Commonwealth Blues

"Alright, alright. I think our friend here's had enough, Fahrenheit. Relax." Hancock sauntered into the room which, quite frankly, looked like it belonged in a SAW movie. The woman he was addressing was currently pulling a man's head down to get a closer look at the blade of her knife; or, it should be said, pulling up. The man had been hung upside down from the ceiling of the warehouse they were currently 'borrowing' for the purpose of this lovely interrogation. When she heard the mans 'request', she calmly released the captives head, taking a step back, sheathing her knife back into her belt.

'Hancock' lived up to his name. He was dressed like his titular founding father, from his shoes to his hat- and in any other situation the schmuck hanging upside down would have found it hilarious. Anyone else would have; however, it was his face that gave one pause. Half his face was completely destroyed, seemingly burned; and his eyes appeared to have been doused in something akin to acid. He had hair, though whether or not it covered all of his head or had also been burned away was disguised by the tricorn he wore. His hair was ashen, pulled back into a loose ponytail; he looked like John Hancock himself had dug himself out of the grave and come to kick his ass.

"Please- p-please let me down. Blood's rushing to my head, I can't feel my legs anymore!" The hanging man pleaded, as Hancock slowly approached, pacing around him like a vulture.

"Ooooh, poor, poor you." Hancock mocked, dragging out his words. "While you're complaining about not being able to feel your fucking feet; three of my men are rotting in a goddamn sewer, like rats; and when I traced the crime back, I landed right on your doorstep. Is this just a coincidence? Did I nab the wrong guy? Are my sleuthing skills gettin' a bit rusty?" He squatted down in front of the man; eyes yellowing at the edges, his skin more sickening up close. "Or were you just the schmuck who pulled the trigger, huh? Tell me, I'm a decent guy. I'll understand." His last few words sounded genuine, but there was an edge to them that seemed sharper than the knife that had just been brandished in his face.

The man sputtered, searching for the correct answer. "I- I-" The burned man waited patiently, as his associate fiddled with her knife.

"If you need more time; I could leave while my friend here helps you formulate a reply." Hancock jerked his head towards Fahrenheit; the mans eyes widened in panic.

"N-no! Please, no! I'll tell you, I'll tell you!" The man begged, tripping over his own tongue.

A grin spread across Hancock's face. "Smart. Now, tell me why three of my guys are lying face down in a gutter?"

"It was- it-" Tears were welling in the mans eyes. "He's gonna kill me!"

"Listen, friend- I don't think you should be worrying about 'possible' deaths when you have a very real and imminent one baring down on you right now. Answer. My. Question." He was obviously getting a little tired of the back and forth; but damn if he wasn't gonna get an answer.

The hanging man bit his lip. "It. It was the Chief of Police. Arth- Arthur Maxson. H- he didn't come to me directly. I was passed along a message- sayin' where they'd be, and that I had to take 'em out. I didn't get much else- I didn't even know who they were- please oh god don't kill me! Please!" The man thrashed as Hancock's eyes glazed over. He should've known. Maxson had it in for him, and basically the entirety of 'Goodneighbor'. He figured it was partially because people had taken to calling on HIS boys for help instead of the cops; he was mad that a bunch of street thugs could do the cops job better than they could. Whatever the reason was, it didn't matter- three of his guys weren't going home tonight because the Chief of Police had hired this guy to kill them in cold blood.

"Let him down." Hancock said flatly, standing up.

"Oh, thank you, Hancock- thank you!" The man was a blubbering wreck as Hancock's men let him down from the giant chain that hung from the ceiling; the man himself turned around, absentmindedly lighting a cigarette. He could hear the man struggle as he went to his knees, unable to move his legs.

"You know, the way things work around here, if you kill someone, someone's gotta get killed back." The burned man exhaled smoke from his mouth; the clouds wafting over his charred skin. "Blood-for-blood, you know? Now, sure, Maxson was the mastermind- you were just the gun he paid to put my guys down. Normally that'd be enough for me; and I'd just rough you up and send you on your way, find the fuckers that signed the death warrant, and put a bullet in them." He took another drag; letting the smoke waft up between his lips as he spoke. "However, like you said, you didn't even know who they were. What's to say someone won't slam some money on your desk and tell you to shoot up someone's house, someone's birthday? Someone who didn't know the risks of their job, someone who would just never see it coming." He could hear the man blubbering behind him.

"I-I promise I won't ever-"

"Sorry," Hancock cut him off, pulling a pistol out of the front of his pants, pointing it point blank at his head. "promises of a murderer just ain't worth anything."

He pulled the trigger and the man crumpled.

For a moment, there was nothing but the overbearing press of silence.

"Well, I could've done that." Fahrenheit said flatly, crossing her arms as she walked over to him; looking rather unimpressed with the dead body before them.

"I don't like people doin' my dirtywork for me, especially when I can do it myself." He handed the gun to her; which she plucked from his grasp, tucking it in one of the inner pockets of her leather jacket.

