Israel’s fever has finally gone down. James knows that they’re safe in the building he sought refuge for them in, a fisherman’s shack at the edge of Lake Mead. He can hear the Cazadors buzzing outside, and hopes they’ll lose interest by morning. He can probably stop wiping the sweat from Israel’s brow, but he doesn’t. He keeps his hands on him, and watches the weak rise and fall of his breath.
Israel is his oldest friend. He knew the other man long before Madison, or Catherine. Knew him back when Project Purity was just a pipe dream, and he was searching the wastelands of America for some sort of way to make it a reality. He remembers walking into that bar and seeing him for the first time, drinking whiskey and scowling at anyone who had dared to look at him. James, in his youthful bravado, sat next to him when no one else in the bar would dare to do so.
Shortly after, he raced to the inn they were staying at, and rescued the life of his only wife and child. Israel invited him to travel with his group for a while, and James couldn’t find it in himself to say no. He stayed with them for years, becoming close friends with Israel, discussing Old World literature with Mona, and watching Arcade grow from a weak baby to a strapping, if somewhat shy, young boy.
He could forget about the plights of the Capital Wasteland, and could almost forget about making Project Purity a reality. He even took Orion’s teasing in good form.
“Project Purity? What kind of pansy-ass name is that?”
Even when he found out they were Enclave, that didn’t stop his blind devotion. He was always wary of them after that, but he never stopped trusting Israel.
And then he died, or so they had thought.
There had been a summons to Navarro sent to them. Israel had wanted to ignore it, but Orion had talked him into it. They all went, with little Arcade in tow, to receive new orders. James had gone along with a cover story of being part of the East Coast branch of the Enclave. They hadn’t existed at the time, and at that point he thought they never would.
“I’m going to give the brass a piece of my mind,” Israel had said. “I’m through. Done. I have Mona and Arcade to think about now.” Arcade had seen the eyebots, and squealed with delight. He called them all ‘Ralphie’ and chattered to James excitedly about going on wasteland adventures with one. He smiled indulgently and picked Arcade up to see the ones higher up.
“Just be careful,” James had murmured, fearful for his friend’s life. “I know you served them, but they’re still Enclave. They’re still ruthless.” Israel had smiled that same prideful smile, the smile that said he was immortal, and James always believed him.
That was the last time James ever saw him until meeting him in a bar in the Georgia wasteland, almost forty years later.
“You know,” he begins, both to soothe Israel from the nightmares the poison gave him and to soothe himself from old memories. “Both times I’ve met you; it’s been in some dank dive somewhere. Both times I’ve met you, I’ve come away with you at your slightest urging.” He shakes his head, wiping sweat from the other man’s brow. “We’ve both been married, and lost our wives. We both have children that we have no idea where they are.”
“James,” Israel moans, and James pauses to see if he is awake. He is still held captive by the throes of bad dreams, and James presses a soft kiss to his forehead.
“We’re too old for this,” he whispers against the wrinkled skin of Israel’s forehead. “We’re running out of time.”
But running out of time to do what, James couldn’t say.
Keep Your Composure 10/?
Israel’s fever has finally gone down. James knows that they’re safe in the building he sought refuge for them in, a fisherman’s shack at the edge of Lake Mead. He can hear the Cazadors buzzing outside, and hopes they’ll lose interest by morning. He can probably stop wiping the sweat from Israel’s brow, but he doesn’t. He keeps his hands on him, and watches the weak rise and fall of his breath.
Israel is his oldest friend. He knew the other man long before Madison, or Catherine. Knew him back when Project Purity was just a pipe dream, and he was searching the wastelands of America for some sort of way to make it a reality. He remembers walking into that bar and seeing him for the first time, drinking whiskey and scowling at anyone who had dared to look at him. James, in his youthful bravado, sat next to him when no one else in the bar would dare to do so.
Shortly after, he raced to the inn they were staying at, and rescued the life of his only wife and child. Israel invited him to travel with his group for a while, and James couldn’t find it in himself to say no. He stayed with them for years, becoming close friends with Israel, discussing Old World literature with Mona, and watching Arcade grow from a weak baby to a strapping, if somewhat shy, young boy.
He could forget about the plights of the Capital Wasteland, and could almost forget about making Project Purity a reality. He even took Orion’s teasing in good form.
“Project Purity? What kind of pansy-ass name is that?”
Even when he found out they were Enclave, that didn’t stop his blind devotion. He was always wary of them after that, but he never stopped trusting Israel.
And then he died, or so they had thought.
There had been a summons to Navarro sent to them. Israel had wanted to ignore it, but Orion had talked him into it. They all went, with little Arcade in tow, to receive new orders. James had gone along with a cover story of being part of the East Coast branch of the Enclave. They hadn’t existed at the time, and at that point he thought they never would.
“I’m going to give the brass a piece of my mind,” Israel had said. “I’m through. Done. I have Mona and Arcade to think about now.” Arcade had seen the eyebots, and squealed with delight. He called them all ‘Ralphie’ and chattered to James excitedly about going on wasteland adventures with one. He smiled indulgently and picked Arcade up to see the ones higher up.
“Just be careful,” James had murmured, fearful for his friend’s life. “I know you served them, but they’re still Enclave. They’re still ruthless.” Israel had smiled that same prideful smile, the smile that said he was immortal, and James always believed him.
That was the last time James ever saw him until meeting him in a bar in the Georgia wasteland, almost forty years later.
“You know,” he begins, both to soothe Israel from the nightmares the poison gave him and to soothe himself from old memories. “Both times I’ve met you; it’s been in some dank dive somewhere. Both times I’ve met you, I’ve come away with you at your slightest urging.” He shakes his head, wiping sweat from the other man’s brow. “We’ve both been married, and lost our wives. We both have children that we have no idea where they are.”
“James,” Israel moans, and James pauses to see if he is awake. He is still held captive by the throes of bad dreams, and James presses a soft kiss to his forehead.
“We’re too old for this,” he whispers against the wrinkled skin of Israel’s forehead. “We’re running out of time.”
But running out of time to do what, James couldn’t say.