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Chapter Text

Sharp, aching pain spread over your ribs as you lay on the ground, small rocks digging in where you’d been kicked and beaten not an hour before. The two men who had ambushed you on the road had beaten you senseless, and kept up the constant barrage of hits until you’d finally grown too weak and sore to properly fight back. You suspected they had only stopped so that they didn’t have to carry your unconscious, or dead, body to this destination. Now, one stood by the heels of their employer while the other plunged a shovel into the dirt, over and over, just feet from your head. It didn’t take a REPCONN scientist to figure out that they weren’t digging for buried treasures in Old World graves. 

It was only when the one man grew bored of scraping away at the hard-baked Nevada clay that he finally stopped digging, throwing the shovel off to the side. “This is bullshit. I ain’t diggin’ an inch more in that goddamned rock.”

“You sure that’s deep enough?” 

“Shuddup. If you got a problem with it, you get that shovel and start diggin’. My hands and my back fuckin’ hurt.”

You shifted, wincing at the pain from your injuries as you dragged yourself up to your knees. It was a struggle– your wrists had been bound over your gloves with rope, and your legs had been tied at your ankles. Regardless, you managed, twisting your hands to loosen them enough to untie; or at least, to make it easier to maneuver enough to untie your ankles. 

The man who had been digging noticed your squirming and chuckled. “Guess who’s wakin’ up over here?”

Luck was not on your side tonight. The man who had hired the two thugs noticed your predicament and stepped forward, tapping the ashes off his cigarette–careful not to get any on the white of his tacky checkered suit. 

The thug who had been watching the digging scowled at the man’s apparent dismissal from under his thick, dark eyebrows. “You got what you were after, so pay up.”

The man in the suit rolled his eyes. “You’re cryin’ in the rain, pally.” He took a long last drag off his cigarette before tossing it into the dirt, crushing it under a battered dress shoe that had once been polished to a shine. “Time to cash out.”

He sauntered in your direction, casual in taking his time. The thug with the dark brows threw his hands up, exasperated. “Would ya just get it over with?”

The man in the suit raised a single finger, as if to shush him with a gesture. “Maybe cons kill people without lookin’ em in the face,” he began, locking eye contact with you. It was distinctly uncomfortable. “But I ain’t a fink, dig?”

He pulled a silver disc from the inside of his suit jacket. It glinted as he turned it to and fro in the light of their campfire. “You made your last delivery, kid,” he murmured, holding it up pointedly. “I’m sorry you got twisted up in this scene.” 

Putting the disc back into his inner pocket, he rummaged around some more. His hand re-emerged, clasped around a silvery 9mm pistol. The dark haired thug looked away while scratching the back of his head, disgusted. The one who had been digging, a younger man with reddish hair done up in a spike, went wide-eyed and slack-jawed, paling further under the moonlight. You glared at their employer, opening your mouth to speak, but he cut you off before you could so much as make a noise.

“From where you’re kneeling, must seem like an 18 karat run of bad luck. Truth is,” he shifted, eye glinting with a hint of regret as he aimed the barrel squarely at your face. 

“The game was rigged from the start.”

He pulled the trigger, and the resulting blinding flash of light and deafening bang were the last things you knew before infinite darkness. 

Chapter Text

Every man has two deaths; when he is buried in the ground, and the last time someone says his name. In some ways, men can be immortal.

-Ernest Hemingway

Pale light bit at your brain, and the first sensation you became acutely aware of was the squinting of your eyes,  blinding white flooding your vision. Your eyelids pressed together--one, two, three- and the layer of light began to recede. Movement came into your vision, repetitive dark shapes swooshing past; the blades of a ceiling fan, as it slowly came into focus. The wood slats of the ceiling and wall followed, filling in your vision like ripples in a pond. You moved your head to get a better look at your surroundings. Sudden static thwud noises filled your ears, accompanied by a sharp pain that drew a line from the top of your forehead to the back of your skull. You stilled in response, but your eyes darted around within the confines of your vision, trying to discern where the hell you were. Carefully, you slid an arm under your side, trying to push yourself up as much as possible without jostling your rattled brain. The only real result was making your vision swim like heat off a hot caravan trail, sending you sinking back down towards the stiff mattress. 

“Whoa, easy there, easy.” 

A jolt of adrenaline shot through you, snapping your head in the direction the voice had come from. You gritted your teeth with regret the second your ears filled with static throbbing again, pain ricocheting through your skull. 

An older man eased himself into the chair beside you with a warm smile, gently pressing you back with a light hand on your arm. Still reeling from the sensory input, you felt the bed springs meet your side, your exhausted body giving in and slowly collapsing. The man fully sat down, leaning his elbows on his knees. 

“You’ve been out cold a couple of days now,” he informed you. His eyes flicked over you, watchful for any sign of skittishness or sudden movement. “Why don’t you just relax a second, and get your bearings.” 

Slowly and carefully, he reached towards your face. You followed his hand with your eyes, not daring to make a move, lest your head punish you for considering such impunity again. He ran his fingertips over your forehead, but the sensation was muffled. You reached up quickly, feeling the edge of your hairline, and were met with a strip of cloth--a bandage. With a sigh, your hand dropped to the mattress. The man sat back, concentration lining his features as he assessed you.

“Let’s see what the damage is,” he murmured, tone so lighthearted that it sounded like a joke. “How about your name? Can you tell me your name?”

“Hmmmmm.” Your voice caught in the dryness of your throat, coming out instead as a croaking grumble. What was your name? The man reached down, producing a white bottle. Across it, H2O was scrawled in red ink. The lid popped as he broke the seal. What was your name? Your brain ached with the effort of remembering. Who were you? Your eyes glanced at the wooden walls, the unfamiliar furniture littering the room around the unfamiliar man. Where were you? Why were you here? What happened? What was your name? 

The plastic of the water bottle’s mouthpiece brushed your lower lip, drawing your focus. Gingerly, you raised a weak hand, tilting the bottle just enough to take a drink. The lukewarm water seemed to breathe new life into your parched mouth and throat, and you took another sip. The man returned the lid to the water bottle, still patiently awaiting your answer. “Pace yourself, now. Don’t want you overdoing it.”

You squeezed your eyes shut, forcing yourself to think. As surely as the water had temporarily rehydrated the arid desert your mouth had become, the answer bubbled to the surface. “(y/n) (l/n),” you finally answered, voice still gravelly with dehydration. “Though another comes to mind...E...something. I….I think it might have been a nickname? Can’t remember the rest of it.” You furrowed your brows, trying to make sense of what your brain had given you. “The number six comes to mind too, but I don’t think it was a nickname or anything. I don’t know the significance, if there is any. Might just be my favorite number.” You focused harder,  in an attempt to remember the name that was oh-so-gingerly resting a foot on the tip of your tongue.

“Well, that’s a start,” the man said encouragingly. “Can’t say it’s what I would have picked for you, but if that’s your name, that’s your name. I’m sure your nickname will come around eventually.” He held out a hand, conveniently within reach, and yours shook slightly as you took it. “I’m Doc Mitchell. Welcome to Goodsprings.”

Goodsprings. The word, place, sounded familiar, but the details of its significance eluded you as much as the rest of your nickname, sunk away into the void of your seemingly blank memory. Whatever it was, it was where you were now, and for better or worse, your throbbing skull told you there wasn’t a damn thing you could do about it. 

Doc Mitchell continued. “Now, I hope you don’t mind, but I had to go rooting around there in your noggin to pull all the bits of lead out.” He gestured to his own head, seemingly pointing out his receded, white hair. Lead?  

“I take pride in my needlework, but you’d better tell me if I left anything out of place.” Reaching for the side table, he produced a RobCo Reflectron, carefully pressing it into your hand. “How’d I do?”

Fumbling, you found the Reflectron’s switch. Gingerly, you pushed yourself up again, bracing your weight on your elbow as you looked down at the device--thankfully, your head remained clear this time. Though age had taken its toll on the screen itself, lending to speckles of missing lights, your image came through as clearly as if you were looking at an Old World mirror. The (h/c) shade of your hair--cut to be done up in a sharp ridge along your scalp, though presently laying defeated--was dulled with Mojave dust, and you took in your nose, your mouth, your bone structure, even the pallor of your skin. But your eyes, (e/c) and sharp, glinted with alertness, even above the dark circles that spoke to the toll your circumstances took on you. They reminded you of a bird of prey, a hawk perhaps, or even an…

“Eagle,” you said suddenly, looking up at Doc Mitchell. The name clicked into place in your head, the word as familiar as your own name, as a name. “I think that’s my nickname.” 

Doc chuckled. “See, I told ya it’d come back eventually.”

You returned to scrutinizing your appearance in the Reflectron. The only thing clouding your image was the swath of white cloth wrapped around your head, brown blotches of dried blood staining it where a wound had seeped through. Gently, you plucked at where it was tucked near your temple until it came free, unwinding the many layers. The skin in the center of your forehead tugged painfully when you reached the end, and Doc Mitchell carefully aided you in peeling the fabric from dried blood. Returning to the Reflectron, you were not prepared for the two neat rows of stitches that were responsible for holding your brains in. You swallowed hard against the burn of bile that crept up your throat--not out of disgust, but rage that boiled in the pit of your stomach. The burning heat of anger puttered out to defeat as quickly as it had risen. For better or for worse, you were in Goodsprings, and there wasn’t a damn thing you could do about it.

“Lead,” you muttered hoarsely, slowly processing the briefing the doctor had given you. You lowered the Reflectron to the old bed. “You--you can’t--I’m--” 

There were too many questions flitting across your mind, but a single cohesive thought made it to the surface. “I was shot? In the face?! ”

“It would seem so. I’m sorry I can’t give you more information--I didn’t see what happened,” Doc Mitchell explained. He seemed to be waiting for something, watching you expectantly. Oh, right. His question . 

“It’s….uh,” you said, vaguely gesturing to your face. There was too much to process right now. “Everything is where it goes. Except the holes in my forehead, but I think you knew that already.” You tried to offer a joking smile, handing the Reflectron back to him, but all you could manage was a halfhearted grimace. 

“Well, I got most of it right, anyway. The stuff that mattered,” he replied, smirking at your first attempt at humor. 

Shifting your elbow, you propped yourself up a bit more, now that the blurring of your vision and the incessant pounding in your head had begun to recede, thanks to your increasing hydration.

“More water?” he offered.

“Please.” 

The good doctor unscrewed the cap, cautiously handing you the bottle. His hand lingered, hesitant to let go, lest you drop it. The weight of the water in your hand made it shake violently, but you brought the bottle to your lips through sheer determination. Purified water had never tasted so good. You rested the bottom of the bottle on the mattress, forcing yourself to drink slowly, and not overexert your arm in your recovering state.

“Let’s see about cleaning that wound up.” Doc stood, rubbing his knees as though they ached, and made his way to a set of metal shelves.

Gathering his supplies, he got to work, using antiseptic and a cloth to gently wipe the dried blood from your stitches. You flinched at the sting when he brushed past them, and when his careful daubs pulled hair with the scabs, but you did your best to remain still--and for the most part, upright. With the gradual addition of more water to your system, you were feeling more alert than ever, even if your head did still hammer with the aftershocks of two bullets. By the time Doc had another cloth bandage wrapped around your head, careful to stay out of your hair now that you were awake to style it, you had eased yourself up fully into a sitting position.

“Okay,” Doc said, replacing the last of his supplies on the shelf. “Now that you’re up and alert, there’s no sense in keeping you in bed anymore. Let’s see if we can get you on your feet.” 

He waited for your confirmation, and when you gave a slight, non-brain-jostling nod, he held out his arms, letting you hold onto him to steady yourself. Looking down, you were in clothes that you didn’t recognize, a pair of plain white shorts and a plain white top, both greyed with age. Holding your elbows securely, he was ready to ease you back onto the bed at a moment’s notice, but you persevered, sliding off the bed and onto your feet. Your legs shook dangerously, the sensation of standing wholly unfamiliar for the span of a few minutes, but the shaking slowly subsided as your muscles remembered what they were supposed to do.

“Good,” Doc commented, slowly easing away to let you gain your own footing. “Why don’t you walk down to the end of the room, over by that Vigor Tester machine there?” He led the way, closely observing your body language for any sign that you needed help.

Testing your feet, you put one forward, then another, registering consciously how walking worked before it became an automatic movement. Your natural gait was quick as you crossed the warm floorboards, worn soft and smooth with age, heading for the little machine at the other end of the room. Doc chuckled, though the lines in his brow gave away his concern, like that of a pre-war parent worrying after their child on one of those old playgrounds. “Take it slow now, it ain’t a race,” he grinned.

A laugh barked from your throat, harsher than you meant it to. “Life is a race,” you quipped, “isn’t that what the old billboards say?” You weren’t sure where that came from, but you got the sense that it was a joke you had made often enough before your accident for it to be reflexive. You rested your hands on the Tester, trying--and succeeding--to cast Doc a smile.

“I believe they were talking about a car, but if life is a race, I’m inclined to think you’ve already won. Cheating death ain’t exactly losin’ behavior.” He smiled, though it didn’t crinkle his eyes as much as it should have. He nodded at your success in reaching the Vigor Tester. “Lookin’ good so far. Go ahead and give the Vigor Tester a try. We’ll learn right quick if you’ve got back all your faculties. Here, press that funny little button on the front to start it.”

You went through the test point-by-point, which was mostly a self-rating of your attributes in seven different areas; your strength, your perception, endurance, charisma, intelligence, agility, and luck, based on different descriptors. A derisive snort punctuated your selection on luck, leaving it solidly in the middle of the scale. You weren’t sure if you were extremely lucky, or extremely unlucky. Had to balance out somewhere, right?

Another click, and the tester showed the overview of your results. “Yep,” Doc said, eyeing your ratings. “That’s a pretty standard score there, but after what you’ve been through, I’d say that’s great news.” He gestured towards your luck score. “You should give yourself more credit, kid. With luck like yours, I’m surprised them bullets didn’t just turn right around and climb back into the gun. But, I reckon these old machines were meant to encourage an even keel of attributes.” 

He turned, beckoning for you to follow him, and you obliged. “Well, now we know that your vitals are good, but that don’t mean them bullets didn’t leave you nuttier than a bighorner dropping. What do you say you take a seat on my couch and go through a couple of questions? See if your dogs’re still barking.”

“I feel fine,” you assured him, though your vision faintly rippled again. Defiantly blinking to clear your vision, you allowed yourself to sink into the soft cushions of the couch. 

“Be that as it may, I’d rather send you back out with a clean bill of health.” If Doc noticed your blinking, he didn’t say anything, pulling a pink chair over to face you with a scrape. He set up a metal stand beside him, carefully propping up papers covered in symmetrical blotched ink. The chair gave a small creak as he sat down. “All right. I’m gonna say a word. I want you to say the first thing that comes to mind.”

You slowly nodded your understanding.

“Dog.”

“Train.”

“House.”

“Shelter.”

“Night.”

“Shroud.”

“Bandit.”

“Reasonable.”

“Light."

“Dark.” 

“Mother.”

“Caretaker.”

“You’re doing great.” He scribbled some notes on a piece of paper. “Now, I have a few statements. I want you to tell me how much they sound like something you would say.”

You grinned faintly. “I can only tell you as much as it sounds like I’d say them now,” you joked. “I can’t really remember anything from before….this.” You gestured at the bandage.

“I’m sure your memory will come back, in time. It’s going to take a while to completely heal from what you’ve been through.” Doc smiled at you encouragingly. “Are you ready to keep going?”

“Of course.”

“First one. Conflict just ain’t in my nature.” 

“More or less.” 

“I ain’t given to relying on others for support.”

The defiance you had felt in ridding yourself of your lightheadedness--your determination to get back on your feet--came back to you, almost as if you were embarrassed , your pride damaged, because you had finally required help from someone. “I’d certainly say so.”

“I’m always fixin’ to be the center of attention.”

“Hell no. At least, I don’t think so.”

“I’m slow to embrace new ideas.”

You grinned. “Don’t have much of a choice, do I? Everything feels like a new idea right now, might as well embrace it.” That earned you a sarcastic eye roll from the doctor.

“I charge in to deal with my problems head-on.” He paused. “You know, I should probably have re-evaluated how these were phrased before we started.”

“I can’t say that charging into things appeals to me all too much right now,” you laughed. “But I suppose I could, if I had to.”

“We’re almost done here,” Doc said, noting your posture. You had somehow sunk further into the couch, letting it cradle your body, and your eyes were threatening to start drifting closed. “What do you say you have a look at this.” He gestured at the first ink blot paper. “Tell me what you see.”

You stared at it, the blotches curving upward and away from one another. “An angry two-headed ant,” you decided, picking out the different parts of the ant’s body, the legs, the pincers, all from a little ink smeared on a page. Doc pulled the page away, setting it on the side table.

“Okay. How about this one?”

You did a double take. “Space-age technology.” You were too embarrassed to say what you thought it looked like, or to cop to that embarrassment. The squiggly lines at the very top gave an impression of lightning, giving it the alternate appearance of a transmission station antennae. With a lot of ground below it.

