wyntir_knight | Snowflake Challenge

Day 12

In your own space, create a fanwork. Make a podfic, an icon, a sketch, a meta, or a rec list. Arts and crafts. Cross stitch. Draft an essay about a particular medium. Put together a picspam or a fanmix. Write a review of book you love, a ship manifesto, a you-should-be-listening-to-this-band essay. Create something. Leave a comment in this post saying you did it. Include a link to your post if you feel comfortable doing so.

Title: Pickman's Model
Fandom: Fallout 4
Rating: M (?)
Warnings: Violence, Dark themes, Serial Killers
Relationships: none
Characters: Sole Survivor - female, Pickman

Summary: What if the Sole Survivor had been a serial killer before the war? Is Pickman a potential student or a rival?

A/N: This is the first thing that I have written in a long time and I am rather pleased with it, even though it needs to be edited and cleaned up a little.

The Sole Survivor of Vault 111, Nora Everett, moved through the gallery, examining the paintings and the organic sculptures arranged oh so carefully throughout. It all had its charm, she supposed, managing to come across as combining the Fauvism and Expressionism schools with just a hint of a Surrealist quality. It had some merit though it was clear that the artist was nothing more than a rank amateur. But there was potential there. There was passion. She could work with that.

“Come on Dogmeat,” she murmured to her dog. “Let’s go find who’s been leaving me all those love notes.”

She found her quarry deep in a cave system under the building facing off against a group of Raiders. There was the normal posturing followed by a fight where Pickman actually held his own quite effectively. As soon as the last Raider fell the Nora made her move, tossing a handful of Pickman’s calling card into the room, allowing the white and red pieces of paper to flutter to the ground at the man’s feet.

“Ah,” he said as he looked up at his guest. “I see that my gifts have been found. Did you enjoy them?”

Nora dropped into the space and strolled toward him slowly. There was a seductive grace there, the movements of a tiger feeling out a potential mate. She could feel Kremvh's Tooth hanging from her hip, its weight a comfort as the voice inside of it hummed out its desire for more blood, more sacrifice, more offerings. Dogmeat followed close behind, not caring about the morality of the woman’s actions, only following out of a deep sense of loyalty. Just as the old woman had said he would.

“I found them,” Nora finally said. “I hadn’t realized that they were intended to be gifts. Random bodies just left out to rot in the sun. Not a lot of artistry there.”

“Then why are you here?” Pickman asked, his eyes narrowing slightly.

“Just call me … intrigued,” Nora replied with a sly smile as she stopped before the body of one of the Raiders. “I saw what you did upstairs.”

“And?” Pickman asked as he approached her. “What did you think of my art?”

Nora shrugged, never taking her eyes off of the body at her feet. He had good cheekbones, a broad chest, and strong arms and legs. He was a fine specimen, if she was being honest with herself.

“You have potential. It’s a tad more … gritty than I would have gone with,” Nora finally said. “It’s a little more splatterpunk than I usually like, especially your chandelier, but we all have to start somewhere, I suppose.”

Pickman clearly bristled at that, his face closing into a mask of cold, hard anger.

“And what do you know of my work? You clearly cannot see the beauty of my visions!” he snapped.

“I missed nothing, Pickman,” Nora said as she turned to face him. At her side Kremvh's Tooth began to hum in her mind, calling out for this man’s sacrifice. “I saw all of your work upstairs. I watched you here. And you are clearly in need of a tutor. You have great potential, Pickman, but you deep to be willing to accept a new muse.”

Pickman snorted derisively and crossed his arms over his chest.

“And what makes you think that you are worthy to be that muse?” he asked.

Nora smiled a little wistfully.

“My exploits would hardly have survived,” she said. “The few newspapers I’ve been able to find are obsessed with the war, with Winters case, with the food riots. Other news pushed me off the front pages in the weeks before the bombs fell.”

Nora saw a slight glimmer of understanding appear in Pickman’s eyes.

“You’re the Sole Survivor of Vault 111,” he said. “The one everyone's talking about. Nora Everett, unless I’m mistaken?”

Nora nodded in response.

“They called me the Dollhouse Killer. Back in the day,” she said, a little wistfully. “Of course, they thought I was a man. White male between the ages of twenty five and forty. Above average intelligence. Educated. Low social skills. Likely working in a lower-middle income career. I, of course, allowed them to believe that. Allowed their misogyny and preconceptions to blind them to my truths. It allowed me to work far more effectively. And I never felt the need to stroke my ego with calling cards. My work was calling card enough.”

“And?” Pickman prompted.

“And, I was an artist. A sculptor, if you’d prefer,” Nora replied. “Not the only one of our trade roaming the streets of Boston, but certainly the only one who mattered. Of course, this new Boston is a very different place than the one I left. The world is far less subtle today. There’s less appreciation for a true artist.”

“Yes,” Pickman replied dramatically. “No one appreciates the genius of the truly tortured. No one appreciates the beauty of my work. They all refuse to look beyond their limited minds to see the beauty of the underlying horror!”

Nora made no attempt to hide her disdain.

“Are you done?” she asked. “Because if you are, I would like to get on with this. I have much to teach you and we don’t have long before rigor sets in on this lot.”

“Am I ….” Pickman broke off, sputtering. “Am I done? How dare you?! I have been following your exploits and you struck me as the type of person who would appreciate what I am trying to do here! What I am trying to create!”

“Yes, yes,” Nora said, fighting back her irritation. “I understand that you’re trying to shock and to horrify, but this is all so very … obvious. I mean, you haven’t even made an attempt to preserve that circle of heads out there. In a week, maybe two you’ll be left with skulls and nothing else. Hardly terrifying.”

“Excuse me?” Pickman asked, not making any attempt to hide his own rising anger.

“Oh, I’m sorry, has no one ever questioned your so-called genius?” Nora asked with a sneer, all patience leaving her as Kremvh's Tooth called out for blood. “Well then let me be the first. You’re work is immature without any of the refreshing qualities of a true Naive painter. You would have been better served to move in the style of Social Realism than whatever the hell it is that you think you’re doing here. Just imagine how horrifying American Gothic would have been had it been painted in blood a setler? Imagine how telling Migrant Mother could have been had she been forced to feed one child to the other! But you can’t imagine that, can you, Pickman? Your work is nothing more than that of a child finger painting with his own excrement.”

Pickman was fast, coming at Nora with a small sharp blade aimed for the space between her third and fourth ribs. Nora was faster. Kremvh's Tooth was in her hand and sliding across Pickman’s back as she spiraled past him. He fell instantly as she severed his spinal column just below his shoulder blades. And her sword sang out in rapture.

“Now,” Nora said, kneeling beside Pickman’s body, collapsed like a marionette whose strings had been cut. “You wouldn’t allow me to teach you, so I will let you be the first in my new collection. You’ll be placed in the centre of your gallery. I’ll need to think of a proper pose for you. Something telling of your life and your sins. I have time though. There are ways to keep the rigor at bay.”

And in that moment, Nora finally saw understanding in Pickman’s eyes as his life started to fade.