Homunculize: Smitty Pt. 1

• Posted by ProbsCoolerThanYou April 12, 2016 - 1,164 views

  

  The ghoul sat in his favorite chair, contemplating whether or not he would do it. He wasn’t sure if he was ready, but there seemed to be nothing to lose--he would gain an immense sort of power, and all he had to do was listen to the ghoul beside him. Glancing over at Kent, he quietly chuckled about the series of events that had led him to the chair he sat in. Fortuitous, one might describe it as.  

   

  Life was as normal as normal could get. Grass was green, sprinklers would echo out their quenching warble every afternoon, and picket fences remained white. Under all this was a grim existence, though, for the only child whose home was 114 Cedar Park Lane. Mr. Smitty, the boy’s father, was the type of Christian that inspired animosity towards their religion--overly zealous, and overly-fond of a good beating. However, the man was too much the weakling to actually hit his son, so the “beatings” instead took the form of intense sessions of verbal abuse, slander and hatred spewed so vehemently at his son that they boy began to think of himself as only that--a vessel for his father’s frustrations.

  His father was a salesman of some sort, and his mother the neighborhood adulteress, when she didn’t garden the little roses that grew beautifully in their front yard. Because of their occupations, the boy was often alone in his little home. The TV was only for the kid’s parents, as was the pantry. However, there was one source of entertainment to fill his lonely hours. When both his parents had left the door (his mother always exited a half hour after her husband), he would go to the marble bar counter of the kitchen. Reaching up on the old, recycled stools, he would switch the knob on their dinky radio, and it would splutter to life. After some adjustment, the flickers and scratches would turn to a smooth emission of sound, and the adventures of the Silver Shroud would come to life. There was something romantic about such heroics, the boy thought, and he would’ve run away at the faintest promise of power like that. He admired the Shroud’s smooth speech, sure, but mostly he loved the idea of the Shroud’s signature silver submachine gun. He could imagine the gun’s gleam as it gave out its righteous retribution to recalcitrant runaways. Oh to have that gun!

  So the boy was alone as always, around midday, when the bombs fell. He was sitting on his stool, as always, when the sirens began. He could hear the thumping of Vertibird blades in the sky already, and the panic in the streets. People ran to their bubble cars and vans, the whole time assailed by the loudspeaker instructions of the military.

  “If you have a cellar or basement, please go there immediately. You will be safe from the initial blast,” said the monotone voice from the sky. The boy, who had turned down the radio, took the voice’s heed, and sprinted out the door, and behind his house.

  The cellar door was there, and though the boy remembered his father’s words (“Never go in that cellar out back, boy!” he would say), surely the voice of God held more authority. So, using all his little strength, he flipped open the black metal hatch, and descended into his impromptu bunker.

  When he had gotten down the stairwell, he discovered that he had been more prepared than he thought, without even knowing it. Perhaps he also discovered why, despite his father’s well-paying job, they were always short on money.

  Below their house was a shelter, and it was fully stocked. Closing the door behind him, the whole time afraid for his life, he looked upon shelves of water and food, first aid equipment and, even, a pistol. His father had done more for him than the boy had thought. Something seemed off about the whole thing--the sirens and voices above had stopped, and everything was a chilling kind of quiet. Tired, the boy went to sleep, unaware of the malaise that had taken over his body.

  ***

  The boy awoke in the same place he had dropped. Rising from the inflatable mattress, he looked at a shelter in stasis--nothing had changed. The shelves were all neatly aligned on the metal walls, and the blue water barrels still side by side. He didn’t know how long he had been asleep, but something seemed off, and the malaise continued. His stomach churned, and so he looked down instinctively. When he looked at his stomach though, he didn’t need to lift up his collared shirt. Several rips through it exposed strange skin--it looked rotted, dried, almost flaky. The boy was confused, but thought himself dreaming, maybe, and so paid it no mind. The strangest thing was the sheen that his skin took. At first appearing orangish, it soon took on a silver tone, bright and shining.

  The Smitty kid (who was no longer quite a pre-teen) had been in the cellar too long, he thought, so he reached for the hatch. Opening it, he emerged into the wasteland, utterly surprised at what the world had become. Wind whistled through the dead trees, their branches crackling after decades of wear. The ground he stepped on was hard and cracked too, and the broken dirt beneath him had caked into rock.

  His house wasn’t completely destroyed, but the aftermath of the nearby blast had wrecked it. Large holes pierced the roof, and the windows had been broken years ago. Looking at its state, he had no desire to re-enter it, and so avoided it. He instead took to the road, and made his way towards the city...after all, there always was something magical about the city after dark.

   

  The new world was still dead, and so Smitty was largely alone. No mutant creatures roamed the wasted city streets, and many ghouls had yet to emerge from whatever dark places they had attempted to hide. The man was alone, and he wandered for years, barely surviving off of whatever food he could find. Despite its irradiated state, he still found comfort in the occasional box of scavenged Sugar Bombs.

  This period of wandering was ended with the ghoul’s discovery of Diamond City. Barely big enough to be considered a city then, it was slowly growing in power. People flocked to the protective walls of the Jewel. Shops rose up and scrap was in high demand, so the ghoul scavenged, delving into buildings that no other man would touch, for fear of radiation or the dangerous beasts inside. The ghoul had no such fear though, especially of the former. He made quite the living selling the trinkets he found. He was accepted there, and appreciated for the niche he filled. All this ended in 2282.

