Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

In his daily search for scrap, Frank trekked out of the Financial District and into the Theatre District, ever seeking unclaimed territory in which to scavenge. After two hours of walking through the ruins of Boston, he approached the ruins of an apartment complex, overrun by other super mutants. Leaving them to their own scavenging, he ambled down the street toward a boarded-up workshop of some sort.

Before he could enter the door, a patrol of four fellow mutants crossed a nearby intersection and spied him. Just his luck, one of them was an overly-friendly suicider. “Hey look, new super mutant!” *the suicider exclaimed while pointing. To Frank’s horror, the other mutant waved a mini-nuke at him. “Brother, we play football!”

For a split second, Frank froze before pretending not to hear and ducking into an alleyway. “Hide-and-football!” another one of the four roamers cheered. Their footsteps audibly quickened, causing Frank to more frantically search they alleys in between shops for a way out.

“Come on, come on,” Frank muttered to himself while he pushed on the back alley doorways leading to various workshops. All of them were sealed so tightly that, if he broke them down, he’d give away his position. At the last second before the hyper-enthusiastic suicide squad found him, Frank discovered a random door which he could push open without causing too much noise. Without delay, be squeezed himself inside and shut the door behind him.

The four unknown super mutants continued walking down the wrong street with their volatile football. “New brother go that way!” another one of the four mutant strangers said, and the sound of their footsteps gradually tapered off until they couldn’t be heard anymore. Frank audibly breathed a sigh of relief after having held his breath for so long.

“Why are we so dumb,” he muttered, lamenting the sad state of his fellow super mutants. A second later, he remembered that he’d just entered an unknown building without scanning for hostile targets first. After a few minutes of searching, he realized that he’d entered a building which had been occupied before. In addition to the broken shelves and wracks of a pre-war pawn shop, he also found the signs of post war habitation: abandoned mattresses, duffel bags, and containers which didn’t match anything else in the store.

For the better part of an hour, Frank searched every inch of the two-story pawn shop and tried to calm his nerves by eating preserved Fancy Lad snack cakes he found on a countertop.

In the downstairs area, among the emptied shelves and raided cupboards, Frank found a single footlocker. Having no skill in lockpicking, he used a crowbar he’d found in a pile of rubble to pry the container open. The crowbar was bent beyond repair in the process, but eventually, he pried the whole door off of the footlocker, revealing a dirty jacket which would never fit him, a notepad without paper, and five silver ingots weighing two pounds each. “Who in the hell would even leave this here? And why?” he wondered out loud. All the same, he put the silver ingots inside a plastic garbage bag he found in the corner and tied the end of it to the back of his super mutant armor.

Upstairs, where someone had been living post-war, Frank searched the wreckage of a probably dead person’s living space for what was left. There were no remains and no clothes or food, so whoever had been there left in a hurry. There were a lot of used garbage bags, bindings of books long since eaten by moths, old socks, and enough radroach droppings to make Frank gag. Among all the useless items, however, Frank happened upon a most interesting find: next to the mattress was a functional, well-maintained missile launcher. There weren’t any missiles left, but Frank was happy to discover an item which he actually didn’t want to sell to someone else. What he found next to the missile launcher was even more interesting, however.

On top of the mattress was a book with a sealed leather cover labeled ‘deep thoughts.’ In any other situation, Frank would have left behind a book given his preference for music and theatre, but the pawn shop had been almost entirely emptied of useful items. Due to the dearth of signs of life other than a material commodity and an instrument of death, he actually unsealed the leather binding and flipped through the pages.

“Diary of...hmm...” His voice trailed off as he realized that he was about to intrude on a very personal realm of another person’s life. A dead person who’d left no trace, of course, but the setting didn’t feel right.

Re-sealing the diary and storing it in the garbage bag with the ingots, Frank took one last look over the pawn shop to be sure he hadn’t missed anything; he had, in the form of potato crisps which had remained hidden from him. With the missile launcher hung over his shoulder and all the potato crisps stuffed in his mouth, he poked his head out the front door of the pawn shop. When he was sure his fellow super mutants were long gone, along with their dangerous interpretation of football, he stepped outside and began the two-hour walk back to Goodneighbor.

Chapter Text

That night, Frank brought back all of his finds to the dimly lit townhouse he shared with a handful of Goodneighbor settlers. A tight-knit group of quiet people laying low from troubling pasts, none of them spoke as the super mutant shut the door behind him and gave a simple wave. None of them asked questions, not to him and not to any other housemate, and he entered his room while literally carrying a missile launcher without protest from the others.

Once inside the long combined kitchen and dining room which was now his messy personal room, he shed his armor, put his new finds in the pantry he used as an armory, and started his evening pre-sleep preparations. Opening the dresser and rummaging past the items he’d salvaged from a men’s big and tall clothier, he pulled out a rolled-up throw rug he used as a blanket and laid it over the four mattresses he’d stacked on the dining room floor as his sleeping space. Before he could lay down, however, he remembered that he’d left a few junk items in his plastic garbage bag in the kitchen, and he returned to sort out his finds of the day.

Quite by accident, the last item he pulled out of the bag was the diary he’d discovered in the pawn shop. The fact that he‘d even brought troubled him. Although the person who’d written it was likely dead and gone, the thoughts and feelings were still a private matter. To keep it felt wrong, but…the notion of discarding it felt even more wrong. Taking a seat on the creaky couch he’d used to cover up the broken valves on one end of the kitchen wall, he held the leather-bound book up in his hands and pondered the discovery for the first time since he’d left the pawn shop.

Guilt prickled at the back of his neck, but his curiosity proved to be a stronger instinct when he opened up the diary for the second time. The classy, well designed case sealed the paper off from the air outside, and the pages were only slightly aged. The pages smelled like old food, which explained the light brown stains on the edges of numerous pages. Most of the pages were unblemished, and the handwriting was legible, but there was one problem which stood out beyond all others: a stain covered the writer’s name on the inside cover.

As he began to flip through the pages, he felt a puzzle forming in his mind. His mind was a plodding, muddled mess, but eventually the puzzle did form. The entries were short yet numerous, terse yet revealing, all of them dated and most of them accompanied with illustrations. In fact, more than half of the pages were occupied by all sorts of mediocre quality sketches. So many details were included, so many of them revealing, yet the obfuscation of the name felt frustrating. Once Frank overcame the initial sense of wrongdoing over flipping through another person’s thoughts, he found himself amused by the irony of so many personal details of who this writer once was all remaining unconnected due to one strategic food stain.

He glanced over to the refurbished end table next to his couch, noting the still-early evening hour on his piecemeal mechanical clock. His initial misgivings forgotten, he opened the diary back to the beginning and started to read.

Chapter Text

February 4, 2234

I don’t even know what I’m doing.

Get started.