Hancock dropped his cigarette, stepping on it, grinding it into the concrete. "If you and your boys could handle the rest of this; that'd be appreciated. Got somethin' I need to check up on."

Fahrenheit raised an eyebrow, but merely watched as he walked from the room, pulling his phone out of his pocket. "What about Maxson?" She called.

"Leave him a little message. You're much better with paper threats than I am."

He pushed himself through the heavy iron door of the dim warehouse, and stepped into the blinding sunlight of a Boston morning. He blinked down at his phone, as his eyes took a moment to adjust.

Eight missed calls: Piper Wright

'Aw, great.'

He'd felt it vibrating in his pocket the entire time he'd been in there- but he couldn't just pop out to take a phone call. There were unspoken rules for this typa shit. He swiped her name, pressing his phone to his good ear. He hoped it wasn't an emergency; because shit if it was they'd have to leave the poor bastard's body there and gun it to Diamond City- which was at least thirty minutes away- even with Fahrenheit's driving.

A click.

"Hancock do people in Goodneighbor actually have phones for any disconcernable reasons? Because they sure as hell don't use em for the usual. You know? Calling and answering and such?" He silently exhaled. Well at least she wasn't in trouble.

"Listen, Pipe- I, uh; sorry, I was busy." He knew Piper, and Nick, hated his line of 'work'- and would rather distance themselves from it as far as possible. He tried to keep their knowledge of what he did to a minimum; but there was only so much evading you could do when you were friends with a reporter and a detective.

"You were on one of your 'jobs' again, weren't you?" Her voice dropped in energy almost immediately, a sigh rippling through his phone. He pressed his lips together, she didn't expect him to be honest, did she?

"Oh, come on, Pipe Wrench. You really think I'd do that; in broad daylight, ignoring your calls?" He tried to play the 'guilt' card but that shit had never really flown with her.

"One, yes. Two, your voice is still in your 'scary druglord' tone." She responded brusquely.

"Didn't know I had a 'scary druglord' tone." Despite her scolding tone, he was mildly amused.

"Yes. Your voice gets deeper, and you drag out your words. It's an intimidation tactic." She said matter-of-factly. He wondered how many other tones of voice he had, and was tempted to ask. "Whatever," She cut off his train of thought."Meet me at the Dugout Inn in thirty minutes. I've got something I need to talk to you about."

Before he could even ask her what it was, she had hung up.

--

The Dugout Inn was what you'd get if you combined a sports bar and a dive- yet somehow it managed to be one of the more pleasant places in the lower end of Diamond City. The place was run by two brothers; Vadim and Yefim, and the only real way to tell them apart was Yefim's surly disposition, and Vadim's fondness for the sound of his own voice. Yefim handled the hotel aspect, which Hancock supposed suited his personality just fine; while Vadim handled the bar; chatting up delirious drunks and talking them into buying more.

Pushing through the door, Hancock walked out of the bright light of a sweltering Commonwealth morning into the dark, cave like atmosphere of the bar. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust, once again, as he scanned for Piper; though she was hard to miss, clad in her signature red trench coat. She was sitting alone at a table by the bar, looking mesmerized by a Boston Red Sox game that was playing on one of the bars many televisions. He sauntered up to her, a small smirk on his face.

"Why, hello there, Oliver Twist." His attempt at stealth apparently didn't work on her all too well, anymore; as she calmly looked back over at him with a grin.

"What's up, Scarface?" Their nicknames for each other were fitting, and Hancock, despite the surprise of their mutual acquaintances, didn't mind being branded 'Scarface' at all. He slid into a chair, leaning back in his seat.

"So, whats little miss reporter wanna talk to me about, huh?" His curiosity was getting the better of him, though knowing Piper; it was probably another idea for a story.

She grinned almost wickedly, leaning across the table, her hands braced on the edge. With his interest piqued, he leaned in as well, making it look like they were discussing something of utmost importance.

"You've heard of 'The Institute', right?"

Oh no, not this again.

"Who hasn't?" Hancock leaned back; he'd hear her out, rather than dismiss the conversation- but he knew exactly what she wanted to talk about, at this point.

Piper wiggled in her chair, she was excited; he didn't want to crush her enthusiasm. "What do you know?"

Hancock tilted his head back slightly. "Same as everyone else. I know they're the fucking boogeyman, and I know they're out to screw the little guy in every conceivable way."

"Aaaand they're behind the political corruption in Boston?" She added the sentence hopefully.

He shrugged. "Could be, but I personally don't think so."

Piper gave a comical scowl. "Oh come ON, Hancock! Mayor McDonough obviously has something to do with the institute! Why else would he herd everyone who could say anything against him into Goodneighbor and the outer districts?"

He chewed on his tongue. "Politicians are jackboots. What do you want me to say?"

She sighed, obviously rerouting her train of thought. "I want you to say you'll help me."

This made him raise an eyebrow. "Help you? Little miss reporter and the problem sleuth can't figure whatever this is out on their own?"

