own decisions.”
“Adult or not, so long as you’re under this roof you live by our rules,” Pat said firmly. “There will be no more of… this if you wish to remain.” He motioned to the inhaler and the tin with disgust. “Now unless you wish to share anything else, I want you to eat and go to bed.”
-
Solomon peered out of his door with bloodshot eyes. His face lit up on recognising John and he was quick to usher him in. “Join the party!” he slurred, wrapping his arm around John’s shoulder.
A small group of people lay throughout, spread amongst the couch, the cushions, the floor. Drug paraphernalia and cartons of Sugar Bombs decorated the spaces in between. The muffled sound of sex intermingled with the streaming of Butcher Pete, and John felt immediately at home. Frustrated by the evening’s confrontation, he’d waited for his parents to turn in for the night before scrounging together his caps and slipping out. While he’d considered paying his brother a visit, doing so would merely exasperate the tension. What would John say anyway? Lying in bed, he’d already played the conversation out in his mind. It’s for your own good, little brother, Guy would say to keep the weight on John. Besides, confronting him would only prove he was upset. John would not give him that satisfaction. But he could find his own.
Turning to Solomon with a gratified smile, John asked, “You got anything strong?”
Solomon let go of him and scratched at his chin in thought. The dealer hadn’t shaved in some time and a coarse blonde beard was gradually overcoming his jawline. “Like… Buffout strong? Or I got some Psycho in the back… just don’t let the guards see you strung out on that. You gotta be specific man…”
“I’m looking for an escape.”
It was as if a lightbulb had clicked on inside Solomon. His eyes lit up and he tapped his nose in understanding. “I got a prescription… if you got the caps.”
With a nod, John fished the fat pouch of caps from his pocket. Solomon opened it and studied its contents carefully, estimating the number within. Apparently satisfied, he tugged the drawstrings closed. “It’s worth a lot more than this man, but I’m feeling, like… generous tonight.” He waved his hand outwards to the living room. “Sit! Make yourself at home. I think there’s some samples left,” he said as he began to wander away, body swaying lightly.
Following Solomon’s invitation, John made himself comfortable on a series of free cushions by the wall. A woman lay beside him, snoring softly, arms decorated in bruises and angry red lesions. He looked away; he’d seen worse addicts in Goodneighbor. At least she had a safe roof over head, even just for the night. Settling back, he took in the atmosphere. A musty smell of people, dried spirits, and cigarettes lingered in the air. The people having sex reached their climax – they were out of sight, perhaps in the other room, but certainly not out of earshot. This was a side of Diamond City he had never seen before, for the first time he felt like he had a place within the Green Jewel. He fumbled for cigarettes; nicotine would take the edge off.
It wasn’t long before Solomon returned, offering John a double-barrelled syringe encased in tarnished metal. Luminous fluid swirled within the barrels; one side golden yellow, the other a bright tangerine. “If this ain’t the escape you’re looking for, then my name ain’t Solomon.”
John turned the chem around in his hands, the metal and glass cool in his palms. Daddy-O. He remembered Anthony talking about hearing colours. Rare, and contraband in Diamond City, but supposedly one hell of a trip. “Thanks, man.” He smiled and snuffed out the cigarette in a nearby ashtray.
“Enjoy it in good health, but like, remember: none of it is real.” Solomon gave a mock salute before wandering away to leave John to his devices.
Without further thought of what he was about to put into his body, John tugged off his belt and looped it around his arm, holding the trailing end between his teeth. Butterflies swirled in his stomach in nervous anticipation, and he took a moment to focus on a crack in the floor as he cleared his mind. No point going in with a chest full of baggage and a head full of whirling thoughts. John aimed for a faded Med-X pinprick, and with a prickle from the hypodermic, blood swirled through into both barrels. Releasing the tourniquet and depressing the plunger, his circulation ran cold. The edges of his vision blurred as shades of lurid vermilion gradually disappeared into his vein.
Euphoria gradually warmed in John’s core and he began to drift apart; it felt as though the flesh was slowly straying from his bones. He scanned for the needle cap but the Daddy-O was already holding him by the elbows, leading him out of his body and through the fabric of reality. He hadn’t realised how fast the trip would come on. Better to relax and go with it than to fight it. A sharp buzzing started deep in his ears, creeping throughout him like the roots of a tree. Every cell vibrated to a tune written solely for him while the walls – now iridescent – began pulsing and undulating. Flesh continued drifting away, leaving him weightless. Breathless. The room breathed for him, walls gradually moving in and out like bellows.
Time slowed to a trickle, and the mosaic of wood, steel and the sky-blue draping on the walls began warping and blending into vortices. New colours formed from within their eyes and arms, each more brilliant than the last, bleeding out into the atmosphere like milk in water. John’s body continued to be lovingly torn apart from the outside in, his core burning like the sun. The buzzing morphed into an ethereal sing-song that beckoned his soul. Like a tumbleweed, his mind rolled through infinite space, a surreal universe of phosphorescent fractals and glittering spots of light. At last he came to a stop at the feet of an entity. She was formless yet radiant, burning white-hot, the occasional tendril unfurling to greet him with a shower of stardust the colour of Med-X. John stared upon her in awe, feeling the prickling heat of energy and tasting her alien song. He lingered for eternity, nestled in her sanctum as the pieces of his body remained on Solomon’s cushions.