What is this?
—
February 21, 2234

Blah blah blah

Wow

[There’s a panoramic sketch of the wasteland, location unspecified. It’s not half bad.]
—
March 1, 2234

Time I started to use this thing. Don’t know what to write. Higgins is obsessed with the job, but he’s nuts. He’s driving us nuts, and he’s already nuts. I can’t believe we left the Capital Wasteland for this.
—
March 8, 2234

The road got real rough real fast. The wildlife is untamed out here, too aggressive. We’re sleeping in shifts now, with one of us sleeping in the back of the wagon during the day. We still trust Higgins’ lead, but some of the settlers are starting to question whether it’s worth it.
—
March 13, 2234

Rusty was our first casualty today. Turns out he had radiation sickness and didn’t know it…the infection in that cut on his leg didn’t help, either. Poor guy had no family, and we had to just bury him off the side of the road. Tragic, but the others taught their kids about death for the first time. We live and learn.

[There is an elaborate sketch of an older man, either Hispanic or Italian, wearing a windbreaker jacket. The sketch is poorly drawn except for the eyes.]
—
March 16, 2234

It all went down over the past two days. So much arguing and debate, but now that we hit Boston, we’re sending our families and the hired help northwest. There are good folk up there, and the job here is too dangerous for them to stay. They’ll wait for us up there until we return.

It was hard…so hard. Connie was quiet the whole time they got ready, and she’s never quiet. ‘Connie talks enough for the both of you,’ is what they always said. She was quiet, most of the kids cried. I let Sarah and David hold on tight for a long time, but lingering wouldn’t make it any easier. I told them I just needed two weeks at most, and daddy could bring home enough to start a farm.

[The next fifteen pages are filled with drawings of two brunette children with random flecks of red in their hair. A little girl and boy, both of them appearing to be bright and of indeterminable mixed background with shiny, hope-filled eyes, were drawn in various poses. Two drawings in particular were of higher quality than the rest of the dairy sketches, images of the children sleeping which had likely been based on real models. All fifteen pages seem to have more attention and care paid to them than every other drawing in the diary.]
—
March 17, 2234

It’s four of us now, camping out here in Boston as we search for it. Higgins talks so much that he often continues talking even when we’ve stopped listening, but he doesn’t seem to care. He’s memorized the road map to the extent that it’s hard to argue against his plan.

[There are five pages of diagrams which appear to be maps, grids, and floor plans, the first of which was botched and crossed out with a giant X across the page. There’s a level of technical detail which implies knowledge of Boston.]

We know what to do when we find the exact place, but finding that exact place is the hard part. Searching these ruins takes forever, especially when we’re still sleeping in shifts.
—
March 25, 2234

We found it…I haven’t felt this awful in a long time.

The bank vault was as Higgins described it: thirty feet down from the second floor, the only accessible part of the building, and flooded with water. We spent four hours setting up the winch and cables, taking safety precautions, the whole nine yards. Detonating the charges was easy enough, and we got Rick and Murphy both saddled up with their harnesses. They’d secured the whole iron safe and removed all connectors, and everything was fine.

When they gave the signal for us to start the crank, it happened. The safe box must have been attached to a water main because the entire shaft started to fill up faster than we could pull them out. Rick claimed he’d be fine and sent Murphy up with the safe; Higgins spent all his time pulling them out, but I lowered another harness for Rick. Poor sod was already under by the time the harness reached the water.

I keep telling myself there was nothing we could do. The water came up so fast that it reached us in the second floor of the bank, and we climbed to the third floor for the rest of the day. Me and Murphy waited for the water to stop flowing, but the shaft didn’t empty back down to the same level. We spent

[Three pages are skipped and left blank.]

Me and Murphy spent the rest of the afternoon shining the torch in the waters, dropping the harness beneath the surface, even calling out Rick’s name. At one point, Murphy tried to go back in, but I wouldn’t let him. Higgins just hugged himself in a corner and mumbled.

We slept on the third floor of the bank that night. I woke up three times to answer Rick calling us only to realize it was just crickets.

Chapter Text

March 26, 2234

We had to move on. We waited yesterday, we spent the night in the bank, and it was time to move on. Rick was gone. We lost him, and all we could do was figure out what to tell his family. We packed up and

[The section is partially obscured by a food stain.]

Five of them in total, each weighing two pounds. Pure, sterling silver. But it didn’t feel right…not with Rick gone. I keep telling myself that we’re doing it for our families, for his, for everybody.

Traveling with only three of us to carry stuff takes a long time. It isn’t easy.

[There’s a drawing of a person, but the details are obscured by more food stains and multiple attempts to erase and redraw the image.]

Rest in piece, old friend. Your kids will be taken care of.
—
March 27, 2234

We didn’t make it more than a few hours before we were spotted. Thugs, not really raiders. Just random people but twice as many as us. We exchanged fire before holing up in here, some sort of a safe room in an old grocery store. Preserved food, but we’ve been using a sink as a toilet. This will pass. I’m going to see my family again. I keep my promises.
—
March 31, 2234

Four days now, they won’t leave. We have enough food, but we have to be careful with water. We know those guys are out there, they know we’re in here, but they don’t yell at us or taunt us. We can just hear them trying to break in occasionally, but we’re locked in tight.

Connie knows we’ll have taken too long because, normally, we should have caught up with them by now. She’ll lie to the kids, but that won’t work forever. And it won’t work for her.

[There are four unfinished drawings of a woman. The author stopped before specific details could take form. The brown color used for the hair of the children is noticeably absent from the mother.]

I wonder what she’s doing right now. I wonder what that place looks like. I hope I can see it with her.
—
April 2, 2234

We’re out. Yesterday, the noise just stopped. We thought those guys had given up, but when we exited, we found one of them dead. Maybe an argument, or maybe a worse gang of thugs, but we’re out.

We could catch up to everyone else by the end of the day if we weren’t carrying anything, but our equipment is too expensive. We don’t know if this farming thing will work out or not, so we can’t just dump our stuff. We might need it all to find work.

There were preserved seeds in the safe room: corn, wheat, tomatoes, green beans. We took it all. Maybe it won’t work out, but at least we can give it a fair try.
—
April 3, 2234

Murphy got it next. Why is this happening?

Turns out those guys were taken by another gang, but about the same size. They caught up to us and pinned us inside an abandoned house for hours. Most of them ended up dead, but Murphy took a bad hit. I don’t even care that those guys trashed our stuff before we got them…I want Murphy back. And Rick.

We were so foolish. No amount of money is worth those guys. Even our tools weren’t worth those guys. I remember teaching Murphy how to wipe his own ass back in the Capital, the miserable guy. Happiest orphan I ever met, and now he’s gone. Me and the guys helped raise him just so he could die here, in goddamned Boston, in the street. We already knew that the world isn’t fair…what was the point of this? I feel like the universe is just rubbing it in our faces now.