“Last one.”

“Looks like two yao guai high-fiving,” you mused. “Or maybe a bearded man. Or a light in the darkness. I don’t know, I’m stuck on the yao guai one.”

“Well, that’s all she wrote,” Doc said, shrugging. “Technically, I don’t have nothin’ to compare it to, so maybe you should just have a look at the results. See if it seems alright to you.” He handed the paper over. At the top were your Vigor Tester results, below, the answers to his questions, all scrawled in a hasty hand. “One thing is for certain. Your sense of humor is still intact, so I suppose that’s a fair enough sign that you’ll be alright.”

Your results didn’t look abnormal to you. Doc hadn’t looked perturbed either, or given any sign that your results were bad from another point of view. You handed the paper back. “Looks good to me.”

Doc placed it on the table with the ink blot papers. “Before I turn you loose, I need one more thing from you. It’s a form to fill out, so I can get a sense of your medical history. It’s just a formality; not like I expect to find you’ve got a family history for gettin’ shot in the head.” He handed you the blank form, each item in a long list, with a descriptor and check box beside it. “If you can’t remember any of it, that’s fine too. Just go ahead and sign at the bottom.”

None of the items on it seemed like they fit you, so you signed the bottom, finger muscles remembering how to just as your legs had remembered to walk for you. Your signature was quite beautiful; even the shakiness from your current condition didn’t put a damper on the long lines and swoops. The form went with the other papers on the table, and you became aware of a telltale dry burn in the corners of your eyes, tiredness brought on by sitting somewhere too comfortable for too long. 

“All right, I guess that about does it.” He gave you another visual once-over. “Come with me. Let’s get you some clothes, and I’ll see you out.” He stood arthritically; but, noting your current condition, he still reached forward, offering you a hand up. “Of course, if you want to rest here a little longer, you are more than welcome to.”

“It’s alright, I’ve overstayed my welcome as it is.” You stood up without taking his hand, but offered him a confident smile instead. 

He led the way towards the front door, pausing to open a wardrobe in the front hall. Out of it came a set of leather armor, a set of metal armor, a blue jumpsuit with a gold 13 sewn into the back, a set of armor that looked pieced together from random wasteland items, a small brahmin-leather bag of caps, and various weapons, along with a cross-body courier-style bag--and, to your surprise, a canteen painted the same bold blue as the suit, with a similar 13 painted in bright yellow beneath the weathered finish. “This is all you had on you when you came in,” he said, setting them in your arms. “You should dress before you head out, so the locals don’t pick on you for lacking modesty.”

You began stuffing the clothes and weapons into the bag. The only thing that wouldn’t fit was a set of long throwing spears, and those Doc leaned against the side of the wardrobe. Without your memory, you couldn’t fathom why the hell you would have had this oddball collection of absolutely random crap, but you took it in stride. 

When everything else was tucked in the bag, you took the metal armor, carefully donning it in place of the white casual wear you’d been changed into. Doc turned away, affording you some privacy, but staying near should your condition suddenly nosedive. You suspected that the metal armor had been what you were wearing when you came in. Despite clear attempted cleaning, there were still grits of dirt in every hinge and fastener, and you were almost certain there were a few dark stains in the pattern of a splatter down the front. A splatter of something you didn’t want to think about.

You finished the look by strapping a caravan shotgun to your back, and settling an old, weathered 10mm pistol against your hip. The canteen rested against your thigh on the opposite leg, within easy reach.

“I’m decent. Do you mind if I leave the spears here for now, until I learn the town?”

Doc turned around, nodding his approval. “Of course, that’s a lot to haul around.” He appraised your outfit. “Maybe you should invest in a helmet,” he grinned. “All jokes aside, here’s this.” He placed a folded piece of paper in your palm. “I hope you don’t mind, but I gave that note a look. I thought it might help me find a next of kin, but it was just something about a platinum chip.” 

“No, I don’t mind. I would have done the same thing.” You stuffed the paper in your pocket. Right now, you were too tired, too overwhelmed, to even think about reading it. “I should be heading out, I don’t mean to take up all your time.” 

“I’m an old man, (y/n). I’ve got time to spare. Don’t you worry about it.” Doc waved a dismissive hand. “Well, if you’re heading back out there, you oughta have this.” 

He pulled something from the wardrobe, holding out a hand for your left arm. You went with it, watching as he clasped a cushioned cuff. Whatever it was, it felt bulky, and when it was secure, you gave your arm a few experimental twists. The weight would take some getting used to. 

“They call it a Pip-Boy,” Doc continued. You fiddled with the switches, turning on the device and flicking between the different categories and features. “I grew up in one of them Vaults they made before the war. We all got one. Ain’t much use to me these days, but you might want such a thing, after all you’ve been through.” His eyes became distant. “I know what it’s like, having something taken from you.” 

Swallowing, he brought his eyes back into focus. “That Pip-Boy has a vitals monitoring system, it’ll help you keep track of what you’ve got on you, and best of all, it has a radio. It’s like a little all-in-one computer; there’s not much it can’t do. It can even detect the proximity of other lifeforms; that was good for navigating the Vaults, they were old mazes, but it became good for avoiding potential enemies when I got out. I can only hope that it’ll help you avoid getting shot a second time around.”

“Thanks for patching me up, Doc. I really appreciate it. And thanks for the Pip-Boy.” 

He chuckled. “Don’t mention it. It’s what I’m here for.” 

You adjusted the strap of your bag under the strap of your shotgun. “Anything I should know before I go meet the locals?”

“Hmmmm.” He squinted, looking at the ceiling as he considered your question. “Well, if I were you, I’d have a chat with Sunny Smiles. She can help you remember how to fend for yourself in the desert--you’ll likely find her at the saloon. I reckon some of the other folks at the saloon might be able to help you out, too. Oh, and the metal fella, Victor. He’s the one who pulled you outta your grave.” 

Your breathing hitched. Grave? You’d not only been shot, but buried before you were even dead? Fucking rude. Well, that explained why there was so much dirt in your armor.

Doc’s gaze turned back to you, and you forced your lungs to keep going. You were barely on your feet; no sense in making yourself pass out. Given how fragile you still felt, you had your suspicions that it wouldn’t take much. A stiff breeze, even. 

Food. It occurred to you that, perhaps, part of your remaining weakness was the fact that you were running on at least two days without food. Water wasn’t enough to give you all your strength back, purified or not. “I’ll be sure to go meet them.”

“Also, you ever get hurt out there, you come right back. I’ll fix you up.” It was his turn to flash you a wry smile. “But please….try not to get killed anymore.”

Chapter Text

Stepping beyond Doc Mitchell’s door was like waking up all over again. The midday sun hit your eyes, momentarily blinding you and setting off the painful drumming in your skull and ears full force. The white across your vision slowly faded as your eyes adjusted to the brightness. It shone strongly in your face, seeming to reflect off an endless span of golden clay sand, and a wide, blue western sky. Doc Mitchell’s house, you discovered, sat up on a high hill that overlooked the valley before you. Dotting the landscape were the wooden buildings of a tiny town, some patched with mismatched wood slats to keep them in good repair. A few odd people moseyed about, caring for gardens full of banana yucca, honey mesquite and buffalo gourd, or herding huge, wild-eyed Bighorners back into their little grazing range, avoiding the occasional spiteful swipe of huge curved horns and mangy, radbitten fur. It looked for all the world as if the pre-war residents of the town had decided, two hundred years or so later, to reincarnate and simply continue where they had left off, melding perfectly into the new reality of the wasteland. Welcome to Goodsprings.

Cautiously, so as not to slip on the sand-coated clay of the hill and tumble, you made your way towards the town itself. There was simply so much to take in, in spite of it being such a tiny place, that your head thrummed a persistent, dull ache. You breathed easier once your boots met the even ground of the street below.

“Howdy, pardner! Might I say, you’re looking fit as a fiddle! ”

The metallic, slightly echoey voice came from behind, making you jump out of your skin. You whipped around, but the motion unbalanced your body and set your head to spinning, sending you stumbling backwards a few wobbly steps. A sharp object hit your heel, and you landed, unceremoniously, on your ass in the sun-baked dirt. Your hands came to your head, resting on either side of your wound, jarring pain pulsing at the back of your eyes. 

Squinting, you looked up at the owner of the offending voice, and were met by a cartoonish drawing of a cowboy flickering on a scanlined TV screen. The screen itself was set in the torso of a hulking robot, said torso framed by two huge “shoulders,” and long arms that hung to the ground, his tri-fingered pincer-hands idly clicking. All of this was precariously balanced above a single, massive wheel, and topped with what you presumed to be a small speaker, and a spinning piece that appeared to be an antennae. Or, possibly, simply an indicator of a working motor, though the slight vibration of his chassis was indication enough that his engine was well and fine.

The bot reached towards you, gently wrapping its pincer-hands around your shoulders, and righted you on your feet in one swift movement, faster than you could yelp or call for aid. “Sorry ‘bout that, I didn’t mean to startle ya.” 

“You’re fine,” you breathed, trying to tamp down the sudden shot of adrenaline that was still running in your veins. The pulsing behind your eyes lessened. “I don’t suppose you’re Victor? You’re the only… ‘metal fella,’ that I’ve seen around here so far.”

Victor laughed, a strangely tinny sound. “Yep, that’d be me.”

Adrenaline subsiding, your demeanor warmed. “Thanks for digging me out of that grave.” 

“Don’ mention it!” Victor said, his chassis bouncing slightly as if shrugging. Had he been human, there would have been a smile in his voice. You were nearly certain you heard one there anyway. “I’m always ready to lend a helping hand to a stranger in need.”

“How did you happen to find me?” Being underground wasn’t conducive to being seen.

“I was out for a stroll the other night when I heard the commotion up at the old bone orchard.” Victor gestured with a hand, vaguely waving towards a tall hill on the very outskirts of Goodsprings, one topped with a water tower. Scavenger birds circled high in the clouds above it, and you shuddered, mentally picturing their sharp beaks ripping chunks from your poorly-buried body. You shook your head, bringing yourself back to the reality in which that hadn’t happened, in some odd streak of New Vegas luck.

Victor continued, seeing your attention return to him. “Saw what looked like a bunch o’ bad eggs, so I laid low. Once they’d run off, I dug you up to see if you were still kickin’. Turns out, you were, so I hauled you off to the Doc right quick.” This time, he gestured up another hill, towards Doc Mitchell’s house. Looking between the cemetery hill and the house, you were surprised you’d survived losing that much blood. No wonder Doc Mitchell was stunned with the fact that you were still living.

“Do you know who those men were? Who attacked me?” you asked.

“Can’t say I’m familiar with the rascals,” Victor murmured thoughtfully. “Some of the fine folks in town might be able to help you out with that.”

Nodding, you hooked a thumb in your leather holster belt, and looped the other through the strap of your courier bag. “I’ll be sure to ask them. I wish I could remember what happened. Maybe I knew them. Probably not, but I’d like to know.”

“If you don’t remember now, you might later,” Victor said, repeating Doc Mitchell’s sentiment. “I think you just need to take it easy for a few days, pardner. Don’t go jumpin’ back in the ol’ saddle just yet. You gotta make sure you can hang on first. Speaking of, you should pr’y get somethin’ to eat.”

“Thanks for the advice.” You couldn’t help but smile. Something about his cowboy personality was charming in this old town, even if he was a huge robot that seemed to rightly belong somewhere more technologically inclined. “So, what’s your story? How did you end up in Goodsprings?”

Victor rolled forwards, gently turning you around by your shoulder to walk down towards the store and the saloon. “I moseyed into town, oh, ten, fifteen years ago? Before that, I…” he trailed off until the sound of gravelly, age-worn pavement under your feet and his wheel was all that filled the air between you. “Hmmm...I can’t quite seem to recall. Odd.” His chassis gave another slight shrug. “Anyway, it’s a right peaceful town, and I reckon it’s as fine a place to settle as any.”

“That’s nice,” you mused. “You know, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a robot like you before.”

“I’m a Securitron, RobCo security model 2060-B.” Victor said, sounding almost regretful . “You ever see any of my brothers, tell them Victor says howdy.” He rolled to a stop, just in front of the building. “This is your stop, pardner. Go on n’ get some chuck. Tell you what; you need someplace to sleep after, come find me. You’re welcome to use my bed.” He pointed in the direction opposite to the saloon. “My house is over yonder. You’ll know it when you see it.”

“Thank you for the offer, I may take you up on that.” you said, smiling up at his monitor. You weren’t sure where his optical sensors were, but you got the sense that he saw it all the same. “It was good to meet you, Victor. See you around.” 

“Happy trails!” Victor flicked his pincer-hand near his monitor, as if tipping a hat, then turned and wheeled off in the direction he’d pointed, chassis swaying too and fro as if it took extra momentum to wheel along the dusty trails lining the sloping hills.

Above you, the Prospector Saloon sign’s light flickered, drawing your attention. The first word was painted, as much of the Old World as the relics scattered and forgotten in front of the building. The second was a patched-together light, “sal” in red, a single “o” in white, and a final “on” consisting of multiple yellowed bulbs. Lower, an old neon sign advertised that it was open 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, and below that, beside you, an old wood sign with the saloon’s name painted in black creaked in the breeze. They gave the saloon a particular charm, meant to feel familiar to all who stepped onto its porch.

On that porch was an older man resting in a chair, surveying the surrounding area from beneath the woven straw hat on his head. His eyes followed you as you stepped forward, the old wood clunking hollowly beneath your boots. 

“Afternoon,” you said, inclining your head in greeting. 

“Howdy.” His voice was as gravelly with age as the old strip of road you’d just walked. “You must be that kid the doc was workin’ on. Glad to see you’re up and about. Name’s Easy Pete.”

You smiled. News travels fast in a place like this. “Yeah, way it sounds, I’m pretty glad too.” Dust devils swirled by, taking a tumbleweed with them. “Why are you called Easy Pete, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Cause these days, I like to just take it easy.” He flashed you a grandfatherly smile, teeth yellowed with age. “Which is, if I’m not mistaken, what you should be doing.”

“That’s what Victor said too.” You gestured vaguely at the saloon door. “He said I should get something to eat.”

“That old bot’s got some wisdom in him yet.”

“What do you know about him? Or where he's from?”

Easy Pete gave you a chiding look. “Tell you what, kid. You go get some food in you, get out of this sun and heat before you pass out. Then you can come bother an old man for his stories.” The look softened. He meant well, but wasn’t kidding. You were in no position to argue, either; his face became blurred and distorted before you, as another wave of lightheadedness hit. Blinking hard, you forced your vision back into focus.

“Deal. By the way, my name’s (y/n). Though I think my nickname was Eagle.”

“Eagle.” He nodded appreciatively. “Well, come back here when you’re all fed, watered, and rested, Eagle.” A lazy gesture towards the door, another kind smile. “Now skedaddle, before Trudy comes out and drags you in by your ear.”

Chapter Text

The door of the Prospector Saloon was heavier than it looked, its hinges offering a long-suffering groan as it swung open. You slipped inside, the interior pleasantly cool and shaded compared to the direct heat of the sun; even if it was a bit stuffy, carrying the scent of old dust and cigarettes. Ahead of you was a pool table, a few odd tables to sit at, and a jukebox; through the doorway to your left, you saw booths and the end of a curved bar. The whole place was silent, save for the faint clinking of a few patrons’ glasses and utensils. You opted to head towards the bar, self-conscious of the hollow thud of your footsteps, each sounding as conspicuous as a gunshot in the silence of the saloon. If anyone noticed, or cared, they gave no sign.

Easing up onto a stool, you traced the lines in the worn, yet polished wood bartop, doing your best not to look too conspicuous. The saloon smelled of old corks and ancient dust, with just a slight hint of some barrel-aged alcohol--most likely whiskey, if the many empty bottles lining the back of the bar were anything to go on. Nobody paid you any mind, either resting their heads in their hands, steadfastly focusing on the food they picked at, or staring down into the depths of the nearly-empty bottles in their hands. 

“Welcome to the Prospector Saloon,” a kind, feminine voice greeted. A brunette woman in a dress and knitted cardigan stepped behind the bar. “Sorry, bathroom break. What can I get you?”

“What do you have?” Your stomach clenched uncomfortably at the thought of food. Hunger was a sensation you hadn’t had the displeasure of feeling in a few days.

“Oh, bighorner steak, gecko steak...got some mac n’ cheese and some Sugar Bombs, if you like the pre-war stuff. Pretty slim pickin’s at the moment, I’m afraid.”

“I’ll try the bighorner steak.” Probably had the most substance, of all the options. 

“You won’t regret it. It’s one of our specialties.” She fired up a hot plate, put a pan on it, then pulled a slab of raw meat from a small refrigerator below the bar. A splash of oil hit the pan first, hissing softly, then the steak, which made a satisfying sizzle. She sprinkled some spices over it, the aroma quickly wafting around the saloon. When it was cooking at a steady sizzle, she finally returned, resting her hands on the bar. “We’ve got water, sarsaparilla, and a few bottles of nuka-cola laying around, if any of that appeals to you.”

