#2200 words for a haircut and an updated eyeglasses prescription. i really do be like that

[purkinje-effect]

The Anatomy of Melancholy, 52

Table of Contents. Second Instar, Chapter 19. Go to previous. Go to next. Deenwood’s mirrors are just broken enough. TWs: discussion of chemical artillery, hair clippers, some manner of identity politic maneuver.

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“Now then,” Angel remarked as ‘Choly stepped out of the enlisted barracks’ baths. “We can all collectively agree to be civil, can’t we?”

“I don’t think either you nor I can be civil, all things considered,” ‘Choly quipped as he hopped up on the Handy’s foot pegs for a ride across the compound grounds, already dreading what could come next. “Today, I’m in uniform and ready to get tasks taken care of. We’ll be agreeable. Sticks can be civil.”

A Gutsy rushed up to give directions.

“Not entirely correct, to consider Sticks a civilian, Captain Carey. Come with me. The General is in Wing IV of the R&D.”

Sticks noticed both the army green robot’s verbiage and the chemist’s flinch as to where they headed next, and he straightened to stuff his hands in his khaki pockets to pretend he hadn’t noticed anything at all.

The Gutsy, G-5, led them to the smallest but most fortified of the three standing warehouse-like buildings on the property. In previous visits this week, Deenwood’s robotics had escorted ‘Choly here to Olivia’s office, but today, he was taken past encrypted pneumatic doors to the high-security laboratory floor. It was the most minor of consolation to ‘Choly, that this was not the floor where he and his colleagues had developed the Psycho which they perfected through exacting trial and error--but it was, instead, an area which required even higher clearance, and none of the equipment here was familiar.

Under the mixture of fluorescent and incandescent lighting, ‘Choly nearly didn’t recognize the back of Olivia’s head at the terminal where she sat, already hard at work supervising the computer-assisted manufacturing process. She heard the doors open and shut, and footsteps and flames approach, but she didn’t look up, only waving a hand at the Gutsy to dismiss it.

“Thank you, Green Five.”

“At your beck, Madam General.”

“I’m sorry to say you’re ahead of me. The synthesis process is still yet incomplete. When I said to give me a day, I meant twenty-four hours or so.” After a moment poring over figures, she saved the programming variables and spun about face on the swivel stool to clap her hands with a firm smile for her company. “Still, though, we can discuss the game plan while we wait.”

“A hundred units of X-Cell-Root,” ‘Choly parroted dully, dismounting Angel to look around. “This is the wing where they created X-Cell, isn’t it.”

“There were thirteen wings during your last tenure on base, for ten branches of research. Most of them are no longer in use. Right now, you’re currently standing in the only known laboratory on the Eastern Coast with both the precursor and formula for Day Tripper.”

“I’m sure you spend a lot of time in this room, then,” the chemist remarked a little too sharply.

Sticks snorted with a dumb smile, and shook his head at him.

“I’m sure I do.” A strange knowing glint filled her dark eyes. “The raw materials I needed for one of the shells we’re to use against the Rust Devils are stored, and best processed, here.”

“I’m going to pretend you’re pulling at least a few punches,” Sticks quipped, no longer of any humor. “Mixed artillery, I’m guessing?”

“Artillery? What are you--” ‘Choly shut up abruptly, recalling how she’d mentioned the day before that MKExcell had begun as a Chem Corps study, only to shift to a Pharm Corps study. “You’re planning on using the Day Tripper ‘Root’ on the Devils.”

“Quick on the draw.” Olivia grinned, appreciating the fact ‘Choly could keep up. “You’ve got it backwards, though. Klutz was engineered from Day Tripper. We researched both X-Cell’s pharmaceutical refinement as well as its weaponization, remember. Once under the influence of the gas grenade, the affected party is far more readily plied. Provided key frequencies, someone affected by Klutz also exhibits a tendency to spontaneously disrobe. Klutz shells are shaped such that they...” she snickered at the thought of it, pantomiming the trajectory, “whistle one such pitch.”

“They’re notorious for wearing heavy armor gutted from robotics,” Sticks nodded, appreciating the disarmament tactic. “Not questioning the use of the Klutz... but you still haven’t said whether it was only Klutz.”

“The game plan, Sticks. Are you going to let me speak yet?” When he crossed his arms and watched expectantly, she slouched back on the stool and lit a cigarette. “The Furriers’ greatest skill set is their stamina hunting and their ability to set traps. Provided proper firearms, they’re exceptional snipers, but my Eyebots that survey Lowell and Chelmsford estimate three hundred raiders in Back Central, and at least another hundred in RobCo Towers. Deenwood has less than a hundred robots at her employ, and the Furriers don’t even have a hundred heads. Considering the Devils--”

“I dunno,” ‘Choly mumbled under his breath, “one of them might have a hundred heads.”

Olivia glowered at him for acting as her peanut gallery. He looked over to Sticks, who was straining not to die laughing.