Higgins said ‘at least we got the stash.’ I shoved him into a dumpster and didn’t help him out. He was mad, but he deserved it. He got us into this mess.

Now we need a place to sleep.
—
April 4, 2234

It never ends.

Another day, another crisis. Yao guai found us and chased us up here. I think it was just a normal house before the war, but the stairs are so rickety that the thing couldn’t follow us up here.

It got smart after we shot it for the first time, now it’s just hiding beneath the front porch where we can’t see it directly. It’s down there though, making all kinds of noise and tearing up the furniture when it gets too hungry.

Higgins won’t shut up about the payoff helping everyone’s families. I know it can help, why does he keep saying it? Just shut up and try to stay alive.
—
April 5, 2234

Now Higgins. Good riddance. Of all the rotten things I’ve done, this is the one I don’t feel guilty about.

That damned Yao guai didn’t give up, waiting downstairs for a good long while. Our food was running low, and then Higgins says ‘good thing it’s only the two of us. There’s still enough to go around.’

I lost it. We could have just gone northwest, but he insisted on his ridiculous plan. Two good men dead, and for what? Silver? Pieces of metal? Higgins wouldn’t back down this time, which means he didn’t actually regret what he’d said two days ago. We got into it, and I shoved him out the window. The Yao guai was so busy eating him that it didn’t see me coming when I fired our last rocket at it. There wasn’t enough meat left to identify it.

I need food. I need water. I can’t think straight.
—
April 6, 2234

Found a pawn shop yesterday afternoon, been holed up here ever since. Every door was boarded up, but I found one I could kick open. The place didn’t seem to have been inhabited since the war, given all the dust, but it had mostly been raided already. Probably at the time the bombs fell.

A bit of preserved food and water in the pantry, and I was able to sleep normally. I think I’d been dying. I didn’t notice at the time because we were on the run for a week and a half, but as soon as I was full, I just found a mattress upstairs where the pawn shop owner must have lived and collapsed. My head was spinning and I slept deep, deeper than I have since our families split off from us. I woke up and didn’t know what time it was, especially now that I’m alone.

I know Connie must be worrying, but I can’t keep going immediately. I need to rest. I need to eat and sleep again.
—
April 7, 2234

Every part of me aches. A crack in between the boards on the window let in enough light to wake me up, so I think I’m on a normal sleep schedule. I can wait a little longer before leaving and still bring supplies with me, if I’m frugal with the rest of the food and water. My legs really need this time to heal.

But now I can’t stop thinking. About our families. About Rick and Murphy. About all of this. Two good men dead, one of them with kids, and all of our equipment lost. Our families must be worried sick, possibly delaying their plans because of this. In the end, it was for pieces of metal.

I can’t look at those damn silver ingots anymore. My friends died because of those…will I really live on wealth that got them killed? Would Rick’s kids even touch those things knowing their dad died because of it? Yeah, he died so Murphy could live, but he was down there to extract those. And Murphy died anyway.

[There is a dash in the middle of the entry separating the section above from the one below.]

I couldn’t look at them anymore. I put all the ingots in a locker downstairs. Every time I see them, I remember calling out Rick’s name. Did he hear us? Could he see the wavy images of us standing over the shaft? What does it feel like to drown? At least Murphy got it quick. I wouldn’t want to go out like Rick, or Rusty.

To hell with the silver. To hell with this whole plan. Another one of Higgins’ crazy schemes to hit it big without doing any hard work. In the back of my mind, I knew this was as wrong as his other plots and plans; I remembered pap-pap saying that an honest man won’t succeed without working for it. I ignored that voice in my head because I felt too shy to reject Higgins when he was so insistent. I didn’t have the gall to do anything about him until after Rick and Murphy died. I’m as responsible as Higgins.

Not that I feel bad. I swore after Megaton that I’d never take another life, but I didn’t regret it now. Not with those thugs, and not with Higgins. Is that justified? Was my hand forced? Or am I turning back into the man I was before Connie came into my life?

[There are more pictures of a woman, this time clearer. She has a soft face and very dark brown hair, colored with the same pencil separate from the one used for the lines. There are five mini-portraits of her across two pages as well as one nude on the third page, though the author’s presentation of anatomy is disproportionate. There are small circular wrinkles on the pages with the portraits consistent with small droplets of water which dried many decades ago.]
—
April 8, 2234

Nothing outside. The coast is clear. No threats, not even wild animals. And nothing to keep me here. I don’t need the missile launcher, I don’t need the mattress, I don’t need the junk downstairs. I don’t need the damned silver.

I don’t need these memories.

I’m taking the preserved seeds with me. I’ll figure out how I can explain that to the families along the way…should only take me half a day to get their on my own. The hunting rifle still has ammo, so it should be enough along with the water and a bit of food. Not all of it. I’m so close…by myself, with these seeds, very close. I’m going to go straight…I’m going to do honest work. I just want to forget that all of this happened.

And…I don’t need this diary

Connie

Sarah David

I am coming

Home

[The last eight pages of the diary are blank.]

Chapter Text

After re-reading the diary for the fifth time, Frank felt it was time to put it down for a while. He wasn’t a reader, but the reality of the words held his attention. This wasn’t a story - this was the lived experience of another person. Even though the man was undoubtedly dead due to the unfairly short lifespan of humans, Frank felt like he knew the author personally. Except for the name.

He checked his piecemeal clock again and noted that the hour was still relatively early. Leaning back on his couch, Frank replayed the events of the diary in his head for a long time, occasionally peeking at all the drawings inside.

“What happened to you?” he murmured, addressing a person whom he’d never met.

To close the diary and never look at it again would have been easy…very easy. He even considered the thought seriously for a few minutes. In the end, though, his conscience wouldn’t allow him to make such a decision. The story he’d read was an unfinished one, with so many unanswered questions remaining. Did the author ever make it to his family? Did their farm succeed? Where did they end up in life? How did the author explain the deaths of the others?

Maybe the answers the author had given were sufficient. Maybe the family had moved on with their lives. Maybe…but maybe not. Either way, the questions would vacate Frank’s mind. Not the questions, not the diary, and not the silver ingots he’d set on the kitchen counter. He’d scavenged property which wasn’t his, and he couldn’t stop thinking about it until he just fell asleep on the couch.

Chapter Text

A few days later, Frank found himself outside in the streets of Goodneighbor one evening. Seated among a few of the more stable residents outside a relatively new eatery, the mutant huddled among the comparatively subdued group of humans and ghouls around a radio which the restaurant’s owner allowed paying customers to listen to from the open window of the storefront. Another patron, a heavyset woman who always wore a poncho, leaned forward on the upside-down trash can she used for a seat to turn down a dial on the radio.

“Here they go with the ads for services in Diamond City,” she older lady sighed. “They’ll probably make us wait a few more minutes before hearing the news.”

