Work Text:
The General
"The one good thing about being the last Minuteman is there's no one to argue with me when I say you're the new General." Preston Garvey
~oOo~
"It's good to see you, General. Though I've got some bad news," Preston doesn't wait for her reply before launching into a litany of the newest issues.
"Two of our smaller settlements have radioed about possible ghoul problems, another trader has been kidnapped near Fort Hagen, Tenpines Bluff is running low on power, greenskins were spotted near Jamaica Plain, and Hangman's Alley is having some real raider trouble: their defenses are down, their supplies got stolen and quite a few settlers were injured during the last raid. Two... didn't make it."
The General's gloves crunch as she clenches her fists. Preston knows she is valiantly trying to calm her emotions. Miss Nora's such a compassionate soul! She tries to keep her composure in front of the troops - and in front of himself as well, no matter how much Preston insists that it isn't necessary - but he always notices these small things that give her away.
"General, we all know how strongly you feel about these injustices but please, restrain your grief," he says. The General always feels better when she's included in their righteous pursuits. Though - on account of her age or upbringing, perhaps - she is still reluctant to demand a spot in any of the operations.
But that's alright! Preston doesn't mind making it seem as though she's doing them a favor.
"They could use our help but our men are still spread thin, especially in The Fens... It would be of great help if you could take a look."
Nora accepts the request like she always does, with a nod and a smile, promising to do her best to arrive there in time. It's a week-long journey to Hangman’s Alley if the weather holds. It almost never does. In this instance, it suits her well.
She takes the southern road out of town and keeps to it until she's out of sight of both Sanctuary and the Red Rocket Truck Shop. Then, turning northeast, she cuts a path through the forest.
The wilds are as dangerous as anywhere else in this nightmarish future but, with Dogmeat trotting alongside her, she marches through the night, steady and quiet, and is within sight of Outpost Zimonja within a day and a half.
The settlers welcome the General with stories and friendly smiles and eagerly agree to let her cook the night’s meal when Nora promises to show them 'an old recipe from before the war'.
Oh, they eat everything with relish, praise her cooking and ask for seconds and thirds. The woman smiles, waves off their thanks, and waits for nightfall. From her spot on the makeshift porch, her eyes follow the moon's sickle swiping across the sky.
By morning, two cooling corpses lay in their beds. Methodically, Nora sets about undressing them. She folds the clothes with care, sorts them by weather and type, and places them in a nearby chest.
It feels odd, to put them away unwashed and unironed. She takes a deep breath, brushes some dirt off the wooden top, and smothers the feeling of wrongness. Everything about this world is wrong, a Wonderland of horrors fit for the monsters that kidnapped her Shaun.
On that cheerful thought, with her switchblade, the General starts dressing the settlers' flesh. Her hands are steady, gutting each corpse with swift, practiced movements.
This one must have died sooner than expected, Nora muses idly. By an hour - or two? Blood oozes slowly out of each cut but the muscles aren't frozen stiff. It's a vague estimate but Nora only cares about whether the meat is spoiled or rigor mortis has set in.
The switchblade digs deeper. She smiles, then the smile becomes a girlish giggle. People are so much easier to carve into than brahmin.
The intestines, stomach, and bladder go first; the meat's poisoned already but there's no need to make a mess.
(She's growing immune to the oleander toxins but even she won't eat the meat if she has to wash feces off it. This is about revenge - and spite - not gnawing hunger.
Ungrateful, self-centered wretches! None of them even care about her mission to rescue her little boy! All of their troubles are infinitely more urgent...
Build me a bed. It's not where I wanted it! Save my brahmin. Why is its fur singed? Return my locket. You broke the clasp, it was an antique! We need more water, food, entertainment... More... MORE...)
Wrist deep in the old man's guts, Nora slowly, carefully removes the kidneys and liver before deeming it far too early in the day to start sawing off rib cages and giving up on the hearts.
After that, it's only a matter of skinning the settlers and cutting off choice pieces. She stores the good cuts in her heavy-duty backpack.
Dogmeat, good boy that he is, gets a whole leg before Nora buries the rest of the limbs, heads, skin, and innards near the firepit. Dirt falls on two old faces frozen in a rictus of pain. Good riddance.
Swiftly, she dismantles the recruitment radio beacon, hefts her pack, and starts for Tenpines Bluff. Dogmeat trots after her with his tail high and bloody muzzle open in delight.
Here too the General arrives with a ready smile, a pack full of ‘venison’ and a promise of exotic dishes. Here too, come morning, three corpses await harvesting. At noon, nothing's left of the settlers but a trunk full of old weapons and worn, dirty clothes.
After a quick but hearty lunch of liver in tato sauce - with a femur for Dogmeat to gnaw on - the recruitment beacon is dismantled and the southwards trek resumes.
Considering all the detours, she makes good time to Hangman’s Alley, arriving in time to help fight off the raiders that have been plaguing her people. She sticks around for three days after that, tinkering around the place and sleeping off a fortnight’s worth of fatigue.
Then, it's back north, to Sanctuary.
~oOo~
It makes Preston happy, to see all that the General's done for the people. How she takes the time to help out everyone who asks. Miss Nora almost single-handedly rebuilt the Minutemen and breathed life back into the Commonwealth countryside.
Most settlements can stand on their own two feet now. Why, for the past five months, they've rarely gotten calls for help.
It's heartening, to observe the effect of the General’s small acts of kindness. Both generous and compassionate, she's truly an inspiration to them all!
If only he wouldn’t feel so tongue-tied around her. If he could just talk to her without sounding like a young fool; he doesn't even know where to look: the perfectly coifed hair, the pristine, form-fitting clothes... He can't hold her gaze because of those dark sunglasses she wears day in, day out - oh, if only he could see her eyes when she smiles...
The General's got such a kind, beautiful smile.