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Dust storms are as common as rad storms these days. Back when Eleanor first emerged from her vault the worst the weather meant for the people of the Commonwealth was a bit of irradiated rain and muddy sludge. Now even the slightest wind kicked up dust in droves that obscured all but the first five feet in front of your nose.
Ela squints as she adjusts her laser rifle against the barreling winds. The glow from its fusion cell lights up the particles in the air around her in a red gleam like Rudolph at the front of the sleigh. Her coat catches in the gusts once every other step, exposing her papery skin to the abrasive winds. At the very least she doesn’t have to worry about raiders or ferals in this kind of weather; no one but her is stupid enough to travel right now.
“You know,” Deacon yells over the whirring of the storm, arms braced against his face to protect it from the worst of the damage. Even while enduring the second apocalypse the man still has too much pride in his appearance in Ela’s personal opinion, “if you wanted to get some exfoliation done, I have this real nice lotion back at the church. No need to keep walking through this crap.”
“Shut up and keep moving,” Ela shouts back over the sound of sand grating her ears and the whip-like cracks of her coat. By the grace of some god that clearly doesn’t exist in this hell on earth, Deacon remains quiet. Ela thinks she knows why, but she chooses not to dwell on it. Some days are better than others for her poor Deacon, and he’d been doing so well for the past week.
“I think I remember there being somewhere safe up ahead,” Ela says during a break in the wind. “The place used to be called Covenant.”
“I don’t trust it,” Deacon shouts back. “Even before things went to shit the people there were-” Deacon cuts off with a grunt, folding in on himself. Ela slows to shoulder him, but she doesn’t have the strength to do more than lend him her moral support. After all, she’s just as starved as he is. Thankfully, it seems that her touch was enough to push him through and soon the two of them were back to walking.
“I know, D, I know,” Ela says sympathetically, “but we need to get you somewhere safe.”
“You really… really shoulda just left me back at D.C.,” Deacon says only just loud enough to be heard over the storm.
“Not a chance,” Ela replies, “they’d have eaten you alive back there… and these days that means literally.”
Deacon chuckles weakly. “Yeah… I probably taste like shit though.”
Ela sighs sharply and continues to lead them forward.
The past ten years had been some of the worst of Eleanor’s life, though for what little comfort it was worth, she didn’t suffer alone. She had barely had time to recover from the trauma of the bombs and cryostorage - not to mention her sister and brother-in-law's murder - when the Commonwealth was suddenly thrust into complete and total famine. Every single crop failed the year she emerged. It wasn’t just one or two farms either - everyone everywhere was starving. Brahmin were slaughtered by the dozens and the forests were hunted clean until there was simply nothing else for the people to eat. To this day Ela remembers those final few weeks of post-nuclear normalcy where people were thin and starving but still held out hope.
Those memories were old now. Those who survived the initial droughts and crop failings had to get creative when it came to food. For some that meant doing their best to cultivate fungi and other hyper-resilient crops, others turned to scavenging in places previously deemed too risky in hopes of obtaining some treasured scraps of pre-war food - but the unfortunate truth is that there was still one readily available source of food available in the Commonwealth.
People.
Back before the famine death was a common occurrence in the Wasteland. There were more people than the land could handle and many of them owned guns. Raiders killed for sport, Gunners killed for caps, and farmers killed to protect their land from both. With every body that dropped came a new hole to be dug, but during the famine people were just too tired to pick up a shovel and too hungry to waste 110 pounds of meat by putting it underground. The first time Ela had heard about the new Commonwealth diet was from rumors - traders claimed that only the Raiders would be depraved enough to commit such an abomination. Now Ela would be hard pressed to number the amount of friends who hadn’t become cannibals even on just one hand.
At the end of the day could she even blame them? When the only food for hundreds of miles happened to be the flesh of your own kind could you even really call it cannibalism? It was survival, nothing more. Ela had to keep telling herself that in order to hold out some hope for the human race.
The wind dies down and Ela snorts, blowing dust from her nose. She does her best to refocus her mind on what's in front of her. The past is the past, and survival only happens in the present tense.
“There, up ahead,” Ela points and Deacon squints until they both see the long white wall of Covenant. It appears the same as it had back when they’d both last seen it - years ago when the world still clung to the very bare minimum of sense.
“Think the turrets are still armed?” Deacon asks.
“Not sure,” Ela admits. “They never shot at me before…”
“Yeah, but that was before ,” Deacon says.
“Yeah…” Ela chews her lip; her teeth leave impressions in the dry, abused skin there. “Let’s see if anyone’s left alive before we start assuming the worst.”