“They get longer every time,” Frank added. He was hunched over a wooden spool used as a table, and opening up a roast beef sandwich with utensils he’d borrowed from the restaurant. “Hey, you all can have the bread; I just want the meat. Here, just cut it fairly.”

The poncho lady took the knight from him and started slicing up the bread he’d shed from his meal. “You hear that, everybody? Equal pieces this time, come on.”

For a good few minutes, they all ate in relative silence, the radio remaining off during the meal. Footsteps interrupted the quiet, albeit soft footsteps, from the direction of the Hotel Rexford. Rufus, the handyman for both the hotel and much of the town, approached the group as they were finishing and waved.

“Frank, my man. Meat’s good today?” Rufus asked after greeting the other diners.

“Better every day,” the civil super mutant replied while reaching for an intact cinderblock used as a spare seat. “Did you eat?”

“An hour ago, I’m good.” Rufus held his hand out to politely refuse the seat. “They actually need me at the water pump the next street over, but I need to mention this quick. We have some work going on.”

Frank looked up in confusion. “I…guess I can help you out, but I don’t know much about plumbing.”

“No, no, not like that. It’s more up your alley, actually. We’ve had a group of travelers at the hotel for a few days, and they just got word of work opportunities up to the northwest.”

At first, the words didn’t register, and Frank only nodded. When he thought about the location, however, he remembered the unlabeled diary he’d salvaged a few days prior. He crooked his neck back while pondering the coincidence of the region being mentioned so soon…it seemed too convenient. “What type of work would be around there?” he asked cautiously.

Rufus shook his head. “Not work for you; they’re not terribly tolerant there, plus we need you to come back. But you could certainly pass through when escorting a group of traveling workers who’d vouch for you. They’re in need of settlers up in Concord.”

“Concord? Last I heard, that place was constantly being fought over by gangs.” A few of the other diners had been listening in, but they were split between those nodding and shaking their heads. “What? Has the situation changed?”

“It has; there’s a stable leadership there. I don’t know for how long, but that’s the risk our hotel guests are willing to take. They’re not heavily armed, though, and they asked if anyone could accompany them.”

“And did you tell them that your guy is green and hairless?” Frank asked, garnering a laugh from Rufus.

“They know, and I vouched for you, and they understand that they need to vouch for you. Plus, they agreed to pay the going rate around here for an escort. Look, man, I did all the negotiation for you; all you have to do is show up tomorrow at dawn. I ought to be earning a commission for this.”

“Right, you did the hard part; all I have to do is risk getting shot, or attacked by scorpions,” Frank replied, causing Rufus to laugh again. “But, yeah…I haven’t worked in a few days. I can go greet them and say it’s on.”

“Much appreciated; I have to get over to that water pump now,” Rufus replied while straightening his tool belt. “A few of them are in the hotel lobby; you can probably still catch them to deliver the news. Show them that Goodneighbor is a good neighbor.”

“There’s no doubt,” the mutant replied while the human took his leave.

Just as Rufus left, the poncho lady reached over to turn the volume up on the radio again. “Hey, the ads are over. Let’s see if they have any more news about those moth man sightings in the Commonwealth,” she said, though Frank wasn’t entirely listening. For a few minutes, he stared at his empty plate while mentally retracing the footsteps of the unnamed man who’d risked it all before fleeing northwest with plant seeds.

Once he realized that he’d been sitting there for too long, he excused himself and left to the hotel. He’d have to introduce himself to the travelers he’d be escorting before he could hurry home and reminisce over the factual story which had captured his imagination.

Chapter Text

After spending most of the morning on the road, Frank finished escorting the caravan of skilled settlers and their families to Concord. He remembered hearing stories about the place once being a battle ground between factions, but the city he saw upon entering actually seemed quite livable for humans. The atmosphere didn’t suit him as much as Goodneighbor, but he didn’t mind the day trip.

Once the settler families paid Frank the rest of his escort fee, they parted ways, doing...whatever humans had to do in order to negotiate space to live and work. He thanked the great atom of the universe that super mutants didn’t need regular jobs and bid the settlers farewell, only to be stopped by other humans who appeared to be Concord’s public security. Unlike the Neighborhood Watch, these people didn’t know who he was, and the scorpion blood staining his sledgehammer turned into a point of contention in the discussion. In the end, he was allowed into Concord on the condition that he submit his weapons with a tag number; one of the guards told him to show them the tag on his way out to retrieve everything. With only his gear and a plastic garbage bag full of his things, he started wandering town in search for a place willing to buy his junk.

Frustrated by the argument over the blood on his hammer, Frank stepped away from the guards near the road outside and found another one posted at the intersection of a foot path to talk to instead. Without even wincing or asking him about where he’d come from, the guard directs Frank to a bookstore-turned-market space where he could find hawkers. As he took his leave, he noticed that, like in Goodneighbor, the people in Concord either didn’t care or didn’t notice that he was a mutant and went on their way. The sound of music alerted him to the presence of the trade area.

The traders would get back to their respective stalls when they noticed a potential customer, although they still talked, and the music still played. In the corner, there was a table lined with junk, scrap, and small melee weapons, where a trader with curly hair stood, bopping along gently to the tunes. He raises a hand and grins when he notices the supermutant. "Hey! Got what you need here, mister?" Among the other trader's calls, his seemed to stand out.

For a few moments, the ambience of actual music and talking enraptured Frank; only when one of the traders took notice of him did he snap out of his stupor and notice that he’d been, well, noticed. Ambling over to the stall of the human with curly wires on its head, Frank eyed the wares warily. “I need to see your scrap,” he said in his almost comical raspiness.

Corey grinned, and, if Frank looked close enough, he'd see a red bandana tied into his hair. "Of course! I gotta few things on the table here, but are ya looking for anything specific?" On the table, there was your basic junk strewn around, some basic metal, wooden scrap. Nothing too complicated.

Frank looked over the table, inspecting the scrap slowly as he tried to identify all the shapes and purposes. “Small parts are best; gears, screws, springs. Especially springs. Small clocks and phones are okay, too.”

"Lemme check." Corey crouched down suddenly. He ruffled through a few bags, eventually rising up and bringing about 7, maybe 8lbs of mechanical scrap. "Stuff like this?"

Frank nodded. “Yes, exactly like that. Loose parts are easiest. Preferably with containers.”

Corey peered into the bag, jiggling it around a little. "Containers?"

“Yeah. If you have an empty Cram can, or a cup with a lid, I’ll take that too,” Frank replied.

"Ahh, okay!" Corey grinned cheekily, ducking back down again before returning with a duffel bag. "This do? Or you want smaller ones?"

Frank’s eyes zipped back and forth between the scraps a few times while he tried to size up the items visually. “Maybe smaller, but...” His voice trailed off mid-sentence, and he gave the idea some more of his limited thought. “Actually, yes, that’s fine. I can use it for other things. So the scrap, and that duffel bag - for this specific translation,” he misspoke, likely having intended the word transaction.