“A sarsaparilla, please.” You began fishing around in your bag, looking for your bag of caps. “How much?”

She eyed you up and down, taking in your outfit, your face, the bandage on your head. “You’re the kid who got shot up near the old cemetery, aren’t you?”

You nodded. One would think the news that you were up and about would have traveled as fast as the news of your near-demise.

“This one’s on the house.” She gave you a warm smile. “Name’s Trudy, but some of the youngin’s around here just call me mom. You’re welcome to call me either.”

“Thank you, Trudy.” You returned her smile. It felt a little weird to call someone you had just met something as familiar as ‘mom’. “I appreciate it. Mine’s (y/n), or Eagle. I’m pretty sure now that Eagle was my nickname.” 

“Of course.” Trudy turned, giving the brahmin steak a flip in the pan.“Eagle, huh? Seems to suit you, ‘specially if long-range fighting of any kind is your thing. Can’t be a bad shot with a shotgun like that, though Eagle sounds more fittin’ of a sniper.” 

“I don’t suppose you happen to know anything about the men who attacked me, do you?”

Trudy set the spatula down, taking a seat on a stool of her own behind the bar. “Not much, I’m afraid. Other than that they’re a bunch of freeloaders who expected a few rounds on the house. I was able to get them to pay up though.” She rolled her eyes at the memory. “Of course, one of the Great Khans did knock my radio to the floor ‘by accident,’ and it hasn’t been working since.

” “I’m sorry,” you apologized.  “They wouldn’t have been here if it weren’t for me.”

Trudy waved her hand. “Don’t you worry yourself about it. If it weren’t them, it would have been some other drunk bastard.”

Remnant guilt still settled in your gut, mixing with the acrobatics your stomach was practicing over the smell of the cooking steak. “Did they happen to say where they were going before they left?” 

“They were having some kind of argument about it, but the guy in the checkered coat kept shushing them.” You leaned your elbows on the counter, all ears. “Sounded like they came in from the north through Quarry Junction. If that’s the case, I can’t say I blame them for not wanting to go back.” Trudy’s lips twitched, poorly concealing a smug smile. 

“Why’s that?” 

“That whole area’s overrun with the kind of critters that just get mad if you shoot ‘em,” she said, trying her hardest not to laugh as she slid off the stool. The bighorner steak was kicking up some faint smoke, and she quickly transferred it to a plate, setting it down before you with a set of utensils. You barely thanked her before you dug in, suddenly as ravenous as a feral ghoul, ignoring the searing heat on your tongue.

“Easy, don’t choke,” Trudy warned gently, turning off the hot plate. “Yeah, the way I hear it, merchants avoid that stretch of I-15 like it’s radioactive, which it could be for all I know.” She popped the cap off the sarsaparilla, placing both cap and bottle beside your plate, and took her seat again. By her posture and her conversation so far, it seemed she took pride not only in being the town mom, but also in gossiping about the rude and disrespectful customers that had crossed her bar floor.

“So, where were they headed, you think?” the words were garbled through a mouthful of steak, but you had the basic decency to discreetly hide your mouthful of food behind the back of your hand.

“I didn’t hear exactly, but the leader was talking about going to the Strip.” She chuckled to herself. “Fella wants to get there and avoid the 15, he’d have to go east, take Highway 93 up.”

“I see.” Pausing from scarfing the steak--which had come out perfectly tender--you took a swig from the sarsaparilla, letting its slightly spicy root-beer flavor rinse and cool your throat. “Say Trudy, do you know the robot that rescued me? Victor?”

Trudy seemed to tense, not with anger, but with discomfort. “I know that...thing...as much as anyone else around here. It mostly keeps to itself, which is just fine by me.”

Another bite of steak went in your mouth. “You don’t like him?”

Trudy shrugged, rolling her neck as if trying to shake off jitters. “It acts friendly enough, but I don’t trust that whole “cheerful cowboy” act. I find it all very...creepy.”

“What does he actually do around here?”

Trudy shrugged. “Not herding the bighorners, if that’s what you’re asking. Other than rolling around once in a while, it doesn’t do anything useful as far as I can tell.” She sighed, leaning on the bartop. “I don’t know why it took an interest in you, but I’d be careful. It’s never helped anyone before. Not the way it has you.”

You nodded over another swig of sarsaparilla. “I’ll keep that in mind.” 

The door to the saloon creaked open, and the sound of boots and scrabbling claws came in with a gust of wind. “Hey mom, I’m back!”

The sound of claws on the wood came closer, until a dog with grey fur came running into the bar room, feet slipping on the wood. The other patrons looked up, smiles in varying shades of drunkenness lighting their faces. The dog made her rounds, letting everyone give an affectionate scratch behind her ears. Once she turned around to see Trudy, however, the hairs on the back of her neck stood up, and fixing her yellow eyes on you, she gave three harsh barks. 

Her owner came around the corner, all leather armor and red hair, securely tied back. “Cheyenne,” she said sternly. Cheyenne stopped barking, letting her hackles lie flat, and looked up at her owner with a big doggy grin. Her owner gave you a smile and a nod of greeting as she moved to sit on the stool beside you. “Don’t worry, she won’t bite unless I tell her to.”

She plopped a leather bag on the counter with a juicy, squishy thud that sounded more like a squelch, and Trudy took it, ducking down to empty the contents into the fridge. The newcomer stuck a hand out, and you set down your utensils to shake it, needing another drink anyway. “Name’s Sunny Smiles.”

“Pleasure. Call me Eagle.” You washed down the rest of the steak with the rest of your sarsaparilla, shifting the two to the side. Trudy cleared them, setting the bottle with a long row of others on a shelf, and the plate and utensils in a sink full of other dining implements to be washed. “Doc Mitchell said you might be able to help me remember how to survive in the desert.”

“Eagle’s quite the name. Some interestin’ parents out there.”

“You know that kid he was patching up?” Trudy elaborated, giving Sunny a knowing smile. “Name’s (y/n), Eagle’s a nickname. And thank you for the gecko meat restock.” Her attention was diverted by the open and close of the saloon door, Easy Pete tipping his hat as he headed for a booth. She nodded at the pair of you, then left to see to his order.

“Well, well, well. I’m glad you made it out alive!” Sunny clapped a hand on your shoulder. 

Your hand landed on the bartop, ready to brace another dizzy spell from the impact, but none came. Instead, you felt steadier. Bighorner steak works fast. “Thanks, I’m glad I made it out. Wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for Doc and Victor, though.”

“I guess there’s a thing or two I could show ya ‘bout surviving out here. Sounds like you’ll need all the help you can get, after what they done to you,” she continued. Glancing at the sunset-orange windows, she shook her head. “Not tonight, I’m afraid. Wouldn’t be fair to expect you to perform well in pitch black. Meet me out behind the saloon in the morning, though, and we’ll put you through your paces.”

“Sounds like a plan, and thank you in advance.” 

Some of the patrons behind you shuffled their way towards the door, as if Sunny noting the late hour spurred them to action. “‘Course.”

“So, what do you do around here?”

The bartop clunked as Trudy set down a beer for Sunny, and the latter tipped the bottle at her in thanks. She turned, leaning an elbow on the bar. You supposed that it was as comfortable of a position as one could get on a stool. “I hunt the geckos, mostly. The meat’s pretty good, and I can always find a buyer for the hides. Help keep the town clear of the radscorps and the coyotes, too. As I’m sure you’ve noticed, not many people live here in Goodsprings, so wildlife is always creeping in.”

Her eyes fell on the shotgun strapped to your back. “Tell you what. You carry ‘round a shotgun, which means you must be pretty decent with a rifle. Or at least, you were. Tomorrow morning we’ll check your aim--I’ll scrounge up a spare of mine--and if it’s still good, I’ll take you gecko hunting. Seems like a good test run to me. Whaddya say?”

“I look forward to it.” Trudy had quietly slid another sarsaparilla to you, with a wink that said that this one was on the house too, and you took a sip, grinning slightly. Sunny was chatty, and while she was still older than you, you got the impression that there weren’t many other people close to her age to chat with. “Shame my shotgun didn’t save my ass before, then you wouldn’t have to give me a refresher course.”

“Hey, it’s not a problem at all. You made it this far without help; least, I assume it was without help, Victor didn’t bring anyone else in, and there’s nothing left up at the cemetery. That’s not bad for a--” she trailed, her eyes flitting over your features. “How old are you, anyway?”

“I….” That was one of those things, one of those memories, that you didn’t realize you’d been made to forget. “I don’t remember.”

“If I had to hazard a guess,” Trudy interjected, idly polishing down the bar top with a towel, “I’d say you can’t be older than sixteen. Either you’re in your late teens and have some serious baby-face, you’re very, very young and look older than you are, or you gotta be in your mid-teens.” She flicked her towel in the direction of Doc’s house. “Go up and ask Doc Mitchell if he can figure it out, maybe. I hear they can tell by teeth sometimes, like bighorners. That’s supposed to be how those Legionaries tell, anyhow.”

Another thing to add to your already-lengthening to do list for tomorrow. The bubbles in the sarsaparilla helped quell the tiredness that settled in your bones at the thought. “Legionaries?”

“Bunch of slavers, killers, and all other kinds of trouble,” Trudy spat. “They dress up like old Roman soldiers, so there’s no mistaking it when you see them. Best hope you don’t run into ‘em out there. They check the teeth of the people they take captive, see how old they are, and then they decide whether they’ll be a slave, a soldier-in-training, or a wife for a soldier. Disgusting lot.” 

Sunny raised her bottle towards Trudy, nodding. “Don’t know much about ‘em myself, they never show up in these parts, but the way I hear it, it’s better that way. ” 

“Is there anyone stopping them from coming here?” You couldn’t hide the worry in your voice. The thought of those you’d met around town so far being captured and enslaved twisted your stomach, even if you’d only known them for all of a day, some for just five minutes. 

“The NCR, New California Republic. They’ve got the most power in Nevada; money, troops, resources, you name it, they’ve got it.” Trudy rolled her eyes. “They do what they can to keep things safe in the region, but if you ask me, they’re trying to do too much. They’re spread too thin, annexing one city at a time, hoping they can hold onto it, and moving onto the next, all the way down to Hoover Dam.”

“That damn dam,” Sunny muttered. She snorted loudly, giggling. Somehow, she had managed to down three beers in the time you’d been talking, the bottles neatly lined up beside her, and was sipping her way through a fourth. “It’ll be the death of either one, that’s for sure.”

“ If they fight over it again.” Trudy looked to you. “I’m gonna guess you don’t remember anything to do with that fiasco?”

You shook your head, the names and places wholly unfamiliar. 

Trudy continued. “Well, few years back, the Legionaries--Caesar’s Legion--and the NCR fought over the Hoover Dam. Dam’s basically a huge generator, see, so whoever controls it controls a lot. Legion could send power back home in Arizona and take Nevada, NCR could send power home to California and take Nevada...hell, maybe enough die on both sides and it’s a draw, and New Vegas takes it over.” She chuckled at the thought. “Wouldn’t that be somethin’. Well, that last fight destroyed Boulder City. Legion went back across the river, and the NCR came back west some, but rumor has it they’re at it again, ready to see who can really, truly claim the dam as theirs. NCR has some people there now, has since that last battle, but it ain’t a lot, and they certainly aren’t using that dam to its full potential.”

That was a lot to take in. “Political tensions that bad?”

Another loud snort from Sunny, this time derisive. “They’re a bunch of yellowbellies playing chicken, ‘f ya ask me,” she muttered.

“I think you best stop playin’ chicken with a hangover,” Trudy said, her tone somewhere between serious mother-hen and teasing friend. “Especially if you plan on taking this one out gecko huntin’ tomorrow.”

“True, true.” Shaking it to see how much was left, she slid the rest of her bottle to you. “You can finish it, if you want, I was about done anyways.” She stood, swaying a tiny bit, and started towards the room with the jukebox. Cheyenne was at her heels in an instant, tail swishing. “See ya in the mornin’, Eagle. Thanks again, mom.”

Gingerly, you slid the bottle away from you, and Trudy gently took it. “I don’t rightly think you’re old enough for one of those,” she teased. Your memory may have been compromised, but it seemed common sense that the Old World rules of drinking age didn’t apply anymore. Trudy was simply living up to her title as Town Mom. “Even if you were, alcohol thins the blood,” she gestured towards your bandage, “and that’s the last thing you need.”

“I’m not one for beer, either,” you laughed. “The smell of it was turning my stomach. It’s too grainy for what alcohol should smell like.” The barrel alcohol smell that lingered faintly in the background of the saloon appealed to you far more.

“Just as well.” Trudy polished off the last quarter bottle of beer in one go. “See, Sunny’s not much of a drinker, usually. I suspect she was either showing off, or just wanted something to do while we talked. So, if she’s too hungover in the morning and my hangover cure drink doesn’t set her right, I’ll test your shooting skills with ya.” She folded the bar towel, hanging it on a shard of what used to be a mirror behind her. “I doubt it’ll be necessary, but the offer’s there if you need it, alright?”

“Thank you Trudy,” you said appreciatively. “And thank you for the extra sarsaparilla, too.”

“Gotta stay hydrated if you’re gonna heal, and rad-contaminated water doesn’t quite do the trick. Nor does limiting you to your caps. You do right by us, and we’ll do right by you.” Trudy turned down the lights, preparing the bar for the evening ahead. “We haven’t had the pleasure of knowing you long, but I’d say you’ve done just fine by us so far. Haven’t shot up the town yet, least, and I think I speak for everyone when I say we prefer things to stay nice and quiet. Hell, you’re a kid of few words.”

“It just seems like there’s more to hear than there is to say,” you assured her. “I like listening to people talk. You learn a lot that way, especially when you don’t remember anything from before.”

“I suppose that’s fair enough.” Trudy came out from behind the bar, dusting off her clothes. “Well, I’m turnin’ in for the night. You got somewhere to sleep, Eagle?”

You nodded. “Victor offered to let me use his house.”

“ Hrmph. That machine.” She sighed, but shrugged. “Well, I suppose it’s about time someone got use out of that old shack. It’s certainly too big to fit through that front door. I still don’t trust that thing, but I suppose if a bot saved my life, I’d be hard-pressed not to trust it, on some level. But if you ever need a different place to sleep, my couch is your couch.”

“Well, he’s not too bad, all things considered. If he hasn’t hurt anyone, that’s good enough in my book.” You could have sworn you caught the tail end of an eye-roll from Trudy.

She rested a hand on your upper arm. “You go get some shut-eye, now. Got a big day ahead of you, and lots of healing to do. If you need anything, and I mean anything, I’m in the little white house, just past the water tower down here--the one without a boarded door, can’t miss it.” 

“Thank you Trudy,” you said again. “Night. See you tomorrow.”

“See you in the mornin’,” she patted your arm, heading for the door. “Night.”

Around you, a few patrons were still either blankly staring into their bottles, or had decided that the table was a good enough spot to sleep for the night. Easy Pete was nowhere to be seen; you suspected he had slipped out while you’d been talking with Trudy and Sunny. Payment for his meal still sat on the booth table, caps gleaming in the low light.

You stood from the stool, giving your arms and legs a good stretch to shake away the suggestion of sleep that had started to settle thanks to the soft snores filling the saloon. As much as you would have liked to think that everyone here in Goodsprings was trustworthy, you didn’t want Trudy to miss out on her caps--not that she seemed too concerned about them. In any case, you quietly scooped Easy Pete’s caps from the table, rounded the bar, and deposited them in the old cash register for her. 

Your eyes fell on the radio behind the counter, calling to mind what Trudy had said about the Great Kahn with a bad attitude. The outer casing was dented, but you didn’t risk looking inside it just yet. You didn’t remember how these things were supposed to work; there was no way you were going to be able to do more than mess around with the wires inside and hope it came to life. 

Meandering back through the saloon, you got a better feel for its layout than you did when there were awake--or sober--patrons to eye you the whole way. The back area held the bathrooms and a storeroom, as well as a side door. The front two rooms looked as much the same as they had when you’d first walked in, save that the age-crusted saloon windows were dark with night. 

One thing you had failed to notice, however, was the mess of magazines on a side table near the entrance. The long, low table itself sat in the pool table room, right beside Sunny, who was slumped back across a metal chair, snoring loudly. Cheyenne was curled at her feet, sound asleep on the aged wood floor. You thumbed through the magazines, putting them in different piles based on their contents; fighting magazines in one, talking magazines in a second, and utilitarian types in another. Each one fell into place, save for one that had been deep in the pile; an old copy of Fixin’ Things, a pre-war repair magazine. A cursory flick of the pages confirmed that old radios were, thankfully, one of the topics covered in that issue. 