Deacon laughs, the sound soft and far away even without much distance between them. “Always the optimist…”
The two remain huddled together as they approach the old settlement gates. The coast does appear to be clear at first; not a soul was to be seen at the old sentry station out front and the turrets remain obediently still on their perches. Neither Ela nor Deacon can tell if they still work or if they aren’t set to target on sight, but it doesn’t matter all that much in the moment. Survival. That was the name of the game these days.
Ela bangs on the gate and raises her voice. Her fist feels weak against the splintering wood, as though she were knocking with her bare bones instead of her knuckles. It was almost true with how little flesh remained on her after years of starvation. Beside her Deacon hunches in on himself, teeth grit with the raw agony that came from his middle. If his body were whole, he’d be sweating, but as it is he was dry as a bone and wracked with tremors that shook him no matter how firmly he tried to hold himself. Ela takes notice out of the corner of her eye and decides that she’d extended enough courtesy to the potential people inside and steps back.
The shotgun strapped to her back had saved her life more times than she could count. It’d taken care of super mutants, ghouls, cannibals, and synths alike. Now as she cocks her trusty weapon she mentally adds one more victim to its list - the lock the Covenant gate.
Two blasts are all it takes to turn the wood surrounding the iron bolt-lock into shrapnel. The satisfying image of turning an obstacle into past tense does nothing for Ela. Without expression she flips her gun and bashes in the remains of the handle with the butt of the gun and lets the gates slowly fall open.
“Well, that’s one way to unlock a door,” Deacon says quietly.
“Come on,” Ela says, already stepping into the quiet city. “There’s a barn up ahead we can shelter in. If anyone’s left to be pissed about the door we won’t want to be out in the open for them to find us.”
“Fair point,” Deacon straightens his back as best he can and takes his first harrowing step forward. Years ago he would have objected strongly to entering this city - his principles firmly stated that interactions with synth-haters were to be capped at 0 - but what was the use in that now? It wasn’t like there were any synths left topside to save; anyone with half a brain would choose a life of slavery down below over this hellscape.
Ela and Deacon move quick and quiet until they reach the barn. Just like everywhere else in the Commonwealth, the pens for livestock were empty and the gain stores were barren. Ela hadn’t dared hope for anything else, though that did little to stop the hunger from clawing at her gut.
As soon as they were safely inside Ela closed the door and Deacon collapsed himself as painlessly as possible onto a tuft of rotten hay. “Ohhhnnn,” He groans. He wraps his arms around his knees and shivers while Ela bars the door. With their safety now momentarily guaranteed, Ela turns to face her companion in his pitiable state. He seems at death's door just as he had for a long time now; she could easily remember a time when Deacon appeared to be on top of the world, always one step ahead and prepared for anything. The bone-thin man crumpled on his side wearing his own skin like a shirt two sizes too big couldn’t possibly still be him, right?
Ela slides her pack off her back and comes to sit by Deacon’s side, thin fingers brushing through the patches of fuzzy red hair on his head.
“Hey,” She says lightly, putting all her emotional reserves into the syllable. “You ready for your next injection?”
Deacon shakes his head, eyes clenched tightly shut. Ela hears a sound that sounds all too much like sobbing and sighs, forcing herself to put on a smile for him.
“Yes you are,” She says sweetly, taking her hand away from his head and reaching into her pack to retrieve her supplies. “It’ll make you feel better.”
“Please,” Deacon mutters as Ela attaches the thick needle to a tube, “just let me die.”
“Deacon, be serious,” Ela chides.
“I am serious,” Deacon says. He is maneuvered onto his back so that Ela can have better access to his bloated stomach. Ela attaches the tube to an IV and lines the needle up with Deacon’s belly. Before she can strike, Deacon grasps at her hand. His grip is weak and he won’t be able to maintain it for long, but he does his best as he looks his closest ally in the eye and pleads with her. “I’m a dead man walking, and I’m weighing you down. Just let me go.”
Ela’s tenuous smile finally breaks. The spark that she’d kindled only for his sake died and she uses her off-hand to pry his fingers from her wrist. With vacant eyes and a swift hand, she pushes the long needle into Deacon’s flesh. He chokes on a cry that he tried desperately to stifle, but in the end Deacon is left writhing and sobbing as Ela slowly pours the nutrient solution through the tube and directly into Deacon’s stomach. The pain of being fed this way must be unimaginable, but there was no other choice. Years ago an isolated plague swept through the Railroad, killing every single one of its highest members. There was no other explanation for how the pathogen got into their base other than the Institute, but the 'how' wasn’t all that important in the end. Ela had done her best to save everyone she could, but the disease made it impossible for its victims to swallow even the smallest amounts of food or water without choking to death. By the time she had figured out a way to get nutrients inside her patients it was already too late. Deacon had just barely managed to hang on in the end. Ela could never admit it, not even to herself, but in a way, she was glad that only Deacon survived. Caring for him in the state was nigh impossible, and finding the materials to make his nutrient solutions was becoming more and more difficult with each passing day.
