Slatyr [0003]

Narrative of how I'd understand the character's archetype:

It was that damp mattress from the alley that left her muscles aching, along with not only a scratch in her throat - yet again, but that same very horridly woozy feeling deep within her belly that she could not afford to have addressed. She had never thought that a bottlecap would be worth more than government-issued currency, especially since her husband's services in the Marine Corp had given her a rather accommodating lifestyle in the pre-war United States of America, and their son would have had a very prosperous future, too.

During her pregnancy, the couple would talk well into the early evening hours, setting aside retirement funds, government bonds or deciding upon savings accounts to open for her husbands stateside academics - even as far as opening correspondence at MIT for when to apply for grants or scholarships. The entire world was simply open to the family that she was merely the genesis of...

Beneath the glaring sunlight that entirely blinded her field of view at ascent from the cryo-vault, her eyes would soak in the radiance of those leagues beyond miles of dead grass, scorched foliage, shattered roads, collapsed skyways, and as a scenic center-piece: the heartbreaking wreckage of former Boston, Massachusetts; its toppling city skyline brooding within the bay of the now lonesome Atlantic Ocean. Today would be the day that she would venture to the rooftop of a skyscraper.

The entire ground floor of the groaning tower reeked of not only iron-laden blood, but also of months-rotting bodyparts and meat, while the voice roaring into the building's intercom spoke with such a foreign hatred, that she'd instantly forget specifically the details of what it said, only knowing that she had gathered enough ammunition for a tactical fighting chance - whatever the size of that thing may be. She'd regret only at having not practiced alongside her husband at the shooting ranges he'd frequent.

The large green men calling themselves 'super mutants' are like visions of the things from her childhood nightmares - their hounds quite literally are; furthermore, if it hadn't been for her experiencing the feelings of not only reactionary murder, but also the many highs of the far-more-potent post-war lines of street drugs, then maybe her appeal for suicide could be diverted to work against itself one day. She would often lament how the places she'd rest her head prior to the boathouse would somehow steal more and more of the woman she once knew as herself.

That condemned neighborhood in the woods north of Concord was no longer her home; that fact would need to be buried and forgotten there in that tomb of her beloved. So quickly, she'd realize the changes that this scorched place had burrowed into her wounded spirit, twisting how she felt toward humanity into a form of something worth a measure of grave contemplation, only with a diligence and feeling of sincere reflection through the self, as opposed the constant undoing of this forever hellscape of de javu...

What to do...