A few hours and no small amount of searching for a screwdriver later, and the old radio flickered to life with a squeal and a sputter of static. Experimentally, you turned the knob until the dead air dispersed, and the first few bars of In The Shadow Of The Valley came through clear. Carefully, you returned the radio to its previous location, the music coming out of it syncing up with the jukebox in the other room. You stepped around the bar slowly, as not to wake up the other patrons with the hollow sound of your footfalls, and headed for the door, that familiar itch of sleep returning to your eyes in full force with the lateness of the hour. 

“Well, if it ain’t the night owl,” Victor said, sounding almost sleepy. Some searching had found him at the outskirts of town--clear across town, small as it was--and a ginger, light knock on his chassis from you had woken him right up. “I was startin’ to wonder if you’d ever show up.”

“I got a meal, just like you said.” A mischievous smirk crept onto your face. “I got distracted fixing an old radio. Turns out, with the right refresher, I’m actually pretty good at doing some stuff. I didn’t even remember that I could repair things like that.”

“Glad to hear it, glad to hear it,” Victor wheeled to the side a few inches. “You should pr’y be getting some rest now, though. Way I hear it, you’ve got a pretty big refresher to go through in the morning.” Was that pride in his voice? 

“If you still don’t mind, I’ll gladly take you up on your offer.”

“My door is always open, kid. Make yourself at home.”

Victor’s house was more of a shack--a one room shack that had been forcefully partitioned into multiple rooms. A bed was pressed into a corner of the living room, a dresser squished against the same wall. A table that had once belonged to a tinker, if the random components scattered over it were anything to go by, was pressed against the main support beam merely a couple feet away, and an approximation of both a kitchen and bathroom were somehow shoved into the very back of the shack. You hung your courier’s bag on a hook beside the now-locked door, and left your pistol on the short bookshelf to the left of it that doubled as a bedside table. The shotgun across your back and your metal armor went on the tinker’s table, carefully laid between the assorted components, and your tired bones went in the bed, beneath the mothbitten, age-thinned blankets and bedding. In a place as safe and quiet as this, you were content to sleep in your underarmor.

One good thing about the small nature of the shack was that, should danger come to pass, you never had to worry about your weapons being too far out of reach. 

Chapter Text

Morning came through the rust-holes in the metal walls of the shack, waking you long before you were ready to finish sleeping. Once your eyes were open, though, there was nothing for it, and you quickly donned the equipment you had shed the night before. Today, though, you actually bothered with your hair, mixing some water with a bit of the condensed agave syrup in a jar you’d discovered in your bag, drawing the incredibly sticky substance through the strands to make the ridge of hair stand on end in a nice, neat mohawk. The heat of the day seeping into the shack dried it so quickly and so thoroughly that, by the time you finished up, the first section was not only frozen in place, but had lost its stickiness, working as well as Old World pomade.

Victor was gone from his post beside the front door when you left, and you didn’t see any sign of his metal hull the whole hike down the road to Doc Mitchell’s house. He checked your teeth first, per Trudy’s suggestion, then your wound, giving it a good swab with antiseptic to prevent infection, and happily re-wrapped your head. He sent you on your way as quickly as you had come in, with more confidence than he’d seemed to have yesterday. 

Before you made it to the Prospector, however, you made a detour. The door to the Goodsprings General Store closed behind you with a soft thump. 

“Welcome to the Goodsprings General Store,” the man said, giving the floor a few brushes with a broom before setting it aside. He looked you up and down. “You must be the one Doc Mitchell was patching up. I didn’t think you’d be walking out of that office.”

“Name’s (y/n), but I also go by Eagle.” It was becoming a reflexive statement, one to be rattled off in response to some declaration of shock that you were, against all odds, still alive. And, whether it had been a nickname from before or not, Eagle was certainly your nickname now, what with nearly everyone in town calling you by it.

“Chet.” He shook your hand, moving towards the store counter. “You looking to buy some supplies?”

“Looking to sell, actually.” You pulled the strap of your bag over your head, resting it on the counter, and began to pull out items. The items came out of your bag one by one; the suit with the number 13, a set of armor that looked tribal in nature, a machete, and some other odds and ends scrap that you didn’t see the point in hauling around. “There’s a set of ten throwing spears I’d like to get rid of, too. Doc’s holding onto them for me for now; I can get them if you’d like to see them first.”

Chet eyed the items on the counter, but you didn’t miss the merchant’s envious glance at the items you hadn’t laid out for his appraisal. “Nah, that’s alright. You seem trustworthy enough.” He sighed. “Okay, okay; I saw them when I took a restock of medical supplies up this morning. Not that you don’t seem trustworthy,” he backpedaled. A stringent merchant, he was. You couldn’t help but crack a smile.

“Never hurts to be careful in a world like this,” you ceded. 

“Glad you understand.” He gave a short laugh that sounded suspiciously like an attempt to hide a sigh of relief, his social missteps glossed over. “I’ll give you 85 caps for it all.”

Part of you wanted to dispute the price, as it seemed awfully low for what you were offering, but it was better than eventually leaving the items lying around the mojave for free because they were dead weight in your pack. “Deal."

Chet slid the items off the counter and onto a shelf in the display case below, then opened his cash register. He set the payment on the counter in neat stacks of five. “Eighty-five caps, as promised. I’ll pick up those spears from Doc later. Sounds like you’ve got enough on your plate if Sunny’s taking you out shooting today, without having to bring those in.”

You silently counted up the caps, putting them in your bag one stack at a time. He was a well and true merchant, alright. “I might come back if I need more ammo.”

“Sounds good. I’ve got both regular and surplus, you get what you pay for.” He waved you off with a good-natured smile. “You’d better run and get some breakfast, if you’re gonna be running all over the desert.”

“Thanks Chet.” You put the bag back on your shoulder. “See you later.”

“Take it easy now.” Before you had stepped out onto the store’s porch, his broom was once again in hand, removing invisible specks of dust from his already-spotless store.

~

“There you are,” Trudy said warmly, welcoming you in with a big smile. You sat down, hesitancy from last night mostly gone. This town had started to grow on you. “I was startin’ to wonder if we’d see you today!”

Sunny let out a quiet grumble, her forehead against the cool of the bar, her face hidden in her arms. All that was visible was her hair, which was pulled up in a messy bun. Cheyenne’s ears twitched, her tail thumping on the wood slats. “Mornin’.”

Trudy plunked a glass on the bar in front of her, the contents an unappealing blue-brown. “Drink up, sunshine.”

Sunny turned her head slightly to peek at it, and squinting, she promptly hid her face again with another grumble. “Think I’m gonna be sick,” she muttered. 

Trudy reached below the bartop and emerged with a metal bucket. It hit the bartop with a clang, making Sunny flinch a little. She wasn’t making any special effort to be quiet, you noticed. “In case you need it. I don’t suppose scrubbing vomit outta the floorboards appeals to you right now?”

Sunny shook her head. With a heavy sigh, and forcefully shut eyes, she felt around until the found the drink Trudy had given her, and downed a third of it with held breath. “Oh, that is terrible,” she groaned, hiding her face again.

“What’s in that?” you asked, eyeing the drink. It was unsettlingly thick for a drink.

“Oh, some yucca, some honey mesquite, little bit o’ xander root and some broc nectar, plus some agave juice and a bit of water.” You wrinkled your nose. “Well, I never said it tasted good. But, it’s almost like a meal in a glass, lots of nutrients, and just enough liquid to offset the dehydration from the alcohol. It tastes terrible, but it does its job.” Trudy nodded to Sunny for effect.

The girl in question had finally brought her face out from behind her arms, eyes open, though her expression was still quite sour from the flavor of the drink. “Just cause it works don’ mean I have to like it,” she said, swirling the thick mixture distastefully. “But Trudy’s right. It works. Least, the smell of breakfast isn’t turnin’ my stomach now.”

At the mention of it, Trudy began scooping the food in question onto plates. She only placed your plate down in front of you, keeping Sunny’s behind the bar. “Gecko eggs and gecko strips, with a side of fried yucca.” 

Sunny pouted. “Where’s mine, mom?” 

“You can have it when you finish that drink.” Sunny’s lower lip came out as she deepened her pout. “Hey, it’s not nearly as bad as it was that time I added buffalo gourd to the mix. Now put that lip away before a bird comes and poops on it.”

Sunny promptly stopped pouting, and chugged another third of the glass. “That really is terrible.”

“You’re acting like a child,” Trudy chided, though her eyes sparkled with bemusement. “Speaking of,” she turned to you, “You had Doc check out your teeth yet? I see you’ve already been up to see him this morning.” She gestured at the bandage on your head.

“Yeah, I had him look.” You stopped pushing the gecko eggs around on your plate, putting a big bite in your mouth.

“And?” Both she and Sunny were looking at you now, shared curiosity boring into you as you thoroughly chewed the eggs. 

“He says he’s not sure,” you began, voice muffled by food. “But he says his guess is that I’m either fourteen or fifteen, or sixteen with really good teeth. But I’m not a child, he says I have all my adult teeth.”

“Sounds about right,” Trudy said. “Told ya. ‘Bout mid-teens. Maybe a little younger than I thought, but still.” She shook her head. “If I’d known those goons had shot a fourteen, fifteen…even sixteen year old kid in the head, or were going to, I woulda thrown ‘em out then and there. Or I woulda shot ‘em myself.” 

“Easy there, mama bear,” Sunny said, wincing at the grittiness of the last dregs of hangover cure. “They’re long gone now, and you didn’t know any better. Plus, Eagle’s alive, ain’t ya, Eagle?” She offered you an apologetic smile. “I’d say no harm, no foul, but you were shot in the head twice, after all, and have one hell of a case of amnesia.”

Trudy finally gave Sunny her food, and she started wolfing it down. Cheyenne promptly sat up, resting her head on her lap in the hopes of a bite. “I suppose. Don’ make it okay, though. You think I’m bad, wait til Easy Pete hears this.”

Sunny laughed. “Maybe it’s best not to tell him. He’s too old to run off to New Vegas to blow someone up with dynamite.” She held a gecko strip down for Cheyenne, who happily snapped it up in two bites, hardly tasting it.

You bit into your gecko strips, the savory flavor chasing away the relative sliminess of the eggs. Trudy really could make do with whatever was available, and make do well. 

“I fixed your radio, by the way,” you said, breaking the uncomfortable silence of Trudy steaming at long-gone would-be murderers, and Sunny’s failed attempt at injecting humor The radio in question was playing some instrumental piece rooted in a plucking guitar and a repetitive flute whistle of some sort.

“I heard the minute I came in this mornin’,” her wrath dimmed at the change of subject, and she set a handful of caps by your plate. “Here you go, for your troubles. Least I can do, as a thank you.”

~

“See that sarsaparilla bottle there on the fence?”

You nodded. Sunny had lined up six or seven on the weathered board, finally able to bear the sunlight without hiding from a hangover. 

She handed you a basic varmint rifle, freshly cleaned and oiled, and a handful of ammo. “Go ahead and take a shot. Just remember; don’t bury it in your shoulder too hard, look straight down the sights, breathe slow when you pull the trigger.”

You followed her advice, bringing the sights up to aim. A rifle user you must have been . The movement came easily to you,muscle memory like clockwork, as easily as walking had returned to your legs in Doc Mitchell’s hospital room yesterday. The trigger pulled and the bullet flew with just as much ease, your muscles remembering how to compensate for the recoil. The first sarsaparilla bottle shattered, the shards spraying the back wall of the saloon.

“There you go, you’ve got the hang of this!” Sunny praised, eyebrows raised. “Don’ forget that you can kneel to steady your shot if you need to.” 

You dropped to a kneel, right knee meeting the dirt, left elbow bracing on your thigh, stilling the slight tremor of the gun. Another bottle shattered with a bang.

“You know, I’m not sure you need to take out the rest of the bottles,” Sunny mused. 

“Do you mind if I do? Can’t have enough practice,” you smiled. “Unless there isn’t enough ammo, then I’ll save it.”

Sunny snorted. “Nah, go right ahead if you want to. There’s plenty of ammo to go around.”

One by one, the sarsaparilla bottles flew off the fence, each a little faster than the next, the rhythm of glass shrapnel only broken by your need to reload after the fifth bottle. The rifle felt natural in your hands; you hadn’t used it long, but you knew that with the right gun, it could easily grow to feel like an extension of yourself.

“I’m impressed,” Trudy said, coming around the corner. “You really gave those bottles a what-for. Those bastards really must’ve gotten a drop on you that night.” 

“I still don’t know how good I am with moving targets,” you laughed. You’d be lying if you said you weren’t a little proud of how deftly you’d shot down those bottles, though.

“Speaking of, we’d better get to gecko hunting, before those suckers get too warmed up and get the drop on us, or drink all the water,” Sunny reminded you. “We’ll be back soon, mom.”

“Careful not to get bit,” Trudy said, waving as Sunny and Cheyenne started off, heading towards the road out of town. Sunny waved back, and you followed suit, waving before jogging off after Sunny.

Chapter Text

The Goodsprings water source was a little more than a hop, skip and jump outside town, being enough of a hike into the foothills beyond Victor’s shack that you’d felt the need to ask Sunny if you were leaving town entirely. She had assured you not, that the wells needed to be that far out because that's where the water was, and it was better, so the geckos weren’t crawling into town on the daily. 

You were starting to wonder if you should have had Trudy fill up your canteen before following Sunny out when she finally stopped short, crouching down behind the small cliff face of a hill. The whole area was composed of the skeleton of an ancient shallow river whose waters now ran below the earth. Pressing a finger to her lips, she gave you a beckoning wave, creeping forward towards a hill that looked more like a large boulder. When she stopped again, you crouched beside her, silently looking back and forth between her and the continuation of the trail. Through the still early afternoon air, you heard a sound like distorted, throaty, cackling laughter.

“Hear that, up on the ridge behind me there?” Sunny whispered, grinning. “We got some geckos to clear out.” She snorted. “Bunch of little monsters is what they are. Seems like Doc Mitchell treats more gecko bites than anything else. Let’s see if we can get a little closer, get the jump on ‘em. More likely to hit something vital that way.” 

With a wave of her hand, you peeked out from behind the hill together. Near the man-made structure of a well, four grey geckos milled about, stopping now and again to snap up water with their wide, pink mouths. Their black stripes glistened in the midday sun. Your estimate was that they had to be hip height, at least. You swung the varmint rifle off your back, a bit of a feat with everything else you were carrying, and flicked off the safety, ready to aim down the sights. Sunny got her gun in her hands, ready to clean up what you couldn’t, giving you a nod to go ahead and take your shot when you were ready. 

Determined not to miss, you stared down the iron sights, carefully lining up the little metal sight with a stationary gecko, one that was idly licking its eyes and lips to savor what would soon be its last drink. A breath in, a breath out, and the gecko collapsed with a gunshot that pierced the still afternoon air. The other three geckos scattered from the water, frantically scampering back and forth in search of the source of the noise.

“Nice shot!” Sunny whispered, clapping a hand on your shoulder. “Let’s get the rest, before they figure out where we are.” 

A shot from Sunny, and another gecko collapsed, falling just short of the water trough. A pull of the trigger from you, and a third was lifelessly somersaulting back down the hill it had climbed for vantage. You both frantically took a shot as the last gecko, having seen the death of its comrades, finally weeded the two of you out; it raced towards you on its back legs, small frill flared and mouth open in a hissing snarl, until it skidded to a stop on the ground when your bullets found their mark.

“See? You’ve got this,” Sunny beamed, standing and leading the way to the gecko remains. She dressed it quickly, putting the meat in one bag and the skin in another, hardly needing to look at what she was doing. “There’s two more wells that still need clearing. You can head back to town if you want. Though, if you’re feeling up for it, you’re more than welcome to come along. I have to say, I like the company, and it’d be worth a few caps to me, if that sweetens the pot at all.”

“You don’t have to pay me anything,” you assured her, following as she made short work of the geckos, throwing whatever was left off into the underbrush for other creatures to take advantage of. “I’ll come along just for the fun of it. And the experience, of course. Let me just fill up my canteen right quick.” Your head was starting to throb, and your lips were spiked with dead skin, signs you’d learned meant you were quickly getting dehydrated.

“By all means,” she gestured towards the well, “help yourself. I might get a few sips myself before we keep going. If there’s one thing that can be said for this place, it’s that it’s a dry heat.”

There was no arguing with that. The water in the well trough bubbled as you sank your canteen below the surface, the water itself lukewarm; cycled enough to draw up the cool from the subterranean source, but at too slow of a pace to prevent it from heating in the sun. You could have sworn you felt your hand reconstitute with the addition of water to your skin, and stuck your other hand in for good measure. 

“Hey, don’t hog it all,” Sunny elbowed you lightly, taking off the leather gloves she’d used to deal with the geckos. “Might want to take your canteen out now, ‘less you want dirt in it.”

You obliged, and she sank her hands in, holding them there a minute before scooping it to sip from her palms. Cheyenne put her paws on the sides of the trough, happily lapping up the clear water.

“You know what’s real fun to do out here, when you’ve got company at the wells?”

“What?”

Sunny grinned, a mischievous grin stretching from ear to ear. “This!” 