Eventually, as adrenaline kicks in and Deacon’s body begins to accept its unorthodox meal, he settles. His breathing evens out into long inhales and short snorts. Ela finds her smile slowly returning as she watches the agony drain from his face.
“There… that’s better, isn’t it?” Ela says as she squeezes the last of the liquids from the IV bag.
“I guess,” Deacon mutters, only barely managing to pry his eyes open to look at her. He’s exhausted, and so is she. “Don’t let me hog it all. Save some for yourself.”
Ela swallows, nausea creeping up the back of her throat. “No, I’m good.”
Deacon doesn’t take the answer. He reaches up and pinches the tubing that connects to his stomach, blocking the flow of the last dregs of fluid. “You haven’t eaten in days,” He points out. “I’m not taking no for an answer.”
Ela closes her eyes. The hunger hasn’t even begun to set in just yet, but her body is weak and her head is light. The thought alone of drinking the vicious solution of ground mushrooms and animal fat was enough to make her sick, and on an empty stomach she doesn't think she’d make it.
Slowly, Ela’s eyes open again. She sees Deacon looking at her with pleading eyes and knows she isn’t being fair - she is forcing him to keep going, so it is only right she does the same.
Ela tips the tube back and disconnects the bag from the IV. She swallows one last time and takes a deep breath before upending the contents into her mouth. Don’t think about it, don’t think about it, don’t think about it… She swallows quickly and in only two gulps it is over.
She gasps, wiping her jaw with a sleeve and does her best to clench down on her throat so she doesn’t dry heave. She fails, but only briefly with a single and deeply unpleasant gag. Deacon watches her with satisfied eyes. When Ela finally finishes her disgusting meal she pulls the needles from Deacon’s middle. There is hardly any blood but she still covers the wound with gauze and tapes it down just in case. Infection was quick to wrap its claws around Deacon these days…
“There, that wasn’t so bad, right?” Deacon says, voice quiet and weak.
“It was awful,” Ela tells him as she packs away their supplies. “But I guess it’s better than starving.”
“Definitely,” Deacon agrees. Silence falls over them both as the storm outside picks up once again and whistles through the holes in the ancient wooden structure. Ela zips up her pack when everything is finally put away and drags it behind her head to be used as a pillow. She puts herself next to Deacon in his pile of hay and watches the slow rise and fall of his chest, basking in the miracle that was his every breath.
“Ela,” Deacon says suddenly, eyes still closed. “I need you to take care of yourself, okay?”
“Don’t start with this,” Ela warns. “I don’t have the energy for it.”
“I know,” Deacon says quietly. “I know, but just hear me out, okay?”
Ela sighs, fighting between her desire to be fair and her desire never to have this conversation again. Her silence is taken as consent and Deacon continues on.
“You need to eat,” Deacon tells her. “I know it isn’t pretty, but this is the way the world works now-”
“No,” Ela says firmly. “I refuse.”
“Hey, I don’t like it either,” Deacon chuckles softly. “Even if I could go around eatin’ people, I’m not sure if I’d be so keen on cannibalism as our friendly neighbors out in the Commonwealth.”
“Deacon…”
“I just want you to promise me,” Deacon pauses. He still won’t open his eyes but he reaches out with his hand until he finds her cheek and rests his fingers there. Despite his years of starving, they are still thick and strong - it’s the very last piece of him that is still himself. “Promise me if I drop you won’t put me in the ground.”
Ela closes her eyes, and for the first time, she notices the tears lingering there as they fall and rest on her cheeks. She shakes her head as Deacon rubs the tears away.
“Promise me?”
“No.”
“Please?”
“No…”
Ela is sobbing quietly, her chest shaking as she continues to shake her head and curl inward. Deacon frowns and forces his tired, aching body to inch across the hay so he can wrap his arm around her better.
“Hey, hey it’s okay,” He says, backtracking as best he can. “I’m right here… I’m not going anywhere for now. You’ve made sure of that.” He chuckles at the end, doing his best impression of the person he was before. Ela doesn’t buy it, and neither does he, but the two of them stay connected and buried into one another as the storm howls on outside.