The Streets of Boston - Chapter 3: If you want something to be done...

• Posted by Teineeva March 7, 2016 - 2,862 views

  

  November 2, 2287

  I don’t know what happened exactly after I discovered I could’ve left this arse end of hell two centuries ago, I can only remember I collapsed in thought. But the bulletholes in the geiger counter, the missing ammo for my revolver, the broken glass that is strewn throughout the shelter, and the graffiti on the wall seem to suggest something more happened.
  

  I passed my finger over the lyrics for It’s now or never, by Elvis Presley, written in black sludge on the walls of my shelter. Yeah, definitively from the carbonized remains of my little autodafe all those years ago. But why the Elvis lyrics? There were so many more songs I could have picked. Granted this was not the only set of lyrics I had scribbled on the walls. Next to the shelves I kept my books on were both the english and the french lyrics to La Vie en Rose, respectively from Armstrong and Piaf, separated by the word “Why?!”. The wall next to it sported another song from Armstrong; I’ve got the world on a string this time. And there were many more, most of them were less recognizable though. Did I really want to know what had happened?
  

  At least if I was leaving I wouldn’t have to clean up the mess. I should probably focus on getting my stuff together, If I was to be leaving the next day.
  

  One good thing about having a fusion powered wakemaster’s alarm clock was that it would be on time no matter what happened. So at least I wouldn’t be entering the outside world at dusk while thinking I had the whole day to find out what was out there. But of course it’s batteries weren’t compatible with the Holoplayer. Believe me , I tried.
  

  November 3, 2287
  

  I was still a bit drunk on sleep when I stumbled through the shelter this morning; doing my best to avoid the broken glass on the floor. I had gathered all my belongings, at least everything I wanted to take along with me.
  

  First of all, my weapons. It had been a very long time since I had last used them, I thought I had lost the key to their case, but when I got back to my senses yesterday I found the case unlocked and my revolver, missing two bullets in it’s receiver, on the ground near the geiger counter. At least I hadn’t tried to use my submachine gun in here, that could have ended badly.
  

  Next were my suits, or at least the cleanest, less scathed ones I had left. I bundled them all up in a pouch made from the sofa’s covering that I tied together with an old tie. I had also used the sofa’s padding to create an improvised mattress. You never knew when that could come in handy, although it had meant that I had to sleep in the bed in the sleeping area once again. It was strange.
  

  And of course I would never forget my last and most important treasure: my holotapes. I packed them all in a pouch very similar to what I had made for the suits. I should have bought one of those Vault-tec pipboys; at least I would have been able to listen to them.

  Once I gathered everything and attached everything to their right spots on my back and belt, I went to the shelter door and opened it.
  

  I think I’ll never forget the sound that heavy door made as it opened, or the warmth of the morning sun on my face. However, I’m afraid I will never forget that feeling of utter disapôintment I felt as my vision cleared and my eyes got used to the sun light, they had thought they would never see again.
  

  See, my office was still mostly intact, sure it was missing two walls and someone had blown open the safe hidden behind the Napoleon portrait, but my desk and favourite chair were still standing. Hell even the letters of my name, painted on the glass of the door, were still somewhat visible. Even the city hadn’t changed all that much, most building were in an awful state but they had managed to withstand the test of time. Which also meant that it still stood.
  

  Of all the bloody things armageddon could have left standing it had to upset me and choose that disgusting member of a building.
  

  “Why do I always have to do this kind of shit myself?!” I roared at the dreadful sight. “Since when are apocalypses not good enough anymore?!” I laughed. Ah shit, if only I could remember where I had put the launch codes for my nukes. Hell if they were still intact that was, for all I knew one of those idiots working for me thought it would be a good idea to shoot back.
  

  Yeah, this armageddon definitively left a sour taste in my mouth. I wondered what had happened to the rest of the city though. Who knew, perhaps that nice brothel on Scollay square would still be open?
  

  November 5, 2287
  

  I hadn’t deigned leaving my old building yet but that didn’t withhold me from exploring what was left of my old life. Although I’ll have to admit I was rather freaked out by the new inhabitants. Huge crab-things occupied the flooded cellar and I’ll tell you, they were vicious, but my old submachine quickly learned them that not paying your rent for two centuries comes at a price. The bastards did manage to hit me a few times, but with the wine I recovered from their nest and the stimpak I found in an old medkit I was gonna be fine.
  

  Guess what else I found? Yeah, cigars! And a lighter to boot. It appeared to have belonged to James “The shark” Newton, a shrewd swindler like you would never believe. He did have poor taste in cigars but for now his shitty brand would have to do, I thought as I gazed over the city from my old chair.
  

  No signs of my launch codes, the terminal they were kept on got busted, a shame. It was strange to see those empty streets; lively as they had been in the past. There were no more cars cruising up and down the road and the sidewalks were pretty much abandoned too, except for a few of those huge ass crabs.

  Wait, that sparked an idea. I stood up from my chair and crushed the cigar butt in my old ash tray. How I had missed that gesture. And walked down the stairs to Molotov’s old desk. And unsurprisingly, I found a couple of molotovs. Oh I was gonna have fun, I thought with a smirk painted across my face.
  

  And so it happened that I sat there on the edge of my world, lobbing molotovs at the unsuspecting monstrosities that scurried away in confusion, smoking a shitty cigar and drinking a nice glass of wine. I was back in town. And soon Boston would be remembered my name: Simon Lafoy was back in town.