Before you knew what happened, a double-handed scoop of water splashed you across the neck. Sunny cackled at your frozen look of shock, the cool of the water in the light breeze momentarily taking your breath away. 

“I’m sorry,” she wheezed, wiping her damp hands on her pants. “I couldn’t help it! If it weren’t for your bandage, I woulda splashed you in the face, but Doc wouldn’t be too happy ‘bout changing your bandages more than necessary.”

You hadn’t needed to wipe your neck, the dryness of the air and heat of the sun evaporating the water from your skin within minutes. The look of shock became a wide grin, and you began to laugh too. “It’s alright,” you said, wheels turning. “I’m just kind of worried about whatever that dark stuff in the water is. At least it didn’t get in my stitches.”

“Dark stuff?” Concerned, Sunny came to stand beside you in an instant, eyes scanning the water. “Wh--”

Her sentence was cut off by a faceful of water, the splash taking both your hands to make. She gasped at the cold, looking at you incredulously as what you’d done registered. “I--I suppose I deserved that, didn’t I,” she breathed, catching her breath from the initial shock.

“Just returning the favor.” If you smiled any wider, you were certain you’d turn into a gecko. “We should get going to those other wells though, right?”

“Right.” Sunny wiped at her face, slicking back wet hair from her eyes, though she never lost the teasing grin. “I thought of something else to show you after, if you want, but we can talk about it after we clear the wells. Just a simple thing, making some healing powder. Nothin’ that can’t wait til tomorrow if you don’t feel up for it.”

“I’d enjoy that. Ask me again after the next wells, though,” you laughed. You weren’t unwilling to go the extra mile, so to speak, but your bones ached with tiredness at the thought of hiking all the way back to Goodsprings from here, much less even further out. 

Luckily, the last wells weren’t far, and were just as easy to clear as the first. The two of you had refrained from further playing in the water, first because there was another well to clear, second, because one of the settlers from town had managed to make it out to the third well before you, and was narrowly spared from the teeth of a gecko by your bullet. You had also discovered at the second well, that another perk to the Pip-Boy--one that Doc hadn’t mentioned--was a built in targeting system that gave your hand tiny shocks to lock your muscles to steady and balance your shot, as well as tell how likely your current shot was to hit. It was a bit distracting at first, but after a shot or two, you started to get used to noting the readouts in your periphery. 

When the geckos had been dressed and the settler had been sent home, you agreed to learning the healing powder recipe. Deep down, you knew you weren’t staying in Goodsprings forever, but the thought of walking back felt like you’d been asked to hike from one end of the mojave to the other, and the thought of trudging all the way back out to the campground tomorrow, one Sunny had said was just beyond the next hill, was equally exhausting. You trudged after Sunny, determined not to show how much you wanted to sit down and rest the remainder of the night, whether that was on a barstool in the Pioneer or in that bed in Victor’s shack. Before you knew it, you were standing beside her above the remains of a campfire.

“Right,” Sunny said, building up the flame. “So, what you’re gonna want are two broc flowers, and two xander roots. You know what they look like?” 

You shook your head, and she continued. “Well, the broc flowers are yellow, sometimes variegated, and grow on tall stalks. Xander roots stick out of the ground a little bit, kind of like the Old World carrots in that farm painting in the saloon, and they’re white, striped with tan. Can’t miss either, really.” She pointed up the hill. “There’s some of each up there, run and grab some right quick. Just watch yourself; some real mean geckos nest up there sometimes.”

“Hey, hey you! You gotta help me!” A man ran up, seemingly from nowhere, a wild look in his eyes. Though you couldn’t pinpoint what it was, something about him seemed off, ungenuine in his panic, but you held your tongue, loath to dismiss him so soon. 

“Oh, fuck off Barton.” Sunny turned around, fixing the man with a glare, and he stopped dead in his tracks. “Not this again.”

“Sunny,” he stammered. “I...I wasn’t expecting you all the way out here. How’s it going?”

Her scowl deepened. “I’m trying to teach, and you’re being distracting by trying to get my friend here killed. What’s the ploy these days? I lost track of what story you were telling a long time ago.”

“I….uh…” Barton was at a loss for words. You could see the violent indecision of telling the truth or a lie in his eyes. “My girlfriend is trapped by geckos and I need help to save her?”

“That is really pathetic.” You looked back and forth between the two, not sure what to make of the situation--the conversation, or the fact that Sunny had put herself between you and this Barton character, causing you to peek around her as if you were her little sister.

She looked back at you. “This bastard hasn’t had a girlfriend since he was….what, seven? And he likes to lure people to their death so he can pick the loot off ‘em like a damn vulture. Don’t listen to a thing he says.” Her eyes snapped back to him. “Get lost, Barton. We aren’t falling for your bullshit today.”

“But…” he trailed off, knowing it was no use. “Ah, hell. You got me.” He threw his hands up dramatically. “Fine, fine. I’m goin’. Good luck, I guess.” He stalked off to one of the campground trailers, snatching up a grimy bottle of whiskey, and slumped down against the rusted metal hull to drink it.

“You two know each other?” 

Sunny huffed a laugh. “Sort of. He grew up in Goodsprings. Always made moves on me, never got anywhere, so he came to live out here. Said I was too much to be around in town, so this,” she gestured towards Barton, who was nursing the whiskey in his hand while sitting in a pile of glass ghosts of hangovers past, “this is what he decided to do with his life. No better than a damn raider, but at least nobody comes out here, and half the time he’s rambling drunk, not constantly raging out of his mind on Psycho.” 

She shook her head disapprovingly. “Wouldn’t’ve brought you out near him, ‘cept this is the only place with a safe spot for a campfire--and this one is ready to go when you are.” She waved towards the hill. “Go on ahead and get those ingredients.”

While there were some geckos wandering around, you managed to find the ingredients with relative ease, without bringing a nest of angry geckos down on you. The broc flowers were bright yellow, up on stalks just like Sunny had said, and you spotted them first. The xander root was trickier; you hadn’t seen the painting in the saloon that Sunny was talking about, and had no idea what the hell a carrot was, just that this root would be sticking out of the ground. White and tan banded coloring caught your eye, and you hauled that and the broc flowers all the way back down to Sunny. 

“These will do just fine. Just fine,” she grinned, inspecting your harvest. The process to make healing powder was quite simple. Sunny showed you how to dry the xander root and the broc flower above the flame without reducing them to ash. Both lost their fluids quickly; you suspected that, out here, they hadn’t had a lot of liquid in them to begin with. When both were dried, she showed you how to find a good pair of rocks to reduce the ingredients to powder, and provided a little bottle to put the healing substance in.

“See, now when you need a pick-me-up, you can use this in a couple of ways,” Sunny said, casting an arm around your shoulders. The healing powder had mixed to an orange-brown color; she shook it for effect. “You can wet your finger and eat it, for one. Tastes about as good as Trudy’s hangover cure, but just like that, it’s not about the flavor. That’s best if you get poisoned by somethin’, or if you just have some scrapes.”

“If you’ve got the time and supplies, or you’ve got a wound that’s pretty bad, you can mix it with a little water,” she continued. “It turns into a paste, and you wipe that on the wound. Helps you clot up if the blood isn’t doing it on its own, and dulls down the pain. It’s kind of like a stimpak, without the fancy needle and Old World science. People here were making this powder long before stimpaks were around, if the tales are true.” 

You took the bottle from her, tucking it into an outside pocket of your bag. “Thanks again for showing me the ropes, Sunny. I appreciate it.” 

“Yeah, yeah,” she gave your shoulders a squeeze before letting go. “There’s anything else you wanna know about survival out here, let me know. If I don’t know it, I might know someone who does. For now, though, let’s head back. Mom’s gonna want her steaks for the fridge, and it’s about dinnertime anyhow."

Chapter Text

Doc seemed especially pleased with the speed of your recovery when you stopped in for your daily checkup. The night before, you’d eaten some of the healing powder, per Sunny’s instructions on the matter. She was right; it tasted terrible, like starchy leaves gone bitter, but your forehead didn’t itch with pain when you sat up that morning, a marked improvement. There was a spring in your step when you left, heading town towards the Prospector for breakfast. The general store’s sign reminded you of the dirty state of your armor; picking up a cleaning kit from Chet was one of your many to-do list items for the day.

“Haven’t seen you in a couple,” Easy Pete said, smiling as you stepped onto the porch. “I was startin’ to think you’d left.” 

“Not yet.” This time, you weren’t jonesing for a bite to eat to stave off unconsciousness, and happily listened to him recount his past as a prospector--a scavenger, as other people evidently called his job. Only when he started to doze in the rising morning heat did you excuse yourself, looking forward to whatever Trudy was willing to cook up for you for breakfast.

~

“I’m done bein’ nice.” 

You quietly pressed the door closed behind you, trying not to make it squeak on its hinges in response to the snarl of a gruff man’s voice. Every face in the saloon was turned towards the bar, a scene that was out of sight from you. Your footsteps went unnoticed in the face of whatever was going on. 

The scene came into view slowly. First, you saw a man in jeans, a blue shirt, and a black tactical riot vest, the letters NCRCF stenciled on the back in white. Then, you saw Trudy, standing ramrod straight, holding her ground as the man continued to hurl angry words at her. “If you don’t hand Ringo over soon, I’m going to get my friends, and we’re burning this town to the ground, got it?” 

Trudy narrowed her eyes. “We’ll keep that in mind. Now, if you’re not going to buy something, get out.”

The man huffed through his nose, indignant, then turned on his heel and all but stomped towards the door. He caught sight of you watching the exchange, tracking him across the floor after everyone had averted their eyes back to their plates and glasses. “The hell is your problem?” he barked, droplets of spit landing on your cheek as he passed. The saloon door whooshed open, then slammed shut, causing you to flinch slightly. 

The silence that followed in the Prospector was uncomfortable, and you crept into the bar room, slightly shaken from the rage of the unwelcome visitor. So far, nobody had been that outright hostile to you that you could remember. It was the wasteland, and you weren’t expecting to meet chipper Goodsprings folks everywhere you went when you left. You just weren’t expecting someone to yell and spit in your face before breakfast on your third day of conscious memory.

Trudy glanced up at the quiet squeak of the stool, realizing what happened when you began wiping the drops of saliva off your face with your sleeve. “Oh, hon, I’m sorry you had to see that.” A clean bar cloth was pressed into your hand. 

“What was that all about?” The cloth was much more effective than the bits of sleeve between your armor. 

“It looks like our little town got itself dragged into the middle of something we don’t want anything to do with,” she sighed. A plate slid onto the bartop in front of you.  “Here, some bighorner steak, since you seemed to like it the other day, with some prickly pear fruit and pinyon nuts.” 

“Did he say what his problem was?”

The saloon door banged open again. You flinched and eyed the doorway, waiting for the man who had left to start yelling again, but instead Sunny’s now-familiar voice muttered profanities under her breath in the other room, continuing all the way into the room and to her usual barstool. Cheyenne even seemed ruffled, her fur standing up even after giving herself a good shake. Trudy just put a plate of food out for her, too, and she started eating, stemming her string of curses without saying anything else. 

Trudy continued. “Early this mornin, ‘bout when I was coming to open up, this man comes runnin’ into town like a bat outta hell. Wild look in his eyes, looked scared. Said he’s a trader, name’s Ringo. Survivor of an attack on his caravan, he says. Bad men after him, needs a place to hide.” She shook her head, taking to polishing the already-pristine bartop with her towel. “I figured he was just in shock, so I pointed him to that little gas station up the hill. Said it’s been empty for years, he can lie low there. Well, I didn’t expect anyone to actually come after him.”

“Bastard,” Sunny muttered. Trudy gave her a stern look at the suggestion that she’d start another string of profanities. “Sorry mom.”

“Who was the man you were arguing with?” you asked. 

“He’s a convict, just without the chains. Said his name was Cobb. 'Powder Gangers' is what he and his people are calling themselves.” A derisive snort punctuated her sentence. “Plenty more like him out there.”

“Powder Gangers?”

“Chain gangs, really. The NCR brought them in from California to work on the rail lines. Problem is, as it turns out, giving convicts a bunch of dynamite and blasting powder ain’t the best idea.” Sunny bitterly laughed through her nose at that, still keeping her nose in her plate. “Was a big escape not too long ago, apparently some of ‘em stuck together so they could make trouble. I suppose that trouble is what we’re dealing with now.”

“I’ll go talk to them,” you offered. “Maybe I can work something out that isn’t handing Ringo over to be killed, or us getting killed in the process of flushing him out.”

“I’d be careful, ‘f I were you,” Sunny warned. “Cobb’s a mean one. You might not be able to talk sense into ‘im, and not for lack of trying. Just....don’t get yourself hurt.”

You flashed her a devilish grin, finishing your breakfast and sliding off the stool. “Only thing I can promise is that I won’t get myself killed. Been there, done that.”

“Don’t. Get. Cocky.” Trudy’s voice became stern, like the town mom she was. “Just ‘cause Doc patched you up from a grave once don’t mean he can do it twice. Keep gambling after you win, and you’re bound to lose. Be. Careful.”

“I will.” Softening your voice, it was a promise, reassurance. “Just wish me luck.”

Sunny playfully dug her elbow into your ribs as you passed. ““I think you’ve got enough’a that for all of New Vegas. It’s no wonder the house always wins; you’ve got the lion’s share of luck in this world.”

~

“What the fuck do you want?!”

You’d kept your distance, coming around the far end of the abandoned mobile home at a leisurely stroll, the kind you imagined Victor would have if he were human. Cobb leaned against the side of the adjacent house, against the corner nearest the road. The second you came into view around the trailer, and made it clear you were coming his direction, he’d spat his confrontational words of unwelcome at you.

“You’re new in town,” you deadpanned. “I figured I’d come say hello.”

“You figured wrong.” Cobb glared at you from the slight shade the overhang of the roof provided. “I’m in this shithole for one reason, and one reason only, and it ain’t to make small talk with a kid.”

An eyebrow twitched at that. “Sorry, I guess.” You leaned against the rusted-out trailer’s hull.

Cobb cast you another sour look. “Don’t you have somewhere better to be?”

“No,” you shrugged. Silence filled the air, save for the occasional dry buzz of cicadas. Letting your eyes slip into a relaxed squint, effectively sunning yourself on the trailer like a young gecko, you made every effort to give the impression that you didn’t find him threatening enough to stay alert around.

Cobb shifted on his feet, casting glances your way that you caught from the corner of your vision. Not five minutes had passed before he crossed his arms and cleared his throat. “So, uh,” he began, most of his hostility tempered by the manufactured awkwardness. “Have you seen a man around here? Striped shirt, bandana, funny goggles, answers to the name Ringo?”

“Can’t say I have,” you replied smoothly. It wasn’t a lie. You hadn’t actually been to see him yet. “Friend of yours?”

“Somethin’.” More silence, more shifting from Cobb. “He, uh, he’s some trader who decided he’d rather shoot at me and my guys than pay the toll for being in our territory. He’s hiding out somewhere in town, and the adults ‘round here are too stupid to know what’s good for ‘em and give him up.” His voice dropped to a mutter, more to himself than you. “Would serve these idiots right if me and my guys shot the place up after we got payback on Ringo.”

Anger flared beneath your ribs at his slander of the people you were beginning to think of as found family. You swallowed it, doing your best to keep the indignation out of your voice, but it came out as mild sarcasm. “This is your territory?” 

“It is now,” Cobb said, his small chuckle telling you that you didn’t want to know the details behind those words. “Me and the rest of the guys busted out of the NCR prison east of here and took over. Now we’re calling the shots.”

Curiosity got the best of you. “What were you in prison for?”

Cobb clammed up, his tone going cold again. “None of your damn business,” he snapped. “You oughta know better than to ask a man that kind of question.”

“Sorry. I was just curious” Again, you didn’t sound particularly sorry, but it was with polite posterity that you said it anyway. “I don’t have any parents, so…”

“So no-one to teach you manners,” Cobb finished. Was that understanding in his voice? His tone went gruff again. “Well, now you know. Mind your own business next time.”

Mind your own business you did, finally bringing up the reason you sought Cobb out in the first place. Only now, you knew what to say. “There any chance in convincing you not to kill Ringo? Let him pay his toll or whatever, then let him go? Less bullets wasted that way.”

Cobb barked a short laugh. “Nah, nah. He took out a few of my guys before he turned tail. Man’s gotta pay, and I’m not gonna settle for some measly caravan caps. Life for a life, bottom line.”

“I see.” You didn’t like how much that sounded like your feelings about the itching stitches in your forehead, and the man who put them there. 

More silence. You were starting to wonder if you’d get anything more out of him when he spoke again. 

“Listen, kid. You don’t seem as thick-skulled as the other morons around here. You find Ringo, help us take over town, and you’re welcome to run with us. We’re mostly guys, well, all guys, but...well, the ones who’d get ideas ‘bout a kid like you were, uh, dealt with a long time ago. You seem tough enough to run with the best. You don’t have to answer now, just...think about it.”

Think about it? There was nothing to think about. “I will,” you assured him, pushing off the trailer, dusting your hands off. “See you ‘round, Cobb.” 