Corey just chuckled, not bothering to correct him. Seemed he was used to it. "I'd take about... 40 caps for the lot? Depends how much you got. Open to offers." He smiled, warm.

Frank unhooked a lunch pail which he’d clipped to his armor and opened up the tin container. “Forty is fine if you can provide one more service with the goods,” he replied, already counting out the appropriate amount.

"Wassup?" Corey started putting the scrap in the bag, then slid it over on the table. "What'd'ya need?"

Frank stared at the duffel bag while trying to think of the exact words. Without even looking up, he put his garbage bag inside of the duffel bag and only looked up when he thought he’d figured out how to say what he wanted. “A...reading doctor,” he replied at first, though he soon frowned when the term didn’t sound right out loud. “An information chef...or...an engineer of secrets? A person who finds people. All of that.”

Corey blinked, staring at him. "Reading doctor?" He chuckled a little. "You wanna try again? I don't.. uh, sorry. I don't understand." He seemed to be pretty patient.

Frank hummed deep in his throat. “I found a book which belonged to a person. I need info about that person because of...reasons.”

"You want to find someone?" Corey asked, to confirm. "Do you know a lot about them?"

“Too much,” he replied with a look of resignation. From his garbage bag inside the duffel bag, he pulls out a leather-bound book sealed from outside air. “This belongs to the person. There’s a lot of...personal details here, but no name. It belonged to someone who left northwest of Boston. But there’s no name for the writer...almost no names at all. Just details. I’m looking for someone who...knows about people.”

Corey hummed, thinking. "There's a synth around here who might know, or, the other wanderers...." The brunette tipped his head a little. "Do you mind telling me? Or do you, uh, wanna talk somewhere more private?"

Frank glanced around the noisy stalls before shaking his head. “Loud enough here. Nobody cares, and the details aren’t private.” He set the duffel bag down on the table and lifted the leather book again, holding it far more gently than he did his other belongings. “I’ve read this whole thing front to back. It has details...a lot of details, covering the better part of a year and a half. But it also has coffee stains, or maybe baked beans stains, in a few places. One of those places is the inside cover where the writer put his name. I’m putting the details together to get it back to his next of kin. I was hoping someone here, northwest of Boston, might recognize the details. Or might know someone who can find out.”

"You might need to just... wander around here for a bit. Not a lot of people here are actually from here. Some recruited from Goodneighbor, some Diamond City, Covenant - I'm from down near Bunker Hill, so dunno if I'd be able to help."

“In that case, where to people wander within the city limits?” Frank asked. “Is there a place where people normally ask each other questions?”

"Uh...maybe try the Museum? I dunno if they'll let you in though."

Frank paused for a moment, choosing his words carefully. “Because they profile potential visitors, or because they’re just closed?” he asked hesitantly.

"They don't really let anyone in. Just immediate members of the Retribution."

Frank’s chest moved more steadily as he stopped holding his breath. “Good, that’s...good to know,” he said with more relief in his voice than he seemed to realize. “Are there any people affiliated with this retro-potion who I could talk to? Not necessarily one who would know, but one who could find people who know?”

"Uh…try the guard in front of the Museum?"

“I’ll give that a shot. Thanks,” Frank said while tugging on the duffel bag as if to demonstrate his gratitude for it. He turned to leave the traders’ area and head toward the Museum.

Continuing is trek through Concord, Frank spotted the Museum of Freedom. Three guards were posted outside the door, and he nodded toward them while approaching to make his intention known. Taking care to keep his hands where they could be seen, he stopped a safe distance away. “Is this the headquarters of the retro-potion?” he asked the guards.

“Retribution?” One of them raised an eyebrow. “Yes. What do you want?”

“I was pointed in this direction for information,” Frank replied while reaching for the leather-bound book, which he held up. “I found this diary in the Theatre District of Boston. It’s dated to a long time ago, to a person whose family was northwest of Boston, but the name is covered by stains. I’m trying to find the writer’s next of kin to give it to them. I was hoping someone here would...know people in this area, or how to find people, or would know the people who know how to find other people.”

The guard stared at him blankly. "Uh. Okay..? One sec." They popped inside the Museum, then exited with a stern looking brunette. "Here. This is Connor." Connor did not look happy to be there. "What do you want?"

Too accustomed to frosty receptions to realize the brunette’s ire, Frank began his explanation again. “I found the diary of a person, but I can’t read the name. They wrote about their family being northwest of Boston, and there are a lot of personal details and dates, but no addresses or family names. I’m trying to track down the person’s next of kin to give this to them. Whoever wrote this probably died of old age by now.”

Connor stared at him. “Lemme see.” He said bluntly. It was now obvious he was not happy to be there.

Frank clutched the diary in both hands for a moment, slowly handing it over with the care one would take with a glass vase. “Please take care with the pages; there isn’t any damage other than the food stains.” He offered up the diary, unsealed, for Connor to inspect.

Connor didn’t bother with the gentleness that the mutant exhibited, and instead just took it from him with gentle roll of the eyes, flicking through the pages. It took him a while to read it, and he didn’t seem to react to anything inside. Guys going northwest. One survivor, became... a farmer? Connor used one hand to rub his forehead. "So you're looking for this, this, uh-" He paused to refer to the book. "Sarah, and David? His kids, right?"

Mindful of where he was, Frank withheld his reaction when Connor took the diary from him. He flicked his ring finger nervously, however, as he watched the human handle the diary as if he were letting a stranger handle a glass vase. “Well, the entries are dated to fifty years ago. If those two are alive, then I’d like to return this found property to them - including the silver, all of which I brought,” he replied while patting the garbage bag he kept inside his new duffel bag. “If they’ve...passed, then I’d like to find their kids so they can decide what to do with this property. I found it while scavenging in the very same pawn shop mentioned toward the end of the story, but I have no right to keep any of this.”

Connor sighed slightly, tossing the book back in the mutant's direction. "Okay. Do you have any idea? Any definite location?" The brunette asked, still very unhappy to be there. "From the pawn shop you found this stuff in, he said he was heading northwest, right?"

Frank caught the book, clutching it closely now that he had it back. “Yes, northwest of Boston,” he replied while re-sealing the diary’s leather cover. His limited intelligence didn’t hamper his explanation since he’d had the whole day of traveling to think about the events written therein. “Not a definite location, but maybe a general one. This group of settlers seems to be from the capital, and they traveled northwest of Boston to start a farm. If you or your organization know of any farms in the area, especially farms started by settlers, then I’d be grateful to know. I don’t know if I’d be welcome to contact them; if there are problems with that, I’m willing to hire one of your fine town’s inhabitants to contact locals farmers instead. I came prepared to wait until these belongings can be returned.”

Connor shrugged. “There’s Abernathy farm. Greentop, but that’s a ways away.... Abernathy’s probably your best bet. They have an issue with raiders, but not... “ he gestured at the other. “...I don’t think. If you wanna hire anyone a majority of us are up for side work, and then you’ve got the traders over there.”

