(I may write a part two, but… wanna send this your way! I hope you like it!)
Before the war, Reyes had always enjoyed art. It was… not a well-known fact, but those close to him before the war noticed the art history books stashed around his home and tucked away in his bookshelf. How he perked up slightly when the conversation even remotely moved toward fine art or history, or how Reyes eyes would spend a little too long lingering over the Café Terrace painting hanging on the wall of his home whenever he had a moment of quiet, ever tracing with his eyes the firm strokes of paint across the canvas as if he was looking at it for the first time. But, for whatever reason, he kept quiet about the interest unless provoked. Perhaps it was the stress of the possible impending war at the time, maybe he just didn’t like sharing, or maybe he was afraid to share. Nobody really knew. And when Reyes came back, emerged from the vault to find all traces of art history knowledge gone. His books, his painting… He didn’t bother even mentioning it to anyone of this new age. Maybe if Nora was there, she would have noticed it; a light, gone from Reyes’ eyes.
The Commonwealth was a bleak wasteland in the eyes of Reyes, nothing like the paintings he clung to in his memory to desperately. The vivid blues, greens and oranges used by Van Gogh in his thick strokes, the deep purple and shifting yellows of Picasso’s cubism, the delicate layering of pale blues by Monet… The Michelangelo, the Degas, the Dali, the Rivera, the Manet, the Hooper… It was gone, lost in the dust that was scattered across the waste. Nobody cared for art, and Reyes grew cold. Colder than he was before.
But there was a particular request, brought to his attention by the mayor of Goodneighbor… A Gallery? In the wastes? Surely nothing could have survived after the bombs fell, but was someone trying to collect together art? Maybe putting their own on display? From what he was told, there seemed to be more to it than just an innocent display – But the mayor didn’t have to persuade him, he felt his heart tugging toward the gallery the closer he got, a rush he had not felt in over 200 years.
He went alone, against X6-88s judgement, but he complied with his request to go alone. A part of Reyes wished he hadn’t, an even deeper part of him was glad he did.
When he entered the gallery, and after clearing the raiders that attacked without remorse, he finally got to realize where he was standing – it was a bloody sight. Body parts, bones, blood, all of it horrid, but not anything new, not anything he hadn’t seen before. No, it was the art that sent a chill crawled up his spine, gazing at the paintings that hung on the wall. There was not in fear of what he looked at – it was a sense of wonder, a curiosity prickling at his brain. The distorted faces, some slightly deconstructed and eyes glowing yellow as they stared back at the onlooker. Reyes could also see it was not paint upon the unprimed canvas as well. No, not paint… If the smell didn’t make it obvious. He didn’t want to think on it too long, not yet.
The further he entered the gallery, the more seemed to click while simultaneously raising new questions. Who was this Pickman? What was he like? From the tape he had found and listened too, he did not seem brash or boisterous in his actions. Like his paintings, though erratic at first glance, seemed… Meticulous, every stroke planned even when an unexpected blossom of inspiration came. There was no randomness to the paintings or the bodies that littered the building. Pickman only killed raiders, it was intentional. But there was another layer to this – his paintings were not for study like Da Vinci and his illustrations of the human form – Pickman was disturbed, there was no question about that.
He needed to meet him, to see who this was. Was he a monster, like he had heard? Or like many other artists lost in history… misunderstood. In need of more understanding.
Traversing the tunnels of Pickman’s gallery was not particularly fun, especially with the mines littered about, thankful for being able to jump out of the way of the first one, Reyes quickly learned to look where he stepped here. The walls cast spectral shadows in the orange glow of the lantern light the further he went. Was he entering a trap? Surely he could get himself out on his own, maybe… Hopefully. Perhaps this was not the best plan, but it was too late now as he approached what seemed to be the end, gazing down through his scope from a fair distance above in the tunnel.
Three raiders, and a man in a suit with his hands above his head. His features were… Soft, hair surprisingly clean and well kept, facial hair trimmed evenly, suit in fair condition. He stared at the Raiders without an ounce of fear, it seemed, even with a gun pointed at him.
There was a moment, Pickman’s eyes glanced upward. His gaze met Reyes through the scope. His grey eyes startlingly clear, and with a strange beauty in the long stare, a calmness.
A shot blast echoed and bounced around the tunnel walls as a bullet connected with Pickman, the man tearing his eyes away as he groaned in pain, falling to the ground. Reyes was not sure how fast he moved, but before much more could be realized he was attacking the Raiders. No, not now, not when he had just found him. He had to meet him, had to know if he had found an equal, a connection in this waste of a world, maybe? He would not let them take this man away, he would decide his fate.
The screams and gunshots never reached the surface, echoing through the tunnels and being absorbed by the underground. Nobody would ever know it happened. Reyes stood, turned away from Pickman, wiping the blood off of his gun. It was a fruitless effort, it seemed, but his attention was quickly turned to Pickman himself. ‘Quite small for a notorious, bloodthirsty killer,’ Reyes thought, ‘and much too innocent of a face.’ It was the eyes, those cold grey eyes. Beautiful grey, like clouds. Unforgiving, like a murderer.
Pickman stood up, holding his side with one hand, injecting a stimpack with another. He grunted a moment, taking a deep breath as the medicine pulsed through his body, standing up straight to face who saved him but could also very well be his end. Again, there was no fear in his eyes, no storm in the still grey iris.