“Joe.” 

“What?”

“Name’s Joe.” 

“Bye, Joe.” 

“Hrmph.” It was as much of a pretend laugh as he deigned to give. “Yeah.”

~

Sunny was waiting for you when you trudged back up the hill, tapping her foot just outside the saloon. “Well? How’d it go?”

“It doesn’t sound like it matters if we give him Ringo or not. He has it in for the town because we’re not giving him up. Called you guys idiots, morons, said it’d serve everyone here right if they shot up the town after they kill Ringo--” Sunny clapped a hand over your mouth, your steadily rising voice starting to carry with the rage behind it. You scowled over her hand, letting your eyebrows convey the attitude she’d silenced.

“Be quiet,” she hissed, slowly removing her hand as she pulled you into the small alley between the general store and the saloon. “Listen. Go talk to Ringo. We might be able to avoid this whole fiasco if he can slip out quietly; once he’s gone, we can take Cobb around, show ‘im Ringo’s not here anymore, and they’ll move on.”

“We might have to fight him,” you whispered back. “I don’t trust it.”

“Then we’ll fight if it comes down to that.” The look in Sunny’s eyes told you that she’d happily kill more than just geckos to protect the people she cared about. “Try to talk it out with Ringo first, alright?”

“Alright,” you agreed, giving a cursory glance the way you’d come. Cobb was well out of sight, and out of earshot. “He’s at the gas station still, right?”

Sunny nodded. “I’ll go distract Cobb, give you a chance to get in the station without him putin’ two and two together.” 

She walked off, heading towards the rundown mobile home, and you went right, circling around the back of the general store before heading up the hill. The more space you could put between you and the wayward Powder Ganger, the better. 

The ghost of the Poseidon Energy gas station loomed over the town, its advertising light forever dark, encrusted with two centuries worth of mojave dust, several chunks of plastic having cracked and fallen out a long time ago. The gas and coolant pumps had long since been scavenged for parts, and all that remained were the Nuka Cola and Sunset Sarsaparilla vending machines out front, and some odds and ends in the garage area. The windows were boarded up as well, odd pieces of glass half-buried in the dirt below suggesting that they’d been smashed out years ago.  It looked for all the world abandoned, but you knew better. You checked the vending machines, surprised to find a few full bottles of sarsaparilla in the one, waiting for Sunny to get into position. When her red hair vanished around the side of the trailer, you quickly tugged at the building’s door, opening it just enough to slip inside. 

The door shut with a quiet thud, bathing the room in darkness. 

Click.

You froze, something in your chest not letting you move in response to the noise.

“Turn around.”

Slowly, as not to make any sudden movements, you turned to face the source of the voice, pressing your back against the door. In the dim lamplight, Ringo stood at the ready, pistol aimed, eyes wide and calculating. He looked just like Cobb had said, clothes and all, and couldn’t have been much older than Sunny.

“That’s close enough,” he said slowly. “Who are you, and what do you want with me?”

“I’m not an enemy, if that’s what you’re asking,” you said coolly, glancing between his face and the gun. Of the two men, you weren’t expecting Ringo to be the one to pose the more immediate threat.

He followed your gaze, quickly lowering his gun, clicking the safety back on. “Sorry about the gun. You just caught me off guard, that’s all.” The gun went back in its holster, and he moved to sit on an old sarsaparilla crate. “We...got off to a bad start. What say we start over with a friendly game of Caravan? You know how to play?”

You shook your head, peeling your back from the metal door to join him, sitting on an overturned bucket. “No, not anymore at least. I actually came to talk to you.” Fishing around in your bag, you produced two of the sarsaparillas from outside. “Drink?”

“Sure.”

The lukewarm drinks were popped open, the quiet fizz loud in the small building. “Did you know that there’s a man named Joe Cobb looking for you?”

Ringo’s expression darkened. “Yeah,” he said tersely. “He doesn’t look very tough though. I hear he’s afraid I’ll shoot him down from one of the windows when I see him, and he’s right.” 

Even if there had been any chance of getting Cobb to compromise, you knew it was out the window with Ringo. Too much bad blood there. You sipped your drink as he continued. “I’ll have a much bigger problem once his friends show up. There’s no way I could handle all of them in a gunfight.”

Cobb really was planning to take the town by storm, one way or another. “What are you going to do about the Powder Gangers, then?”

Ringo shrugged, looking down with an expression of abject defeat. “I’m going to lay low for as long as I can,” he said. “Assuming this town doesn’t throw me to the wolves. I’ve got no chance against them on my own, and with Cobb here, I’m not sure I can even make a run for it now.”

“We aren’t going to throw you to the wolves.” You were aware that you’d just made a decision for the whole town, but you didn’t care. “Not like there’s anything in it for Goodsprings, even if we did. Cobb is either going to burn the place down til he flushes you out, or shoot everyone dead when he sees the proof that we lied to his face. It’s kind of lose-lose for us, too.”

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come here. These bastards wouldn’t have been here if it weren’t for me.”

You looked up at him, going as stern as Trudy. “Don’t be sorry. It’s not your fault they’re the way they are. We’ll deal with it, and it’ll be okay in the end.”

Ringo laughed. “You sound pretty sure of that, kid.”

“They did it for me,” you smiled. “We’ll do it for you. It’s about time I started paying it forward.”

You sat in silence for a few moments, silence far more comfortable than the quiet pressure of trying to get Cobb to talk. “Why are the Powder Gangers after you, anyway?”

“My caravan was on a return trip from California, heading back up to the company branch in New Vegas when we got jumped,” he began. “Not even a, ‘drop your weapons and hands up’ before the bullets started flying. We put up a good fight, but there were too many of them. I took a few of those bandits down before I ran, so I figure their friends are out for revenge.”

“Sounds more like Cobb than his story did. He said you didn’t pay some toll to travel through their territory, and decided to shoot them up instead.” 

“Bull. Shit.” Ringo took a long swig from his bottle. “We never shoot first. Never. Last thing caravans need are more trouble on the road than we’ve got. The bosses prefer us to show up without caps or merchandise than to not show up at all.”

“Figured as much,” you assured him, glad your suspicions had been confirmed. “Sounds like a fight’s gonna go down, one way or another,” you mused. “Maybe I can help you out.”

“No,” he said flatly. “We’d just end up sharing the same grave if it’s just the two of us. No offense, but you’re just a kid, and I really don’t want your death on my conscience, even if I’m dead too. Now, if some of the other people from town were on our side, maybe, but I’m not sure that’ll happen any time soon.”

“You never know.” Bottle empty, you set it on the collapsing shelf above you. “I’ll ask around, see who I can round up. I bet there’s more than a few people who’ll help you out, especially if I’m vouching for you.”

Ringo’s expression was doubtful, but his sigh told you it was the best option he had. “Fine. I’d start with that one redhead, Sunny Smiles was it? She’s been friendlier than most around here.”

“She is, isn’t she?” Standing, you collected the bottle from the shelf, not wanting to leave Ringo with your trash. “I’ll be back soon.”

“See you then.” He offered you a smile. “And thank you.”

~

“I’m going to help Ringo take on the Powder Gangers. I might need your help.”

“Say no more. I’m in.”

Leaning back in the saloon’s metal chair, you blinked at Sunny. “Just like that?”

She smiled, but there was a hardness in her eyes. “Just like that. Cobb talks about leaving us alone if we hand over Ringo, but I know his type. He and his friends will come after the town eventually.”

“You think the three of us can handle it?” 

Sunny shook her head. “Probably not. Between you, me, and Ringo, we aren't exactly a force to be reckoned with.” She raised a clever eyebrow. “Though, a lot of people around here look up to Trudy. If you could convince her to join us, some of the folks in town might decide to help out as well. I’d check in with the other big names around here; Doc, Chet, hell, see if Easy Pete can help at all. Maybe even Victor, as much as Trudy doesn’t like him. We need all the help we can get.”

“Consider it done. I’ll let Ringo know what’s up.”

“I wouldn’t go up right now,” she warned. “If Cobb sees you in and out of the gas station too much, he’ll come sniffing around, and that could put Ringo in danger.”

“Right. I’ll be careful.” Sunny gave you a look. “What? He won’t care if I’m behind the place, and he won’t see me whispering in a window. As far as he’s concerned, I’m just a nosy kid. It shouldn’t surprise him that I’d be poking around old abandoned buildings.”

Sunny looked you over. “True, I suppose. Given what happened to you, I keep forgetting you’re just sixteen, at most. You act like you’re a few decades older than you are. Don’t lose that kid spirit too much,” she said, bumping you with her shoulder. You bumped her back. She’d practically taken you on as a younger sibling, and you were determined not to let some dynamite-happy ex-convicts take that away.

~

Trudy looked at you like you’d grown an arm out of the wound in your forehead when you explained what was going on, what the plan for Cobb and his cronies was. “You should help us take them down. Bullets, explosions, lots of fun,” you said, hoping your playful  attitude would ease past her stern mom spirit.

“I was planning on sitting this one out, but for some reason, I can’t help but like you. Your attitude.” She sighed, rubbing her temple. “I’m with you, if only for the fact that Sunny’s right. They’ll come for the town, one way or another, and I don’t intend to see that happen any time soon. I’d rather put up a fight.” 

A pencil and a pad of paper were produced from somewhere beneath the bartop, and she began writing out lists. She tore the three separate pages out, handing them to you. “Take these to Easy Pete, Chet, and Doc Mitchell. They’re supply lists, what we’ll need for our best shot at keeping everyone alive out there. Run and get it, bring it back here, and I’ll make sure everyone gets suited up.”

~

The first stop was Chet, who immediately balked at your proposition. “Now just hold on. I never voted to take on the Powder Gangers.” He looked up and down the list Trudy had given you for him. “That's a thousand cap investment you're talking about.”

You leveled a scowl at him, his greed for  caps getting under your skin. That first day you’d met him had told you enough; a steadfast merchant, first and foremost, through and through. “Let them take over the town, then. I'm sure your business will be much better off.” 

It was his turn to scowl at you. “You made your point,” he snapped, slapping the list down on the counter. He began heaving crates out from the back room, wedging them open with a crowbar to reveal new leather armor. “I can provide people with these, and extra ammo. I sure hope it’s worth it. I’ll take these over to Trudy.” He gestured at the other lists in your hand. “Looks like you’ve got more errands to keep you busy. Oh, and I’ll be guarding the store when all this fighting is going on. I have to put my business first, you understand.” 

“You do that.” The chill in your voice was palpable. “Look, Chet. I don’t care what you do. I just care whether or not the people in this town--the ones who actually have a backbone-- will survive the fight they’re participating in.” He winced a little at your scathing appraisal of his stance, but didn’t say anything more.

~

“Psssst.”

You crouched beside the gas station, right near the window above Ringo’s mattress. As far as you could tell, Cobb hadn’t seen you head up the hill, and was still a little blue dot lurking in the same spot. It made you suspicious, having heard from him himself that he was waiting on friends to show up. Nobody waited around like that for friends who weren’t due in town until the next day.

“Pssst.” 

Finally. There was a faint rustling of fabric from the other side of the boarded window. “Kid? That you?”

“Name’s (y/n). Or Eagle. Either works,” you said quickly. “I came to let you know that I talked to Sunny.”

“What’d she say?” If his whispering could have gotten quieter, it did. 

“She’s in. We’re rounding up people to help.”

Ringo’s sigh of relief was audible through the slats. “I can’t believe they agreed to help.”

“Honestly? Me neither, but you’ve got the town mom on our side, and that’s as good as having the town,” you whispered back. “I have to go talk to some people, get some supplies together, but I’ll be back soon to let you know when we’re ready.”

“Sounds good. I’ll be here.”

~

Doc Mitchell smiled at you as you came through the door. “Lil’ Eagle, good to see you back. You need somethin’?”

You held out the list Trudy had given you. “The town is going to be attacked by bandits. Trudy sent me to see if you could spare any medical supplies. Is there anything you can do to help?”

“Seems like wherever I go it's always the same. Folks just never leave each other alone. I'm not much good in a fight, either, with my bum leg and my knees actin’ up.” He pulled his glasses from his shirt pocket, adjusting them on his nose to better see the list. “Hmmm. Might come up short on some o’ this, my supplies are a little scarce for what Trudy’s askin’, but I’ll give you what I can spare.” He set the list down, gathering the supplies off his shelves. “You know, kid, this ain’t exactly avoidin’ gettin’ yourself killed.”

“I’ll be careful, I promise. Sunny retrained my shot, and she’ll be out there too.”

“Shootin’ people is a lot different than shootin’ geckos. Normally, the geckos ain’t shootin’ back.”

“I know.” He carefully placed the supplies in your arms, a few doctor’s bags, some stimpaks, med-x, and other bandaging items. You smiled at the doctor. “I just have to make sure to shoot before they do this time around.” 

“Good luck, (y/n). I’d be out there helpin’ if I could.”

~

Victor was idling in the shade of what was left of his shack’s porch, screen flickering slightly. The cowboy Securitron was napping. With a smirking grin, you quietly slunk along the wall of his house, coming up behind him, careful not to set off his biometric sensors too quickly. Reaching forward slowly, you tapped the side of his shoulder lightly. His chassis bounced, his version of jumping awake.

“Huh? Who goes there?”

“Don’t worry, it’s just me, Victor.” 

The securitron rolled to face you. “Gave me a right startle there, friend,” he said, but you heard the smile in his speakers, tinny as the sound quality was. “Come to relax a spell?”

“I’m actually here to ask a favor, if you don’t mind.” 

Victor bounced slightly again. You took it to be a nod this time. “Alright, shoot.”

“Are you decent in a fight? I could use more firepower, if you have any. Bunch of bandits are planning to storm the town, and we need all the help we can get.”  

If Victor could grin eagerly, he would have. “Trouble with rustlers? Count me in, pardner. Those varmints will be running home with their tails between their legs soon enough.”

“I look forward to seeing you there,” you beamed. 

~

Easy Pete took one look at the paper from Trudy--a note, rather than a list--and shook his head, handing it back to you. “Not a mole rat’s chance against a deathclaw.”

It had also seemed odd to you that Trudy had wanted dynamite, of all things, to go after the Powder Gangers with, but you needed an explanation to take back to her in its stead. “Why not?”

“Too dangerous,” he said seriously. “Gonna kill all yourselves with it if I let you touch it. Better to leave it buried. Safer that way.”

“Trudy says the Powder Gangers use it,” you countered. It would be a lie if you weren’t a little offended at his lack of faith in everyone’s ability to use basic explosives. “How hard can it be? Just light ‘em and throw.”

Easy Pete shook his head slowly. “Too dangerous, sorry. People’d blow themselves up, blow their neighbors up, hell, blow the whole town up.”

“I’ll let Trudy know,” you said, disappointed. Part of you thought it would’ve been a little poetic, fighting the Powder Gangers with their weapon of choice, but there was nothing for it. 

“I’ll be chippin’ in with my gun, don’t you worry,” he assured you. “Now, unless them Powder Gangers are gonna come ridin’ in on tamed deathclaws, I think we’ve got enough guns. We won’t need the dynamite.”

“Thank you anyway,” you said politely, and he offered you a warm smile.

Chapter Text

The shade of the Prospector was nice after having run around town. Trudy divvied up the supplies on the counter, and when the other residents of the town came in for lunch, she gave them a rundown of the situation, handing out gear and instructing them to change in the back bathrooms. Before you knew it, all of Goodsprings--save for Chet and Victor--was crammed into the saloon, dressed to kill and armed to the teeth, scarfing down a meal-on-the-house to keep their strength up for the impending fight. Some chattered among themselves, seeing more activity than they had in a long time. Others nodded their heads along with the tune of Lone Star piping through the radio and jukebox. 

“Here, go on and run this up to Ringo,” Trudy said, quietly passing you a little bag of food. “It’s safer than tryn’a sneak him down here.” 

“Let him know we’re ready, too,” Sunny added. “We can take the gangers by surprise and be waiting for ‘em when they show up.”

“I’ll pass it along,” you assured her. Stuffing the food in your cross-body bag, you made for the door.

The gas station was just as you’d left it, though the shadows had grown a little longer since you’d run off to see about recruiting Doc Mitchell’s help. You stalled for a minute, pretending to check the vending machines again-- how was there always more sarsaparilla? That wasn’t at the forefront of your mind, however; keeping an eye on the blue dot that was Cobb was. He’d moved with the shade, now standing around the corner of the house, still looking like he was waiting on someone. Anyone like him with some sense would have probably broken into one of the old boarded up houses to stay in, if their friends would be a while. But, there he was, hours later, still leaning against the house like he belonged there. As you slipped into the old convenience store, part of you wondered if he’d stand there all night, if his friends took too long. 

“This is the best meal I’ve ever had,” Ringo gushed, taking huge bites of the smoked gecko and yucca sandwich she’d made him. “At least it’s about that good right now. Whoever made this should really open a restaurant, hell, maybe even a whole casino.”