For a few moments - perhaps long in comparison to the patience of the human - Frank tries to plan a safe trip in his slow, if clear and stable, mind. “I don’t want to startle anyone, so it might be best if I could bring someone local along with me. Could you point me to...a person, or maybe two, who I could hire to come along with me to Abernathy?”

Connor grunted a little. “I’ll grab some who might be able to tolerate it.” And then, before he could reply, Connor dipped back into the Museum to fetch a few people. It took a while, a few minutes, before two more members of the Retribution exited. A bright, toothy, red-headed girl, who was grinning, and looked far too small for the basic armor she was in, who greeted the super mutant quite happily, and a black haired male who looked like he’d been put on babysitting duty. “Connor told us you needed folks to head to Abernathy with.” The boy spoke slowly, tired.

Though Frank was happier to meet these two than Connor, he continued working hard to restrain his reactions, showing little outward evidence of his more positive impression. “Yes, I have found property which belonged to a farm family northwest of Boston. I have some details, but no family name; that brown-haired person suggested I contact the folks at Abernathy farm. I’d travel there by myself, but I...don’t want to scare them. Would the two of you be available to accompany me and, I suppose, vouch that I’m not a violent psychopath in case this family becomes upset by my presence?”

The toothy ginger grinned a little more. “Well, how do we know you’re not a violent psychopath? Could be leading us to our death for all we know.” The black haired boy sighed and shoved her a little. “Sorry about her. Yes, we’d be able to do that. My name’s Felix. This is Eilidh.”

Frank furrowed his brow in stark confusion. “Nice to meet you Felix and...Eyelid,” he said, accidentally butchering the ginger’s name. “My name is Franklin Steiner. What is your going rate for such escort operations?”

That only made Eilidh grin even wider, buckled over with laughter. Felix just sighed. “It should only take a few hours - 100caps for the both of us? How’s that sound?”

Frank didn’t understand why Eyelid was always laughing, from the moment he met the two. At least she wasn’t hostile toward him. “Yes, that...” He pulled his eyes toward Felix so he could remember what he’d planned on saying. “That sounds fair. I don’t know what time it is right now...do you know of the best time to go?”

Felix shrugged. "Whenever's good. They're a farm so they'll likely always have a watch up.”

Frank stared at Felix for a long time, one of his hairless eyebrows lowering as he inspected the black-haired human. “I’m comfortable leaving now. Are you...” His eyes briefly fell to Eilidh and then back to Felix as if he were trying to direct her attention toward her companion.* “Are you good to go?”

Eilidh snorted and gives a thumb up, leaning on Felix, who, again, sighed tiredly. "Yeah. We're good. Lead the way?”

Without even realizing it, Frank began to address Eilidh instead of Felix, subconsciously viewing her as the more responsible party despite her - what appeared to him - laughing sickness. “I’m ready. I’ve seen the map, but which way do we start walking?”

Eilidh would point to the West wall. "That way! Abernathy Farm is closer to Jarlskeep than here so it's a little walk."

Frank nodded. “Very well, then; perhaps we should begin and finish this little walk soon. Will you lead the way, Eyelid?”

”Eilidh. Eyy-...uh, lee? Eyy-lee.” Eilidh confused herself by trying to sound out her own name but still took the lead. Felix sighed.

Chapter Text

Frank left his weapons at Concord, assuming that showing up armed at a stranger’s farm would frighten them and hoping that the two humans accompanying him knew how to shoot. Eilidh spent a measure of time pronouncing her name, though Frank couldn’t understand the nuances in the sounds and assumed she was just mentally ill. Content to allow her to lead, and preferring that over the notion of Felix leading, Frank followed unarmed as they made their way toward Abernathy Farm.

”Like Alien, without the ‘n’.” Eilidh eventually settled on. Both of the Retribution members were dressed in combat armor, equipped with a simple combat rifle. Felix walked just behind Frank, weary.

“Does anybody have one of those hand radios?” Frank asked out loud as they began to move beyond the restored roads and repaired buildings of Concord and into the wilderness.

”No. Why?“ Felix asked. Eilidh was far too ahead to even pay attention; bouncing around and talking to herself. “Communication won’t be an issue - she’ll settle down once we get into it if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“I was thinking more to pass the time,” Frank replied while hurrying and trying to keep Eilidh in view. “It helps when crossing long distances. How long did you say, again?”

"Not long. 10, 20 minutes? It's a short walk." Felix broke into a little skip-run himself, trying to keep up with the two. "So, uh, how'd you come across this book anyway...?" He couldn't remember if he'd been told.

Frank took long yet comfortable strides, so focused on keeping Eilidh in view that he forgot that Felix had shorter legs than him. “I was scavenging in Boston when a...situation led me to hide in a pawn shop. I found this diary in there while scavenging, and little else of value, so I took it home. If there had been more items worth salvaging in there, I might have overlooked it.”

"O-Oh." Felix stumbled a little but kept up none the less. "What about Concord? How'd you find us?" He was really asking for no other reason than curiosity. Sure, they had the odd human wander in. A ghoul getting too close before the scouts notice, here and there - not to mention the X-Battle that took place. But a Supermutant? That was new.

“The Neighborhood Watch. The protect Goodneighbor, and they know everybody there. When a few settlers came through saying they needed help to come here, and that it’s northwest from Goodneighbor, I took the job.” He paused for a while as they walked, once again needing time to choose his words in order to make sense. “I had no idea if anybody in Concord would be able to answer questions. Or willing to answer. This is the first place I came to.”

"Ah, okay. We have quite an alright rep with Goodneighbor." Felix nodded in acknowledgement.

The comment didn’t quite register in Frank’s mind, as he found himself unable to locate Eilidh visually. No matter how civilized he liked to think himself, though, subtlety was a trait which his mutated brain simply couldn’t comprehend.

“Alien, you there?” Frank said out loud in the direction of a few trees ahead of them.

"Alien..? Oh. Eilidh!!" Felix too, joined in yelling as he realised that he couldn't see Eilidh either. Where was she? A mystery.

Trusting Felix to shoot things if needed, Frank walked ahead, taking basketball player strides as he stepped over tree stumps and rocks. Leafless trees sparsely dotted the landscape, with actual greenery few and far between, providing choppy and unclear glimpses of the terrain.

“Alien, are you here?” he asked out loud another time while lifting up a heavy tree branch which was wedged in between two standing trees.

"Over here!" They heard Eilidh screech - she was a way ahead, standing on a boulder, with two feral ghouls at its base. Eilidh's rifle was off to the right, out of reach. What a dumbass.