She waved her hand as if to dissipate the thought from the air. "No, no. I know your men are everywhere, I know they see things. I just need one- one TINY trace of the institute tampering in the affairs of the commonwealth, just a minute speckle for my next article! I just need to give people something to think about!"

She was so enthusiastic about this; she was miming a tiny speck of dust between her fingers. He had to chuckle at that. "Alright, alright Oliver Twist; I'll tell my boys to be on the lookout." It occurred to him she hadn't exactly told him what his boys would be looking for. "Uh- but on the lookout for what, exactly?"

Her grin was a bit too wicked for his liking. "Well, rumor has it that the institute might have an eye on your end of town."

"My end? Goodneighbor?" Why something like 'The Institute' would have any interest in his little shantytown was beyond him.

"Yepp. There have been reports; merely testaments, of course, of the Institute snooping around, like they're looking for something." She took a moment to build suspense. "Or someONE."

"Uh.....huh." Hancock narrowed his eyes; this sounded like bullshit to him. But hell, he'd humor her. "Alright, Oliver Twist, I'll tell my boys to keep their eyes open."

She beamed. "Yes! I knew you'd help." She gave a small fist pump.

"Well I ca-" He felt a boorish arm grip around his shoulder.

"'ANCOCK; good to see you, my friend!" Vadim, of course. He was always overly friendly with the customers, not that most minded. Hancock had gotten used to people being 'overly friendly' with him; but as long as their intentions were just that, he didn't mind it.

"Hey, Vadim. What's good in Diamond City?" He slung his skinny arm around the Russian's shoulder, letting the larger man jostle him in overenergetic affection.

"Feh- nothing good in Diamond City. Exception is strong liquor and good company." He tilted his head towards Piper with a smile and she raised her beer with a smirk. "How goes things in Goodneighbor, eh?"

"Never short of excitement, and I'm gonna leave it at that." He spoke of it fondly, though he couldn't go into detail due to the fact that Piper would most likely kick him under the table.

"Ah, yes. Full of excitement!" He slapped Hancock a little too hard on the back, almost knocking him from his chair. "Must get back to work, but I shall be seeing you around, yes?"

He nodded, coughing a little from the slap. "You couldn’t keep me away if you tried."

This, apparently, pleased the bartender, as he bounced off with an even larger grin on his face.

"Okay, but there has got to be a story there." Piper looked at him with one eyebrow raised; he knew she was already wondering how they even knew each other.

He smirked, leaning one arm on the table. "I've got more interesting ones to tell."

--

A rapterious sigh escaped Hancock's lips after his third hit, reclining further into the couch; his scrawny build almost completely entrenched in the dark and stained fabric.

"Seems like someone's had a long day," Fahrenheit. She plucked the blunt from his hand before he could raise it to his lips again. "Though I'd appreciate it if you didn't make yourself sick this time."

He chuckled, lazily grinning up at her. "Hheeey, it was one time. Cut me some slack."

"Once is enough, thank you." She walked around to plop herself down on the couch across from him, kicking her feet up on the dilapidated coffee table- riddled with drugs and knife marks.

"How'd the cleanup go?" He tilted his hat up so he could see her; like him, she also had burn scars, only hers were much less noticeable. The scorch mark that ran across her cheek and along the side of her head, necessitating her undercut, were the only real scars one could discern.

"Eh, not too bad. Couple of the boys suggested we put his head on a pike and stick it in Maxson's front yard. Had to tell 'em we're a bit more graceful than that."

Hancock barked out a laugh, reeling slightly in his seat. "Aw shit, the look on that prick's face woulda been priceless, though." He could just imagine the expression of comical rage on the muscle-bound shitheads face; he'd be riding out that image for a while. "But yeah, we're a bit classier than that. We're not cold blooded monsters- 'spite what the cops keep broadcasting. What did you do with the guys body though?"

The woman shrugged. "The usual. Cut him up, dumped him in the Boston Harbor. 'N don't gimme that look. No one can trace it back; even if they could they'd be too afraid to say a damn thing."

He cocked an eyebrow skeptically. "What about Maxson?"

"Oh, as for our lovely Dickhole-In-Chief; I left a lovely fruit basket on his doorstep, with a lovely little letter that might make him think twice about messing around in our side of town." She said this all with a proud smirk, raising a cigarette to her lips like a celebratory beer.

"Atta girl." Hancock grinned, resting his elbow on his knee. "Ain't no one better with paper threats in the entire 'wealth. That's for damn sure."

"I do try."

"But I'd keep our boys on the lookout, tonight. Maxson's a kid. Doesn't know how to handle being one upped." He looked back over at the window, dirty, dingy; looking out on the neon lit streets. He could see the graffiti on the cities dilapidated brick walls, riddling the alleyways like some strangled war cry- 'The Burned Man Walks!'; he was an urban legend, he used the reputation and cautious fear it allotted him well. His 'urban legend' status was also one of the reasons that Maxson was so hell bent on nabbing him. If he could pin one of the urban legends of the Commonwealth, the people would have to respect him- or at least fear him. At least that's what he thought."That job might have been his first move this time around, but I doubt it's gonna be his last."