“Trudy’s already got the saloon,” you laughed. “She’s the one to thank for it.”

“Thank her I will,” he promised. He continued talking, a huge mouthful of food muffling his words. “So, how did the recruitment go?”

“Everyone’s all geared up and in the saloon. Cobb is still lurking around by a house down there. I think he’s waiting on his friends. Can’t see him standing out in the mojave heat without water for any other reason.”

“I don’t trust that bastard,” Ringo muttered, downing the last of his sandwich. “Well, I guess that means we're ready to go.”

The door burst open, and your hand reflexively went to your hip for your pistol. 

“I certainly hope so,” Sunny said. “Time to look alive. The Powder Gangers are here to play.”

You eased your hand away from your gun. “How many are there?”

“At least six, Cobb included. They look pretty damn mean, no surprise there.” She made a clicking noise at Cheyenne, and she turned, bolting down towards the saloon. 

“Where’s Trudy and the rest?”

“Setting up in cover near the saloon. We better get down there quick. I’ll set up near the store. Let’s hope the gang doesn’t make it that far.”

You nodded. “Let’s go.” 

~

The three of you sprinted down the hill, following the trail of dusty pawprints Cheyenne had left behind. The settlers of Goodsprings had formed into a one-town militia, some crouched along the porches of the Prospector and the store in a firing line, others crouched in the sagebrush, more having somehow made it to the roof, watching the road down their sights. Sunny tucked herself beside the general store with her rifle, and Ringo hit his knees behind a stack of crates, pulling out his revolver. You ran past the saloon, vaulting into a long-abandoned hay trailer, letting the buckboard provide cover while your eyes and your varmint rifle waited for the challenge of movement to come over the hill. Without moving, you glanced around at the assembled people of Goodsprings. Where was Victor?

You were left with no time to wonder as a large growth of sagebrush violently exploded a few yards away, yelling and whooping and sparking light coming up the road full speed. 

“Here they come!” Trudy yelled, using the doorframe of the saloon for cover. “Safety off if it isn’t already!” 

The quiet tumbleweed town of Goodspring erupted in a fireworks show of gunfire and dynamite blasts. You pulled your trigger, watching one of the men collapse on the other end of your sights. Tightness settled in your stomach--not the disgusted, guilty twist of a first kill, but the perturbed realization that, with the ease with which you pulled the trigger, it wasn’t your first kill. You hadn’t taken your little teenage self to be a killer. By the look on Joe Cobb’s face when he spied you kneeling in the buckboard, he hadn’t taken you for one, either. His body twitched a few times before blood ran down his sleeves, and he collapsed under the impact of the settlers’ bullets. The rest didn’t last long, either, some clad in only pants falling with a well-timed shot, others skidding to a stop in the dirt when the sheer number of shots finally got through their NCRCF riot armor. 

By the time the last powder ganger fell, there were several brush fires crackling to life, thanks to the influence of the guns, the dynamite, and the one random molotov that had found its way into the mix. Trudy yelled something, and the settlers on the porch of the saloon ran inside, then ran back out, heading for the fires with buckets of water. She had sent them out to the wells while you were rounding up help, you realized, anticipating the flammable state of the surrounding brush. Each one fizzled out with a puff of black smoke that quickly went grey. You hopped out of the old trailer, a shiver running across your skin at the sheer number of bullets marked in its wood that hadn’t hit you. Glancing around at the people hugging one another in relief, you realized that Victor had never shown up. The little space between your lungs ached a little at the realization. 

“Holy shit. Holy shit. Holy shit. ” Ringo sat on the ground, revolver on the ground beside him, running his hands through his hair in disbelief.

“Are you okay?” You asked cautiously, not wanting to impose.

“Am I okay?” He leapt to his feet, dragging you into a hug before you even registered that he was standing. Holding you out at arms length by your shoulders, he grinned. “I’m more than okay, I’m alive! I survived! Holy shit. ” Ringo found his revolver, putting it away, and began digging in his pockets for something else. “I owe you a huge favor for this. Here.” A  sizable bag of caps was pressed into your hand. “These are technically Crimson Caravan funds, but I know they’ll understand once I explain things. I can’t thank you enough.”

“You don’t owe me anything,” you countered, making to give the caps back. 

His hand caught your wrist, gently pressing it towards your bag instead. “Keep it. Come find me, if you ever make it down to the branch, and I’ll give you more. Now,” he said, the two of you following suit as everyone--even Chet--made their way towards the saloon for a celebratory drink. “How about that game of Caravan?”

~

You lost Caravan miserably, even before Trudy had mixed you a few drinks--mixed to give you just enough flavor to taste the booze, but not enough to overstep her Old-World motherly limits on your age. After said drinks, you were hopeless, the rules making less sense than they did in the first place. Big Iron filled the saloon, both musical receptors’ volume turned up high, and the jukebox room had been cleared for dancing. Easy Pete was currently spinning Trudy around like they’d danced many times before, while new flames gingerly swayed and two-stepped, giggling and not making eye contact. Sunny slumped into the seat beside Ringo, her face flushed from dancing with Cheyenne, hands holding her front paws--drunk grin plastered on her face, a half-empty beer in her hand. 

“I think this is the most fun Goodsprings has seen in years,” she giggled, voice just barely loud enough to hear over the music. “Who knew mass murder counted as a bonding activity?!”

“I never would have guessed,” Ringo called back. His cheeks had gone just as red as hers. The whiskey, you thought. You were proven wrong when he, if possible, went even redder in response to her flinging an arm over his shoulder. They shared an alcohol-laced grin, and you suddenly got the sense that you were intruding on a moment. Still, you gave them a knowing grin and eyebrow wiggle, which made them both flush redder. 

“I’m gonna turn in for the night,” you announced, standing. Sunny and Ringo both waved goodnight, suddenly very interested in each others’ eyes. Nobody else paid you any mind, affording you a path to the door unobstructed by small talk. 

The air outside was cool, the temperatures having done their nightly plummet, though the sounds of laughter and music from inside the old saloon were scarcely dimmed. They faded into the background noise of the desert as you began the trek across town beneath the stars, heading for Victor and his shack. 

The Securitron cowboy rolled idly in place, his screen dimmed and flickering. Asleep. You strode up, that hurt ache in your chest rekindling, and gave a few quick raps on his chassis. The cowboy image on his screen lit up properly, focusing.

“Well howdy, pardner!” he said cheerfully. “When do the rustlers show up?”

All you could do was stare at him, in his blissful unawareness of what had transpired earlier. “They were here. The fight’s been over for hours. Where were you, Vic?”

“Now just hold on,” Victor said, swiveling around, seemingly confused and perhaps a little frantic. You assumed he was analyzing the optical data from his sensors, the robotic version of looking around. “I meant it when I said I’d help you. I guess I must've dozed off. That's never happened before.” 

You furrowed your brow. This bot was very human in his way, but dozing off was something you were certain robots weren’t capable of doing, at least, not in the way humans could. “Didn’t you hear all the gunfire?”

Victor swiveled slightly. “I didn’t hear a thing. This don’t make much sense.”

As personable and humanlike as the cowbot was, said cowbot was just that--a robot, made up of electrical components and drives and parts. “Maybe there’s data corruption in one of your memory chips. Can I take a look?”

“All right, but put everything back the way you found it.” Victor rolled forward a foot, popping open a piece on his chest panel. There was an outlet there, and the universal connector plug on your Pip-Boy fit perfectly. The amber display changed, showing the long, complex lists of Victor’s internal files and programming. He froze the second the data appeared; you suspected it was a safety measure. Steering clear of the personality matrix files, you headed for the memory files, where all of Victor’s observations and conversations had been stored. There was a lot of rolling around the desert, and countless recordings of people muttering crude things about him when they thought him just out of earshot. At the very end was a file with your request typed in perfectly, hence why he could remember that you asked, but the rest was blank afterward. You took a snapshot of the results, backing out and unplugging the Pip-Boy from Victor. Just like that, he reactivated, and you studied the results.

“Interesting. It looks like an override command was activated.”

“Override? That can't be right. Probably just a malfunctioning tube somewhere,” Victor laughed, bouncing in a shrug. “Better get that checked soon though, if it’s this bad.” 

You hummed. “Can’t be. Says here it was Override Command 16-Delta. Does that mean anything to you?”

Victor brought his pincer hand up to his screen, tapping the bottom of the frame as if it were his chin. “Never heard of it,” he murmured, confusion lacing his voice as much as yours. 

“Well, whatever it means, it looks like someone shut you down deliberately, but there's no record of who.” A click of a button, and your display went dark. “I’m sorry I was upset with you, Vic. I thought you just didn’t show for some reason.”

“I’d never leave you high and dry like that, kid. You know that, I know ya do; otherwise, it wouldn’t’a upset you so much. I’m the one who’s sorry, I shoulda been there.” He rolled forward, wrapping his tube arms around you in….a hug? You did your best to return it, difficult though it was with the sheer enormity of his Securitron chassis. 

“It’s alright. You couldn’t help it.” 

Chapter Text

You took your time getting ready to face the day when the morning came, having risen when dawn still sat blue on the horizon and the night chill hung on the faint humidity in the air. It was a time you weren’t used to being awake to enjoy, having woken up daily well after the sun had risen and burned the dew away to the dryness you were now accustomed to. Faint streaks of pink had only barely started tracing the sparse, high clouds when you stepped out of the shack. Victor still idled beside the door, his screen flickering, still asleep where he’d been last night. 

Certain nobody else was up yet, either exhausted from yesterday’s fight, or still too drunk to wake on their own, you made your way straight through town, heading past the little white house, the general store and saloon. You followed the faint pale trail that had been worn in the sandy overlayer of the clay soil, feet carrying you towards the water tower on the hill one at a time. Movement caught your vision, an overgrown bark scorpion darting out as fast as the early morning chill would let it, and you stopped it in its tracks with the pistol on your hip just as quickly, determined not to let it stop you. When you reached the crest of the hill, you greeted the five bloatflies that bobbed around in the air in similar fashion. The sounds of your gunshots wouldn’t be waking anyone up out here.

Slowly, you stepped onto the level ground of the cemetery. A few crows and a vulture, patches of feathers missing from generations of radiation exposure, sat croaking among themselves on a collapsed fence beam. They flapped off at your approach, settling back down closer to the water tower. Up here, the wind blowing through the headstones seemed to whisper, chills running down your spine at the notion that it might not be the wind at all. A different kind of chill took your skin when you stepped into the center of the cemetery, a hollow in the earth gaping at you, snuffed out oil lamp still sitting next to the large pile of displaced dirt.

Your grave.

What would have been your grave.

In the pale orange light of the rising sun, the scene took on a surreal haze. You sank to your knees in slow motion, unable to take your eyes off the empty rectangle of soil now that you’d seen it. Part of you had hoped that Victor had gone back, filled it in, erasing any sign of your near-demise. It seemed that the cemetery had simply been left to its devices after your rescue. Almost in disbelief, you gingerly reached out, pressing your hand into the blood drip stained soil roughly where your torso would have been. You had laid there only a few nights ago, the hands of death on your shoulders. If you didn’t have the proof written in the stitches in your head from your still-missing memory having been shot out of your skull, you’d scarcely believe it. 

Gold slid over the horizon, and just like that, the spell of your musings was broken. It was a difficult reality to accept, but you pulled your hand back from the night-cold dirt, your muscles relaxing in the knowledge that you were alive, breathing. The air filling your lungs was real, each breath out a sigh of gratitude. A line of orange caught your eye against the sand. Whoever had tried to kill you failed, and the resolute tightness in your chest at the sight of the cigarette butts beside your grave was a promise that you would return the favor.

An echo of raucous laughter drifted up from the town below, announcing the waking of the town; revelers from the night before, sharing jokes and a second day’s celebration of their victory. You stood slowly, almost reverently, mindful of your would-have-been neighbors’ plots. Had you a hat, or hair that would accommodate one, you’d have tipped it; but you settled for giving the cemetery a respectful nod farewell, having paid your respects to the earth that refused to claim you for its own, quietly taking your leave.

~

Trudy and Sunny looked up from the bar in unison as you entered the saloon, both beaming with pride in the afterglow of victory. A plate waited for you on the counter at your usual stool, gecko steak and eggs with honey mesquite, and slices of a rare fresh apple. 

You slid onto the stool, greeting the pair with a food-muffled “good morning”. 

“You were up early,” Trudy commented. “Went to bring you breakfast in bed, after what you’ve done for us, and you were nowhere to be found, already up and about. I’d say it looks like you’re finally on the upward slope of recovery.”

“I went up to the cemetery,” you replied. “I haven’t been up there yet. Well, since...you know.”

Sunny nodded. “We do. Regardless, it’s just good to see you back in the saddle, more or less. You stickin’ around Goodsprings for a while longer?”

“Probably for the rest of today, at least,” you decided. “I want to find out who did this to me, eventually. I just don’t know where to start.”

Trudy slung her bar towel over her shoulder, humming thoughtfully. “Well, if they avoided going up the 15, they would have had to go the other way- I know I told you as much already. Thing is, if they went that way, they probably went through Primm.”

“Primm?”

Sunny downed the rest of her hangover cure in one go, shuddering at the taste. “Yeah, Primm. It’s a little town, maybe a half hour’s walk from here. You could hike down that-a-way, see what’s going on, see if anyone knows anything, and if you have any trouble, we aren’t too far.”

Trudy nodded her agreement. “The people in Primm were always decent enough. Quiet, very proud of their claims to fame, but we would be too if we had roller coasters and tales of criminal lovers.”

“That sounds like a plan,” you nodded, scarfing down more of your breakfast. “A few days ago, I don’t think I could have made it that far. Thank you guys again for helping me get back on my feet.”

Both Trudy and Sunny waved dismissive hands, and for a moment, you could almost believe they were actually blood-related.

“Don’t you worry about it,” Trudy said warmly. “It’s the least we could do. Let me know when you’re heading out, and I’ll put together a care package for you.”

“I think I might wait until this evening.” The sarsaparilla, somehow still carbonated after all this time, tasted perfect after your breakfast. “That way if there’s any geckos, they’ll be getting cold, and other people won’t see me as easy.” 

Sunny nodded, pride in her smile. “Good. Just remember- a lot of the wildlife knows that people travel the roads, so they avoid it. Don’t stray too far from the road and you’ll be safe from everything except the occasional gecko or ant. Or people, but I think you know that.”

“Of course,” you laughed. You tapped your bandage, now just a little square of gauze that Doc had carefully taped just over the stitches. “I think if this scars, it’ll remind me forever if I forget, too.” 

“Yes,” Trudy agreed, her tone dropping stern. “But don’t get in over your head. You get into trouble, you come runnin’ back. I don’t care if you think you can take ‘em. I’m half tempted to send Sunny with ya just to make sure you get there and back in one piece.” 

“I’ll be fine, mom, ” you teased, using the same tone Sunny often did. Trudy’s eyes warmed, and for a moment you almost thought you saw the damp suggestion of a tear. Sunny, on the other hand, was so quick to laugh that she choked on her sarsaparilla. 

“I know, I know,” she sighed. “You made it this far in life without us, and without parents at all as far as I can tell. I just have a right to worry about you, now.” 

“I’ll come back to visit,” you teased. It was heartfelt, but teasing. “And if I can’t come visit, I’ll send letters!”

“You’d better,” Sunny laughed. “If you don’t, we’ll come looking for you. Or we’ll send a letter out your way telling you to get that butt of yours in gear and send us letters!”

The three of you giggled at the genuineness of the absurdity. “In all seriousness,” Sunny continued, “if you don’t find anything in Primm or they give you trouble, or if you run into trouble out there, come right on back here. If everything goes alright though, and if you get the leads you’re looking for…” she sighed. “Unless you need an extra gun or two, just keep on, alright? We’ll still be here when you come back around. But you deserve to find out why someone did that to you.”

“Just don’t you forget to come back and tell us about it,” Trudy finished, giving a pointed look. 

“Always,” you grinned. Trudy cleared the plates from the bar, and you stood. “I’m gonna take today and get some stuff all together, really nail down what I’m gonna take with me.”

“I’ll buy if you need to sell anything.” Trudy leaned in close, dropping her voice to a whisper. “And I’ll give you a better price than Chet. I know he ain’t too happy still about what happened with that fight. But you helped us out a lot, and you deserve it.”

“Thank you, Trudy,” you grinned. “I may be back soon.”

~

With the contents of your pack reduced down to the bare minimum that you needed to get to the next town, the supplies that you did need added, your stitches finally removed, and your guns strapped securely to your back and thigh, you set off for Primm just after the last traces of sunset disappeared. The cool of evening was just starting to seep into the growing humidity, carrying with it the scent of sagebrush and chaparral. The lights of Goodsprings vanished over the hill behind you, and you were suddenly struck with a sense of vulnerability and loneliness, stopping in your tracks. Was it worth going all the way back? You wouldn’t be opposed to spending more time there. But, you had gotten to know yourself in the past week, and you knew that never finding out who attacked you, or why, would drive you crazy. Then, the longer you waited…the less people would remember. Trudy and Sunny’s assurances came back to you. You could always go back to Goodsprings if the going got too tough. You weren’t truly as alone as you felt. 

