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.