“...Considering the Devils have their own handcrafted robotics,” she continued, through her teeth, “much of which is crafted from robotics they have captured and stolen from Deenwood, we must have the element of surprise on our side. Or we will lose.” She stood, to pace with her smoke. “That said, I plan for the Furriers to shepherd the Back Central Devils into one central location to maximize the efficiency of the gas grenades. Once the Furriers utilize the indicated formation to pin the Devils in position, my Sentry Bots will fire Rad-I-Canned shells. We’ll do the same with RobCo Towers once we’ve secured Back Central.”

"Rad-I-Canned!” Sticks blurted out. Incredulity flung his fists to his sides and his face into an exasperated scowl. “You’ve only used that once before, to my knowledge! I know you could cut the conflict tension with a knife here, but do you really take this for some Gordian knot! Surely we can achieve this with less.”

She took a long hit off her cigarette, and she stopped and turned to make unblinking eye contact with Sticks while she exhaled all the smoke his way, through her nasal gap.

“Wars have been started over less.”

‘Choly finally noticed where the Assaultron Helen had been in waiting all this time, by the door where they’d entered, and couldn’t stop staring at her. With a coughing fit, he broke the uncomfortable silence with his guts full of moths.

“About making me colonel... Green Five still called me captain earlier. You did mean it, that you wanted to make it official, right? Colonel Carey?”

Getting caught in her misdirection, she softened in place and resumed pacing. Sticks appreciated the shift in subject.

“Oh, I just didn’t consider it all that time sensitive. Figured we could get into all that after this debacle’s through with. But, if you insist, it probably wouldn’t hurt to look the part of the colonel in charge of the Voire troop.” The ghoul general strolled over to the nearest standing ashtray, took one more hit off her smoke, and extinguished it in the sand. “Go get your prescription updated. Those godawful glasses aren’t regulation issue. And you’re going to have to get a haircut, if you plan on wearing the officers’ martial dress uniform, you know.”

She made a buzzing motion with one fist at her own nape in a mild jeer, then glanced to her steel-tone Pip-Boy to flick a series of dial settings. ‘Choly touched the temple of his glasses with a frown, then felt of the back of his head with anxiousness. Green Five reappeared while he stressed, and he straightened when he noticed he was visibly losing his cool over a handful of superficial alterations. She held out an upturned hand expectantly.

“Before you get out of my hair for a few hours, fork over your nameplate and ribbon rack. I’ll update the RFID data while you get cleaned up, so that the base responds to your... new rank. I’ll have your designations, and new uniform, delivered to your rowhouse.”

“Leave the supervision of Mister Hawthorne to me, Miss Francis,” Angel offered helpfully as its owner complied. “I’ve already been his shadow this morning, whether he likes it or not.”

Olivia picked her eyes up before her head, glancing first to Angel, then to Sticks. Her brow piqued as her lips furrowed in thought, and she paced some more while Sticks sweated.

“You know, I could fix that. Reboot Angel’s imprint matrix. Reintroduce yourselves to its fixed variables. It would have to relearn who you both are, of course, but the second time it gets acquainted would go much faster since it’s already learned both of your personalities.”

‘Choly gawked between them all in a stupor over what was being proposed. Sticks nearly cut through the pause to agree on ‘Choly’s behalf, but ‘Choly cut him off.

“--I don’t want to wipe Angel’s memory of me.” He hemmed, hating where this was going. “I, I’ll think about it. Let’s get going, Green Five.”

“We’ll come with you,” Sticks blurted out, drawing Angel along as he stayed twenty paces behind ‘Choly.

“I’ll send for you all when I’m done with the Furriers’ chem cache,” Olivia called after them fake-sweetly. “Don’t bother me again until then.”

“Was that a gesture or a threat, to offer that... service,” ‘Choly asked with a flat distress, once they were no longer in her presence.

“Probably both, knowing her,” Sticks replied, just as terse. “Angel, you don’t have any arrangements with me. Could I bum a smoke and light off you?”

“Certainly,” it provided without skipping a beat. It also gave ‘Choly his cane, which he appreciated. “Do you need one as well, Mister Carey?”

“Why the fuck not,” he resigned, nearly concussed by being jerked around by so many different individuals. The leathery taste did little to soothe his nerves, or his disorientation, but he persisted.

Once ‘Choly stepped inside the storage hangar, and the Quartermasters’ Wing, Green Five directed him to the left hall. Angel and Sticks remained outside.

“The General has instructed that you begin with Optometry. As you’ll recall, the barber is at the other end of the hall once you’re done.”

“Why hello!” the Miss Nanny inside the office greeted in a soothing, effeminate affect. Green Five vanished again on its way, trading off ‘Choly’s care to the white robot. “It’s been so long since I had someone to examine! Let us get started with the phoropter, shall we?”

‘Choly took the ashtray from the waiting area with him, and puffed at his cigarette intermittently throughout the examination. The Handy, nicknamed Lunette, did not object provided that ‘Choly kept it out of the way and kept the ashes tidy. With a flurry of numerical annotations and shuffled lens metrics, Lunette determined his prescription. It felt like the Nanny leaned nearer when its optical lenses craned into his face to inspect him, and he sat back in the high-back exam chair, cradling the ashtray close to his chest with a frown.