  Mayor McDonough was a terrible man, was the consensus that was reached. He had, in a speech to the masses, condemned the “heathens” of the city. He had called them a variety of names, each as terrible as the one before:

  “People of our great Jewel!” he spoke to the crowd, “We are unified, are we not?” A general aye! followed. “But there is a terror in our midst. Our great citizens, our farmers and merchants, our great guards, all work to better our lives! But a monstrous group is within us too!” he exclaimed, “They are amongst us even now! They are your neighbors, your friends, even. Each one is a relic of an era gone, of the terrible existence that faced our ancestors. Do you want that life for your sons, your daughters?” he inquired rhetorically. A general no! from all those non-ghoul citizens followed, “Then here’s what I say! Kick ‘em out! Send them away!” A large aye! followed again, and it was set. The ghouls walked out, some by their own power, and others dragged kicking and screaming.

  ***

  So the ghoul sat in his chair, in a backroom of Goodneighbor. Connelly sat across from him, dimly illuminated by the recently rekindled fire.

  “What would the Shroud do, do you think, if he had a clone of himself made? And it was evil and such?” Kent inquired. The two often had conversations such as those--they shared a passion for the pre-war potentate of radio.

  “Well I think it’s obvious,” the ghoul replied, “He’d shoot the shit out of whatever that thing was. You mean like a synth, right? Well, yeah, I think he’d make the poor robot look like a block of cheese.”

  “You don’t think he could, ah, turn him, or somethin’?” Connelly was always the optimist of the two, “I think Shroud could smooth-talk him, if truth be told. You know, with that alliteration and stuff.”

  “But who needs smooth-talkin’ when you’ve got the Silver Submachine gun. The way that baby purrs is sweeter than any of that nonsense.”

  Smitty stopped for a moment--it was Kent’s turn to speak, after all, but then decided to pipe up again, “You know what we need?” he asked.

  “Hmm?” Kent replied, turning back from the fire he had been staring at.

  “Our own Shroud. Think about it, Kent. This world is different from the one we lived in before. You think the guard at Diamond City are enough to keep the world safe? I say otherwise.”

  “I don’t know about that one, Smitty. Seems a tad over-dangerous and all. Besides, we’ve got our own guards. You’ve seen ‘em walkin around with their Tommys.”

  “But they’re not heroes, ya numbskull. We need a hero! A man who can strike fear into the hearts of raiders and such.”

  Kent had no reply, and turned back to the fire, its flames slowly dying. Shadows flapped over his rotted face, and he pulled his hat lower on his head.

  “Say, Kent,” Smitty blurted again, “didn’t you mention something about the Shroud nearby?” the ghoul was baiting him--Smitty already knew the answer. When no reply came, Smitty began again, “I coulda sworn you said something or other about the Shroud’s actual suit nearby. Wouldn’t that be something?”

  No reply again, and so Smitty said, “Well wasn’t there something else? I could’ve sworn you mentioned how his actual gun was there too. Down at the Comics Shop?”

  “It’s a goddamn replica, Smitty,” Kent finally retorted, “The only thing it fires is studio magic.”

  “You know full-well that its a real Tommy. Just been disabled, or something,” the ghoul fired back, “I could give that shit to K-L-E-O and she’d have it ready within the hour.”

  “Well damnit, Smitty, you know I can’t stop you,” Connelly said, exasperated, “Go on down to the comics place and pick it up. I’ll turn the radio on so you can get into character.”

  The first ghoul nodded, hiding his anger behind his expressionless green face. He left the backroom, and then the building.

   

  The comics shop wasn’t far from Goodneighbor, maybe a mile walk, and the ghoul was fit enough to jog the whole way. Things were quiet in the streets, the only sound the patter of his shoes upon the damp streets--it had rained only a few hours before.

  Droplets of water still glided off the slick striped awning. The faded letters spelled

  H BRIS COM CS, and the ghoul opened the door quietly. Unsure of what threats may have lain in wait, he pulled from its holster his 9mm, and held it in his left hand. His right gripped the cool brass doorknob tightly, and, had he a smoothskin’s palms, the abrasive rust that surrounded it would have scraped them.

  The inside of the building was the same way most of them were...a complete wreck. What he guessed had been comic shelves lay broken, mangled, or overturned. The remnants of the comics themselves had been strewn about the store. The strangest thing was that Smitty wasn’t sure exactly what could have done it.

  The ghoul made his way around the perimeter of the first floor, stepping carefully over shelves and other debris. He checked the cash register, but it was empty, not that cash would’ve done him any good then. After making his clean sweep of the single room, he relaxed--nothing was there. The ghoul looked around at some of the comics that lay on the floor, but found none that interested him, so he continued on.

  The stairwell let out a hideous moan as Smitty ascended it. The walls, decorated with ruined posters of the various comics the store sold, were peeling off, almost coming at the ghoul. He opened the door to the second floor, and laid his eyes on the subject of his search--the Shroud’s shroud, his silver coat and hat. Beside it lay the submachine gun. He paid no attention to the creaking upstairs, though, and only focused on the costume ahead of him. He stepped over the runway rope that blocked his way, he held his arms out like a baby for a toy.

  Finally noticing the creaking upstairs, he paid it no mind--the stairwell to the third floor was blocked. He caressed the suit, its sheen like a drug to the ghoul’s mind. Finally, he could become what he had always wanted.

  That is, if the creaking above him hadn’t continued. It was impossible to ignore by then, loud and almost violent in nature. The studio room didn’t have a real ceiling--it didn’t need one--so the floorboards of the attic above were visibly bending under the pressure of whatever was up there. Smitty watched dust fall from the old wood, but that’s not all that would fall. The boards cracked, and four ferals fell from the floor above.