Most of the (positive) talk about Preston is that he is an Actual Angel, a perfect little peach, the man people of the Commonwealth stop in the street to give gifts because that’s how much his work means to them. Don’t get me wrong, his optimism and kindness are beautiful, but Preston, the angel is even more impressive in light of Preston, the soldier.
The man who fought and lost the Quincy Massacre, betrayed by a former ally, the Preston that watched his commanding officer and the innocent people he swore to protect die. The idealist that watched the organization he idolized from youth crumble around him from greed and corruption, and then instead of forsaking it in bitterness, vowed to make it better.
A title like The Last Minuteman doesn’t happen by accident. He had to have fought well both physically and intellectually for that burden. To survive Quincy, to gather the pieces and head for Lexington, and then Concord.
He’s been through some shit. Take him around the Commonwealth with you and listen to him filter everything through his hypervigilance…
“Man, you could defend this place against an army.”
“This is a good place for an ambush, keep your eyes out.”
“[Fire in] short, controlled bursts.”
[stands still for a minute] “We should get going.”
“It’s too quiet.”
Shit, if Preston doesn’t have PTSD, who does?
Someone talk to me about mentally ill Preston Garvey, who admits to you that he went through a suicidal period and is working his way out. Who by all rights probably still doesn’t want to get out of his shitty two hundred-year-old mattress in the morning, but still does, because god damnit, someone has to make the world a better place.