To switch from casual to combat mode took no effort because Frank didn’t entirely understand the difference. Quickening his pace, he made no attempts to hide himself as he approached the boulder, though it was still far ahead. “No touch!” *he yelled, not angrily, at the two feral ghouls. Dumbing his choice of words down to get through to them, he banked on the fact that they might not see him as edible. “Not you!”

The ghouls, of course, didn't listen to him. Instead, they decided he’s easier to get to than Eilidh, and ran at him, growling.

“I warned you, empty-heads!” Frank yelled in irritation, shaking the heavy, brittle tree branch as he hurried to meet the feral ghouls halfway. Gritting his molar teeth, he clenched the branch in his grip so tightly that the leather on the inside of his metal gauntlets loudly creaked. He continued his pace, intending to whack the first annoying ghoul he could reach, without thinking of what Felix was doing.

Away went the first ghoul! Dead on impact. That didn't scare the second ghoul, however, who continued attacking - barely scratching Frank, though. The second ghoul died just as quicky.

Felix climbed the boulder, and tried to comfort Eilidh.

On the arm of Frank, Eilidh slowly returned to the ground. Bubbly exterior gone - she looked petrified. "Right. So...back on track, then?" Frank asked, gesturing in the direction of Abernathy.

For a few minutes, Frank left the two humans behind, walking out in front in case they encountered any more Wasteland denizens. Eventually, however, he noticed both that they seemed to be alone and that, for appearances sake, they might earn a warmer reception if the humans were leading their expedition.

“Maybe you should walk out front,” he said, not thinking to check if the two humans were comfortable or not following what was, for Frank, a normal everyday occurrence.

At this point they were jogging to keep up with him - Eilidh clutching onto Felix's wrist as he dragged her along. She still looked rather distressed, but was capable of putting it away for now. "Y-Yeah. Might be best. Most farmers-... most settlers shoot on sight. Sorry." Felix panted a little.

Though Frank was blissfully ignorant of the difference between his strides and theirs, he did slow down his pace so he could see them when he spoke. “No need to be sorry; I know what my brothers are like. I’ll hang back unless they need to speak to the diary finder directly.”

"We'll shout for you." Felix nodded. Eilidh remained quiet and clutching onto him the entire time. In the distance, they saw a wooden house coming into view.

As the two of them approached the fenced-in rows of crops, the sounds of tools clanking and tired voices laughing echoed. Movement in between the stalks of corn and wheat could be seen, and the two Retribution members were noticed swiftly. An early middle-aged couple moved toward the fence, standing at ease when they recognized the apparel of the two visitors.

“Howdy, travelers...you coming from Concord?” asked Connie Abernathy.

Felix waved, smiling. "Yeah, we're from the Retribution." He paused for a moment, the smile flickering. "But that's not why we're here. We're escorting someone who's looking for information on a family who might've travelled up here a while back."*

Blake leaned comfortably against the fence while Connie sat on a refurbished chair just inside the property, pointing toward a few more they’d set up in the dirt. “Well, we do know the folks around these parts,” Connie replied. “Fancy a breather?”

Felix nodded, nudging Eilidh inside as the two of them took a seat. "Thank you. Sorry, we're- still a bit shaken up. Had some ghouls on us just a few minutes ago."

The couple both paused, their weathered features pulling tight in concern. “Anything we should worry about?” Blake asked.

"No, no, they're gone now." Felix quickly went to reassure them. "But, uh-.. we got something else. The guy we escorted? He's, well, a Supermutant."

Connie pursed her lips, her face marked with the same disappointment she’d show their kids if the chores hadn’t been finished. Blake began looking past Eilidh and Felix. “You can keep it under control, right? You...” His voice trailed off while he contemplated their words. “Why would one of those want to find the folks around here?”

"He says he's found a diary, and he wants to locate the owner to return it. The diary owner said something about heading North-West." Felix continued to explain. "But you don't need to worry, he's not like the other ones. He's sentient, and somewhat intelligent."

Connie still appeared bothered, and she turned her face slightly without hiding her disappointment, but she stopped short of openly rebuking the two visitors. “Then let’s get it returned. Who does the diary belong to? What else did the diary owner tell you? It? The green thing?” she asked in resignation.

"We're not sure, we didn't get told much. We can call him over, though." Felix suggested. He knew that everyone wasn't as...open minded as he and Eilidh were.

At that comment, Connie’s ‘tough mom’ side emerged. “To pass over the diary to you,” she asked, or might have asked; the tone of her voice didn’t rise at the end of the sentence, though.

Felix frowned. "Look, he knows it more than we could at a quick read. He's the best person for you to talk to, unless you just want to read it yourself." The his frown drops. "Look, we just need a little bit of help."

For a moment, Blake looked over at Connie, whose sense of worry hadn’t lessened; years of defending their farm from the wasteland’s denizens were written into her stress lines without her even needing to talk. “We’ll give the diary a quick look,” Blake said on her behalf.

"Fine." Felix murmured a little and went to stand up - Eilidh still clutching on. "Just wait here." He comforted her, before heading off toward Frank. "They want to see the diary."

“Of course - whatever helps us figure out who this goes to,” Frank replied, promptly handing over the diary. Neither one of the two Abernathy parents seemed to have heard his voice by the time the diary is brought to them.

Felix returned and handed it to them. "Here." He returned to his seat next to Eilidh.

The two farmers took the diary and read it together, saying little but occasionally pointing to lines and drawings. Blake offered Eilidh and Felix mostly-purified water before continuing to read with his wife. Five, six, ten minutes passed as the couple read, talking among themselves before they turned back to the two Retribution representatives.

“This is Joe Nesbit,” Connie said, nodding in certainty. “Their family is close to ours...I was named after his wife, actually. You’re not far off.”

Felix and Eilidh jumped up with small grins. "That's awesome! I'll let him know right away. How can we thank you?"

“It wasn’t much,” Connie replied. “We’re just sharing what we know.” Her husband sealed up the diary and handed it back. “Just keep the region safe like you all have been doing and we’re fine,” Blake added, “and...see if you could send the mutant on its way. The Nesbits are at the Ranger Cabin, between here and the pond to the southwest. David left the state and Sarah passed a few years back, but Sarah’s son and his wife live there now.”

Felix smiled gently. "Nonsense. We'll send some caps and Nuka-Cola along when we can. Thank you!" Before they could protest, Felix was already leading Eilidh away from the farm, and back towards the mutant, where they relayed the information. "Up at Ranger Cabin. The owner and his wife have passed, and as have their daughter, but the daughter's son - the owner's grandkids - are still there."

Frank spent a measure of time considering the information - longer than most other people, and he stared blankly while considering the news. “Then I’ll be going that way,” he replied hesitantly, though the reason wouldn’t be revealed for another moment. “Does your fee include coming with me that far?”

Eilidh glanced at Felix, who sighed. "I think I'm better off getting this one home. Don't worry about the pay."