“That was… Close. Thank you,” Pickman spoke slowly, calmly, but happy regardless of what had just happened. “Those people deserved worse than death,”
Reyes could not help the laugh that bubbled forth. He wasn’t even sure why he was laughing. “In comparison to what you seem to be doing? I don’t know,”
Pickman gave an icy smile, lowering his hand from his wound, the blood already staining his suit.
“And yet you still murdered them without question,” There was a slight challenge in his voice, a prodding at Reyes – a mutual curiousness about the man who just saved him. Reyes cocked a brow.
“They were killers. If I hadn’t jumped in, you would be dead,”
“Then that does not make you much better, huh Killer?” Pickman continued to prod, taking a half step closer. Reyes swallowed, narrowing his eyes down at the man.
“You’re one to talk,” Reyes spoke without restraint. Pickman smiled at that.
“In any case, let me repay you,” The chilling suaveness and confidence in Pickmans voice almost intimidated Reyes. A ‘repayment’ from this man could mean many things. He tightened his jaw, ignoring the shiver traveling up his spine as he stood up a little straighter.
“What did you have in mind?”
“A gift, nothing more. If you look deep into my painting ‘Picnic for Stanley,’ you will find my gratitude,”
Pickman took a confident, smooth step forward, taking Reyes’ hand without restraint. Reyes jumped at the sudden touch, feeling the cool metal pressed firmly into the middle of his palm before Pickman forced his fingers closed around it. “You will need this,” He explained, eyes never breaking contact, analyzing him. Reyes had to force his eyes down, even then he could feel Pickman’s gaze upon him as he looked over the new key in his hand. Reyes looked back up, pulling himself away from Pickmans cool touch.
“You have an interesting subject matter for your paintings, Pickman,” Reyes began, Pickman gave a please smile.
“Do you like it? Very few appreciate my work, but I do so love to create my pieces,” Pickman continued to speak in his ever calm tone, it was almost pensive. Reyes thought for a moment before he nodded, stowing the key into his pocket.
This was the troubled man behind the canvas, yet he appeared so… normal. How deceiving looks can be in the wastes. What could possibly be going on in that twisted mind of his? The prickle of curiosity continued to fester in the back of his mind.
“I do,” Reyes nodded slowly, tucking his gun away and moving toward the door. “Reminds me of Picasso,” he commented offhandedly without really realizing.
Pickman blinked, watching Reyes. He stepped forward again, closer. They were entering personal space now, Reyes shifted uncomfortably.
“…Picasso?” Pickman asked. ‘”I’ve never met the man,”
Reyes froze, almost laughing. He shook his head.
“Well, he died in the 1970’s, so… I’d be really surprised if you had met him,” Reyes chuckled. When he met eyes with Pickman this time, it was an intense look. He was fully serious, he wanted him to continue, to tell him more. He hungered for more, just as Reyes desired to understand Pickman. Reyes swallowed thickly. “Um… He did this thing, where he… Deconstructed his subjects with just a paintbrush. Pulling them apart into just shapes… It was quite grotesque at the time,”
“It sounds beautiful,” Pickman smiled, speaking without hesitation. “A man after my heart, though killing a man with a paintbrush seems a bit difficult,”
Reyes shook his head again, this made him laugh for real.
“No, no… that’s not what I meant,” Reyes took a half step away from Pickman, trying to escape those still staring eyes. “I mean he would paint from his mind a deconstruction of someone’s… face, or their body, onto the canvas. Not actually physically. It was an outlet for… insecurities, anger, emotions,” Reyes waved a hand. “But, this all in the past. It’s all gone now,”
Pickman stood absolutely still, a quickening to his heart rate for the first time in months. As Reyes moved to leave, Pickman lunged forward to catch his arm. Reyes instinctively yanked away when grabbed, hand moving to his gun but not quite grabbing it.
“Killer,” Pickman spoke, still so calm, too calm, like a deceivingly warm breeze before a winter storm. And the name, “Killer,”… it was almost affectionate in the way he said it. He offered a smile when he saw Reyes grimace at the name. Too kind, too casual.
“Come back soon,” Pickman smiled warmly. “I’d enjoy your company, and your input on my pieces. You are the first I’ve ever met to have an informed eye in the fine art of painting,” He stepped forward. Before Reyes could protest, he stroked a hand down the side of Reyes’ face. An affectionate gesture, if not for the slight roughness as he forced his chin up to get a better look of his neck. “Though I work alone, I could paint your portrait. You have a lovely face, such lovely features like those pre-war magazines… I would love to see your head on display-”
Reyes caught Pickmans hand in his quickly, pulling it away. His jaw tightened.
“-as a painting, that is,” Pickman quickly smiled, a little darker than before. Reyes narrowed his eyes at him, Pickman’s grey eyes unyielding.
“I’ll keep my head, thanks,” Reyes released, stepping away. He looked Pickman up and down, who was seemingly unoffended by his words. Reyes turned, walking away. Before reaching the door, hand hovering over the doorknob, he turned his head back around.
“… I’ll see you later, Pickman,”
“Later, Killer,” Pickman smiled, a fading echo of whistling reaching his ears as he put more distance between him and the grotesque gallery.
There’s a part 2 to this submission for those interested!