“Our diagnostics equipment indicates that your cataracts are severe enough to require surgical correction. The cause of these is unknown, however, and it seems to chiefly impact your light sensitivity rather than the acuity of your vision. We would have to refer you to an ophthalmologist to receive corrective surgery, but it’s my understanding that it’s neither necessary nor afforded at present. I can script you medical permission to wear a visor or other such brimmed head gear on duty, if you like, Sir.”

He nodded tersely, and put his round frames back on. Lunette eased off the personal space intrusion, to retrieve a catalogue and provide it. To skim through it, he put out his cigarette and set the ashtray aside.

“Our inventory hasn’t been updated in around two hundred years, I’m afraid,” it apologized. “The General hasn’t revised dress code to forbid any of them, at least. Hopefully there’s still something available to your liking.”

The booklet fell open in his lap when he found the crescent-shaped acetate frames were still listed. He pointed at them, shakily, and Lunette snatched up the catalogue to see the model number he’d indicated.

“Ah yes! My records indicate you ordered these 218 years ago. Gravitating towards the familiar! We’ve still got several. Shall I fill your prescription with these then?”

“I’d like that very much, Lunette. Thank you.”

“As you like! Off you go, then. I’ll bring them down the hall to you once I’ve got the lenses cut. Shouldn’t be but fifteen minutes or so.”

He caned his way down to the barber’s office, to sit in the chair. A Mister Handy with a cockney accent approached him.

“What’ll it be, Gov?”

“I’m in a bit of a predicament, Burns. I’m told I... have to get a cut appropriate for the officer’s martial dress uniform. But between you and me? I don’t want to cut off my hair.”

“I hear you. Remember you objected to a crew cut in 2066, too. Martial uniform, though.” It gave him a thoughtful whistle. “‘Bout to get a might bit hairy, I imagine.”

The pun made him flinch, and the Handy guffawed.

“Do you have any suggestions?”

“Oh, say no more. Leave it to ol’ Burns. I’ve got just the thing for ya. It’ll take a Love guide to get it trim proper 'nough for regulation, but you’ve got the Burns guarantee you’ll appreciate the results.” Its tendril attachments whirled to comb, snips, and an electric razor. “Let me take a little off the bottom ‘ere, mark the state a yer Barnet off the list of things you could possibly be worryin’ about.”

He swallowed, and sat up straight as Burns fetched the barber’s cape.

“I trust you.”

“Attaboy!”

Given the indication to begin, the Handy removed ‘Choly’s glasses. Then it unpinned his hair and brushed it out, and it proceeded to pin back sections to isolate the patch from his nape to just above his ears. He tried to watch, but couldn’t really see in the cracked mirror, with or without his eyesight. The sensation of the clippers jolted down his spine and he shivered, barely keeping still enough for Burns to steady the attachment along his scalp. It touched up the hair in front of both ears, then with scissors trimmed his split ends as well. Once done snipping away, the Handy swiveled the chair one-eighty to dip the back to the counter at the wall. It gave him a quick rinse and blow dry, and propped him back up to use fresh bobby pins to return his hair to a taut, slick french twist, positioned slightly higher up on his head than before.

By the time Burns was done with him, Lunette entered.

“Burns, I’ve got Colonel Carey’s prescription ready,” the Nanny said.

“Ah, yes! Let’s have ‘em. Perfect timin’. He’ll get to see how it matches up with the ‘do we’ve done him up wif.” As he took the glasses gratefully from Lunette, Burns turned the chair to his right, to face the wall where a full length mirror remained in tact. “How’s about it, Gov?”

To have heard the Nanny say Colonel, though, he thought to himself. Olivia must have just gotten finished with his designation updates. He shivered, and put on his new glasses. He let out a low whistle, his face long as he turned his head to run a hand over his shaven nape. He could see. Truly see.

“Doesn’t feel so bad, after all,” he appreciated quietly, both awing and dreading the context which such a cut came requisite. He repeated flatly, “The colonel of the Voire troop. Huh.”

“Just one step left before you’re off to your camp, Colonel,” Burns remarked, watching him appreciating the trim. “Gen says Green Seven’s en route to your place as we speak. Better get goin’.”

“Oh, tell me they’re to your liking,” Lunette begged.

“It’s perfect,” he ingratiated, his head ringing when he saw the hair Burns now swept up into a dustpan. He started off toward the front door of the hangar, trying not to think about it too hard. “Thank you, both of you.”

Where’s your loyalty lie, Carey? Do you even have to be Carey anymore? Does Carey even exist now? Should I have asked her to program my nameplate to truly be Melancholy? To properly be Melano Kara? Is becoming Melancholy a step forward? Would becoming Kara again be a step backward?

He choked down the urge to ask Angel for a Mentat, or another cigarette, only to open the door to find neither the Handy nor his ghoul had waited up for him. He snarled and hobbled along back to the rowhouse, knowing G-7 would without question beat him home.

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#fallout 4 #fo4 #fallout 4 fanfic #fo4 fanfic #sole survivor #mister handy #miss nanny #mister gutsy #ghoul oc #olivia francis #sticks #angel #melancholy #lunette #burns #2200 words for a haircut and an updated eyeglasses prescription. i really do be like that