At first, Frank did a double-take, staring and blinking in confusion as to why the two humans wouldn’t come along. When he actually paid attention, however, he noticed that Eilidh appeared frightened and Felix appeared a bit shaken. He had no idea why other than that he wasn’t the cause - of that, he was certain for once. However, as he’d grown accustomed to, he left the world of humans as one he lived outside. They may have had a myriad of reasons to be afraid, but Frank wouldn’t likely know why. Acceptance of ambiguity was a price he had to pay to live among people who had more than two brain cells.

“Thanks for coming this far, then,” Frank replied in his gravely voice, making no attempt to figure out why. “My gun is still at Concord. When I go back for it, you can make sure your people let me in the city, right?”

Felix nodded softly. “Of course. You’ll be welcome in Concord. Just ask for me and Eilidh, or tell them you’re with us.” They waved goodbye, and returned to Concord.

Frank waved back and watched them go, waiting a few minutes to be sure they dropped out of sight safely. Once he was sure they were gone, and that the Abernathy farmers weren’t watching him, he turned to the southwest with his tree branch in hand, searching for the Ranger Cabin.

Chapter Text

Frank reached the Ranger Cabin just past midday. The weather was dry, for once, but the sky wore that heavy gray hush that made footsteps sound louder than they should.

The cabin hadn’t changed much since the last time he’d passed through—same chipped porch, same crooked antenna on the roof—but now, the garden out back was overgrown in a way that felt… intentional. Tomatoes gone wild. Green beans strangling a rusted rain barrel.

Frank paused at the fence. A single wooden cross was staked beside the back wall, half-sunk in dirt, the name carved in quiet strokes.

Joe.

No last name. No dates. Just the word. Just enough.

He stepped up to the door, knocking with the back of his knuckles. It creaked open before he could knock twice.

A man in his thirties stood there, face sharp with wariness but softened by something else—recognition, maybe. A woman sat in the corner, sorting through old boxes, eyes watching Frank the way you might watch a distant storm.

“You Franklin?” the man asked.

Frank nodded once. “Just Frank is fine, sir.”

The man studied him for a long moment. Then stepped aside.

“Come in.”

—

The inside of the cabin smelled like dry wood and tomato vine. Joe’s old drawings were stacked in a binder on the table. Frank recognized them—some copied straight from the diary, others new. One showed three figures standing in front of a shack. Two adults, one child. All smiling. The pencil work was lighter. Hesitant.

“He didn’t make it,” the man—Tomas—said, unprompted. “Made it back here after the last winter, but didn’t leave. Buried him ourselves. That was… four years ago now.”

Frank said nothing at first. Just listened.

“My sister and I used to think he’d made it out west. Somewhere better.” Tomas gave a soft laugh. “But he came back. Guess we all do.”

Finally, the super mutant spoke up. “I found something. It belonged to your...grandfather. I think. It should be yours now.”

Frank opened his duffel, revealing the sealed diary and the silver ingots, still wrapped. He didn't explain where he found them, or how far he'd traveled. "It doesn't feel right to keep something that isn't mine."

The diary's leather cover was cracked now, edges curled from time and weather. Tomas, visibly moved, took the diary carefully—but left the silver.

“We’ve got a farm," the human replied. "We don’t need blood metal.”

Frank nodded, as if he expected that. Then, Tomas surprised him.

“You didn’t have to come all this way, you know. But I’m glad you did.”

Frank furrowed his hairless brow, confused. “He wrote that he was going home. Someone should know...he tried.”

The wind picked up. A few birds fluttered past the cabin roof. The diary was immobile, inanimate, yet it begged to be read. Tomas opened it, flipped through the pages slowly. The room was still, save for the creak of old paper.

When he spoke again, his voice was smaller. “I remember him writing this stuff. I thought he was crazy. Talking to a book.”

Frank smiled faintly. “Helped me.”

Tomas looked up. “How?”

Frank looked toward the window, where the garden stretched beneath gray light.

“Gave me something to follow,” he said. “Made the world quieter.”

There was a pause. Long. Uncomfortable. Then Tomas pulled a folded slip of paper from the back of the diary—nearly invisible in the crease. He opened it with slow hands.

Frank hadn't read it. Hadn't tried to. Just watched Tomas’s face.

Whatever it said, it made Tomas sit down. He didn't explain what the body of the letter said, but he didn't need to; there was something deeply personal about it, given Tomas' expression. He only read his grandfather's last testament out loud: I’m going to go straight… I’m going to do honest work. I just want to forget that all of this happened.

“I didn’t think he had anything left to say,” Tomas whispered.

The woman crossed the room and laid her hand on his shoulder. She didn’t ask questions. Frank waited. When Tomas finally looked up, his eyes were red but clear. Frank didn't know what the rest of the letter said, but he didn't need to. Tomas' reaction was enough.

“You did good,” Tomas said. “Thank you.”

—

Frank left just before sundown. The clouds hadn’t broken, but the air felt lighter somehow.

Tomas handed him a wrapped bundle before he left—a cutting from the tomato vines, root ball and all, wrapped in burlap. "He grew these from seed," Tomas said. "Figured... maybe you could grow 'em again."

Frank didn’t answer right away. Just held it in both hands, careful. The weight was nothing, but the meaning was more than he could carry in words.

“I’ll plant it in the back,” he said quietly. “Should get plenty of sun.”

And then Frank walked back to Concord.

Not fast. Not slow. Just forward.

The wind picked up as he left the hills behind, carrying the smell of ash and seed and something still worth hoping for.

Chapter Text

The letter came wrapped in waxed cloth, tied in twine, and smelling faintly of vinegar and smoke. The courier handed it off with little more than a grunt—said he'd picked it up from the caravan route near Lexington, and that it had been marked "For Frankenstein. Goodneighbor."

Frank hadn't gotten a letter in years.

Inside: a folded sheet of thick paper and two crayon drawings, both clearly done by small, careful hands.

The first showed a tall, green figure standing in front of a cabin. A child peeked out from behind the door. The sun was too big. The trees were crooked. But the smile on the mutant’s face was unmistakable.

The second drawing showed a garden. One of the tomato plants stretched like a tree, impossibly tall, and from one branch hung a diary like a fruit. Red lines glowed around it. Frank stared at that one the longest.

The note was short and simple.

Dear Frank,
The kids wanted you to have these. I tried to explain who you were, but I think the drawings say it better. The seeds are doing well. My boy named one of the tomatoes “Big Frank.”
You ever come back through, we’ve got a place at the table.
Stay safe.
–Tomas

Frank folded the letter once, then again, and slipped it in between the silver ingots—not spent, but not forgotten.

He looked at the drawings again before pinning one to the wall with a rusted nail above his cot. The garden one.

He didn’t say anything. Just sat for a while. The wind moved through the cracked window like it was passing on a secret. The dead man's diary had been read. And someone had listened.

Later, when the sun shifted and the light hit the floorboards just right, he whispered:

“I know.”