One of these bunkers, also known as vaults for better brand recognition, was 50 or so feet below Deacon currently. Surprisingly the old world business men didn’t care about the opinion of a man who’s great, great grandparents hadn’t even been conceived yet, so the project went on as planned. The whole thing seemed like a useless endeavor to Deacon as there doesn’t appear to be a use for the scientific data gathered when there is no living society of scholars to detachedly look over the results and nod approvingly. These fun little experiments would be performed on the unwitting inhabitants of the bunkers once the world had ended. It all happened because one Giles Wolstencroft decided 280 something years ago that it would be a splendid idea to create a large collection of doomsday bunkers each with their own ethically atrocious experiment. At least, he had been for a very long time until an old prewar wrench was thrown at him, striking him violently in the head and leaving a nasty gash in his defenses. Don’t sleep.Īt risk of sounding braggadocious, Deacon would say he is quite good at this process of controlling his mind. But the solution to this problem was easy. Sure when he was asleep his subconscious asshole brain liked to bring up those thoughts and memories the spy had worked so hard to hide away. Just shove it down and/or back into another section of his mind that he could revisit later or, if he was feeling particularly Deacon-ish, never. 90% of the time if Deacon didn’t want to think about something he didn’t have to. One of the best things about being a terrible liar and having a purposefully broken brain was the ability to compartmentalize. Sigh… yeah his secluded little spot of relaxation and privacy was no longer very good at providing either. With how hard those settlers pounded on them daily Deacon would’ve expected the old structures to have collapsed by now.
Forget the bombs and 200 years of rust, storm, and radiation. It was a miracle the damn things were still standing. It seemed like there was always some asshole hammering as hard as they could on one of the old houses. The damned Minutemen settlement down the hill was already up and bustling with chatter and work being done, the generators constantly breaking the sweet, calm silence with a cacophonous grinding of unoiled metal.
Recently, though, it was rare that he felt peaceful even when enjoying the sun’s gentle rise. It was so rare that he felt as peaceful as he did when he would sit and watch that gradual beginning of a new day. A beautiful, vibrant shade of coral before fading into yellow. The clouds would reflect the light in a way that seemed, for lack of a better word, magical. The sun could always be counted on to shift the clouds’ colors as the sky turned from deep red to purple and then finally a soft, pale blue. A soft breeze ghosting over his skin while his fingers brushed through a rare patch of green grass.
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