With that courage, you continued your march down the quiet, crumbling road. Out in the distance, geckos quarreled and wrestled over scraps, or chased each other around and off rocks for the warmest place to sleep. The occasional cicada buzzed idly under a patch of sagebrush before going quiet in the growing night. The desert was peaceful at this time. 

Ahead, you spied the shack remains of a building standing guard at a crossroads. Common sense and intuition kicked in, and you lowered your stance, creeping towards the structure. The night was still silent, but your ears strained to hear any noise that might warn you of impending danger. Hearing only silence, you crept forward with a hand on the grip of your pistol, looking down over the ravine edge before you. 

Down the hill, a wide dry lake bed made for an open, flat area, and had been fitted with a long, paved runway that was slowly splitting and crumbling from the weight of time. Dilapidated biplanes sat in their collapsed state at the edge of the field, having been taken out of their long-since-collapsed hangars one day to fly, and never reparked. On the side of the shack, faded paint still advertised the business that once operated there– Jean Sky Diving. You weren’t sure who Jean was, or how one could dive into the sky, supposedly from a plane, and survive the ordeal.

Ultimately, you were far more concerned with the current residents of the establishment, namely, avoiding being seen by them. Powder Gangers had clearly taken over the place, setting up a smattering of campfires on the level dirt, and were presently huddled around them, nestled in their sleeping bags. The few who were not already asleep or on guard duty nursed bottles of whiskey and wine between drags of cigarettes, and the guards offered both cigarettes and lights to those with insomnia– and accepted sporadic, small, sneaky sips of liquor in return. Regardless, they hadn’t seen you, so you carefully backed away until all their fires were out of sight. Whether you walked back yourself or sent a letter, you made a mental note to let the folks in Goodsprings know to keep an eye on the road. 

The large green highway sign on the road indicated that Primm was somewhere down the right side of the T junction, so you changed course, continuing down the broken road. Only once did you need to deviate– due to the unfortunate event that was a small sinkhole having opened up in the middle of the pavement. Over time since it had caved, it sat collecting split and weathered radioactive waste barrels from the nearby waste disposal truck, as well as enough water from somewhere to create a small puddle in the bottom of the crater. The soft clicking of the built-in geiger counter in your Pip-Boy startled you, as this function was news; but, given the warning, you immediately gave it a wide berth, carefully stepping through the open untouched land. A gecko sprinted in your general direction, and your hand flew to the pistol on your thigh. However, upon snatching a radroach from under a shrub and shaking it ferociously, carrying it away to be eaten, it became a non-threat nearly as soon as it had arrived. A few other geckos dashed across the road ahead, but none of them paid you any mind, too focused on hunting night bugs and other small animals to care about your lone wandering presence.

Chapter Text

Primm loomed ahead, its claim-to-fame rollercoaster tracks cutting black lines though the starry night sky. The road ahead dipped down into an underpass that was clearly packed with cars, so you drifted to the right, noting the makeshift boardwalk that had been built to replace the concrete overpass that once stood overhead. Off to the right, a small collection of buildings, tents, and campfires sat nestled behind high iron fences. A mostly-white flag with red edges idly flipped around its pole overhead, each small breeze flashing a glimpse of the words “New California Republic”, and the two-headed bear emblazoned in the center. 

You scarcely heard the soft bootsteps jogging up to you from the encampment side before the soldier started speaking, his tone both defensive and surprised. “Hey, where the hell do you think you’re going? Primm is off limits.”

Eyeing him warily, you nodded shortly, with no intention to actually heed his words. “Thanks for the warning.” 

The soldier’s demeanor sank upon hearing your lack of concern. Lowering his brows, he glowered at you from beneath his tan helmet. “It’s your ass. You may want to talk to Lieutenant Hayes, he’s in a tent down the road. Just stay on this side of the overpass if you don’t want to get shot.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” Your words fell on deaf ears, as the soldier had already turned his back on you, meandering back towards the encampment. If the Lieutenant was anything like his men, you couldn’t say you were looking forward to having a conversation with him. Besides, from here, Primm looked quiet enough. “The NCR annexes one town at a time, and then can’t hold or protect them,” Trudy had said, perhaps not in such exact words. As you passed through the encampment to the boardwalk, eyeing the ammo boxes and the off-duty soldiers taking catnaps in chairs, you couldn’t help but wonder if this is what she had meant. 

“Be careful.” A grizzled, older soldier sat guard at the entrance to the boardwalk. Up close, you could now see the red lights betraying the presence of landmines on the dark planks. “If you want to try to disarm them, that’s fine, we can reset them later. They’re old, so, a bit touchy. Don’t lose limbs.”

“Are you holding Primm hostage?”

The soldier gave a short laugh. “Hostage? No. That’s the Legion’s trick, not ours. No, there’s some goons in there doing that already. Some prison escapee folks. Hayes knows more, but…you don’t strike me as the meet-and-greet, authority-respecting soldier type.”

“Then you read me well,” you chuckled in return. “I might talk to him later, but it’s late, and it sounds like he’s got his work cut out for him.”

“His work? Whole lotta jack and shit.” He shook his head, conveying every ounce of aged disappointment he felt. “We’re a formality, kiddo. Don’t got the numbers to take back Primm and we ain’t got the inclination to go rogue and play hero, neither. All Hayes is doin’ these days is makin’ sure the youngins don’t drink their weight in booze to pass the time, or gamble themselves broke to each other.”

This was a man you didn’t initially take for gossip, but everyone needed to vent now and again, and his venting had given you all the information you could have wanted from their lieutenant, without the potential recruiter pep talk. “Damn. That bad?”

“That bad. It’s worse in other places, we’re lucky to be here, but shit, if it ain’t boring at times. You’re a welcome sight, just for the variety.” The soldier’s eyes flicked to your semi-impatient inching towards the boardwalk. “On that, don’t get yourself killed over there. If worst comes to worst? Run right back over. Least then I can justify shooting them in the reports. Can’t do that with the potshots. Goddamn higher-ups micromanaging ammo…”

Shaking his head to signify the end of his rant, he waved you off. “Just press that little dark button next to each mine’s light. If you press the light you’ll be missing a whole lot more than your hand. And if it starts beeping, run, or jump off the bridge, or something. Put distance so you don’t get hit when it blows.”

Heeding his words, you cautiously crept forward on the boardwalk, gritting  your teeth when your weight shifted the planks just enough to slightly jostle the mine ahead of you. Carefully, as if trying to put your hand in the mouth of a sleeping gecko on a dare without getting bit, you inched your hand forward– and carefully jabbed the button, as instructed. The light blinked off with a confirmational chirp. 

“That means it’s disarmed,” the guard nodded. “Just leave it there, it’ll be fine.”

You managed to disarm the other three mines without incident, though you were fairly certain that the last one was just about to start beeping about your proximity. In any case, you stepped off the boardwalk and onto the side of Primm proper. Giving the guard a small wave, you slunk forward, just as you had carefully slunk up to the Jean Sky Diving shack. 

Primm was a little too quiet for its own good. Not that Goodsprings had been bustling at this hour, or often had any residents still awake for that matter–but the silence that hung over this town was different. It was darker, threatening, oppressive. Goodsprings’ night silence was comforting, a lack of all bad, just you and the night, the sand and the moon above. This silence was a hunter lying in wait to hear the betraying snap of a twig, and you were determined not to snap any proverbial twigs. Using an old blue mailbox as concealment, you surveyed the streets ahead. There were no people, and no noises, not even a stray radroach or gecko. Off to your left, you spied another Poseidon station past some otherwise unmarked buildings. The bigger of the two unmarked buildings you suspected was only unmarked at this angle– it appeared to be a living arrangement of some kind, apartments perhaps, or maybe a hotel. Across the street from it to your right, a dilapidated building minded its business about crumbling, roof long gone, its windows long shattered; while its neighbor, emblazoned with lights that read Mojave Express around the roof, still stood in full repair. Straight down the street, across an eventual T junction, another hotel rose high above all the other buildings, the rollercoaster tracks attached to it rising even higher, like some enormous mutated monstrosity. A lit sign slowly spun on an axis, naming it as the Bison Steve hotel. You were beginning to wonder if Jean and Bison Steve were actual people, or just characters made for company advertising. 

Timing your movements to be covered by a breeze gusting through the silent alleys and quiet buildings, you slipped across the street to the crumbling building, quickly ducking inside the doorframe. Somehow, the stairs had remained intact, and you silently asked them to stay standing as you climbed them two at a time. On the roofless top floor, you had much better vantage, as well as the benefit of seeing around some corners. Between the two hotels, at least two of the convicts you’d been warned about paced the street, clearly on guard duty. Another figure meandered along a curve in the coaster track, bracing on the precarious structure with a white-knuckled grip. Jean’s establishment probably didn’t impart any wisdom to that convict about how to survive diving out of the sky. 

However, you supposed that meant that he wasn’t in a position to help give cover fire, either. Two against one wasn’t ideal, but you had the advantages of cover, vantage, dark, and surprise on your side. Slinging the varmint rifle from your back, you double checked that it was topped off with ammo before starting your aim game. Despite the convict being clearly in your sights, your impending attack felt uncertain. It would be much easier with a sniper rifle, your muscle memory screamed. Did that mean you were a sniper, before? You lined up the iron sight with the convict’s leg– a likely disabling shot, if it didn’t nick something vital outright, that would keep him from running to your position. If you were a sniper, why didn’t you have a rifle? Off clicked the safety, and you readied the shot. Maybe whoever tried to kill you stole it. Or, maybe you weren’t a sniper at all. That doubt wasn’t a helpful thought to have when you were trying to be a sniper, however, so you decided that, had you been one, your rifle probably got taken as a trophy, and you pulled the trigger. 

The crack of the shot was deafening in the uncomfortable silence. The man below gripped his thigh, letting out a scream that seemed to tear the night in two. He fumbled for his pistol as the other convict swung his rifle to the ready, scanning the area. 

“Where are they?” the rifle-bearing convict snapped, swinging back and forth with wild paranoia. 

“Fuck if I know, Johnson!” The other convict yelled back. “Fuck, this hurts like a bitch on a stick! You got a stimpak or somethin’?” 

“I got some med-x but it’s up in my room,” the first one retorted. The injured one let out a despairing howl, finally taking a knee on his good leg as the pain graduated past what he could support his weight on. “Shut the fuck up Watson. You’re makin’ a goddamn fuckin’ scene.”

“I got shot, you fuckwit!” Indeed, Watson the convict was making a scene, even for valid reasons, his shrieking voice echoing off the ruined buildings. “Let’s see you get shot and not bitch!”

You chuckled to yourself, sharing the irony with your sights for a moment before you let the next shot fly. Johnson the convict lurched forward as the bullet buried itself in the back of his shoulder, letting loose an incomprehensible string of curses and slurs. He flailed around wildly, trying and failing to raise his gun with the damage to his shoulder, desperately seeking a target. 

“Yeah, see, it sucks, doesn’t it, asshole!”

“Shut your fuck, Watson, or I’ll shoot you myself!”

That would have been helpful, and much less work for you, if they had turned on each other. However, the two shared just enough camaraderie to not blow each other's heads off with more than words, so that job was still left to you. Taking a new aim, you intended to do just that. Blood painted the street when you fired. 

“Watson!” Johnson howled, frantically looking for the hidden sniper. “I swear to fuckin’ god, I don’t know who the fuck you are, but when I find you, I’m gonna make what you just did to him look like a walk in the fuckin’ park, you fuckin’ coward!”

Was this cowardly? Perhaps so. Someone with more chivalry and moxie might have stepped out on the street, plain to see in the trash bin firelight, drawn a pistol and challenged them to a duel, like in some old western film holotape. However, you knew as well as this convict did– that wouldn’t have saved you. He wouldn’t have had that chivalry. Either of them would have sooner shot you dead than shared words if they realized you weren’t there to join them; especially if they had anything to do with Joe Cobb and his crew, or got word of what happened in Goodsprings. Then, it would have been straight revenge. You knew it, and you were sure he knew it, too. So, in this instance, you supposed that cowardice was necessitated for survival…and after cheating death once, you didn’t particularly feel like taking chances again right now. Trudy and Doc would never forgive you for getting killed again. Johnson’s blood mixed with Watson’s on the crumbling pavement as you permanently silenced his threats. 

If the convicts patrolling the rollercoaster had heard or seen the altercation below, they made no move to try to intervene; perhaps they had orders not to, or more likely, they simply didn’t care enough to bother. With no other threats on the street level that you could see, you climbed down from your vantage point. Thankfully, the stairs remained intact. 

A dead man that you previously hadn’t noticed sat slumped against the door to the Mojave Express office, clearly having been shot where he stood. His overalls and bag marked him as a courier– not one you remotely recognized. The outfit seemed almost hauntingly familiar, as if you had perhaps worn one like it at one point, but no memories sparked up for you, to your chagrin. A quick rummage in his bag and pockets revealed that he had already been stripped of any valuables, but a small folded paper had been left behind in his pockets. Unfolding it, you discovered that it was a Mojave Express delivery order, extraordinarily similar to the one that Doc Mitchell had found on your almost-corpse. Was his package potentially stolen as well? You hadn’t found any platinum chip in your belongings. Carefully unfolding the bloodsoaked paper, you read the order. 

Deliver the package at the north entrance to the New Vegas Strip, by way of Freeside. An agent of the recipient will meet you at the checkpoint, take possession of the package, and pay for the delivery. Bring the payment to Johnson Nash at the Mojave Express agency in Primm.

Bonus on completion: 250 caps.

MANIFEST

This package contains:

Two (2) Oversized Dice, composed of fuzzy material.

Why would someone order two giant fuzzy dice? They paid decently for them, but you were unable to imagine such a novelty bearing that level of importance to someone. You continued to read. 

CONTRACT PENALTIES

You are an authorized agent of the Mojave Express Package until the delivery is complete and payment has been processed, contractually obligated to complete this transaction and materially responsible for any malfeasance or loss. Failure to deliver to the proper recipient may result in forfeiture of your advance and bonus, criminal charges, and/or pursuit by mercenary reclamation teams. Mojave Express is not responsible for any injury or loss of life you experience as a result of said reclamation efforts. 

That was the same as your note. Would someone be tracking you down for losing your package? Perhaps they would give you a pass to try to reclaim it when they found out you’d been shot in the face over it. Clearly Daniel Wyland–-for that was this courier’s name, according to the order–-had not been so lucky.

Chapter Text

The Mojave Express office smelled of old paper, dirt, and just a tinge of sweat from the road. Dust drifted through the air in the old building, silently settling on the surfaces with nobody to disrupt it. The front of the room was outfitted for mail sorting– a long bar made the front counter, and the wall behind it was adorned with cubbies, some of which still held undelivered mail. A partially-disassembled eyebot rested at the end of the counter, faulty and damaged parts strewn out around it, as if someone had been making repairs when the convicts struck. To your left, a pair of proper Mojave Express mailboxes sat waiting to be fed deliverable mail, both incoming and outgoing. 

The back of the office had been gutted and remodeled into living quarters. It seemed as though at least two people lived there– two chairs at the table, two dirty plates with molding food, a cup and a half-empty bottle of Nuka-Cola. Only one bed sat against the backmost wall, with two nightstands. You supposed that if the duo weren’t a married pair, they were awfully familiar with one another; or perhaps, it was just one very lonely person going to extremes to not feel alone. The decor reflected the personality differences of a married pair, however, so you were confident in your assessments. 

“Hello?”

Nobody answered.

You had to wonder where everyone had gone. They had clearly left in a hurry. Perhaps to the Bison Steve? If so, they were likely prisoners, what with the convicts patrolling the tracks. Or maybe, they were hiding out in the other living quarters building. That would be your next stop. 

Looking over the eyebot out of sheer distracted curiosity, the repairs to be done seemed easy enough with the right replacement parts. It was clear where they would fit in, the repairs self explanatory. There was enough scrap metal on the bar to close up the bot after such a surgery, too, and enough electronic scraps to replace the few worn wires that stood out. If you weren’t short on replacing the two burnt-out sensor modules on the bar, you could have made the repairs right then and there. Bots of any kind were exceptionally helpful in the wasteland, and for some reason or another, you felt inexplicably and strongly drawn to this one, beyond some scavenger urge to loot valuable things. Something about its shape and style was charming; cute, even. You made a mental note to ask the owner of the bot about their plans for it, if they had any...if the owner wasn’t dead, of course. 

The door of the office swung shut with a quiet, oiled click, and you darted under the overhang of the building across the street. The recessed lighting, powered by unseen generators, removed any chance to hide in the shadows– but the angle of your position offered you concealment from the track patrol, should they decide to target you. It took only a moment for you to slink around to the main entrance, hand resting on your pistol, and slip inside the double doors. 

A gun clicked in your face. This was starting to become a running theme. Slowly, you raised your hands in a gesture of surrender. “I’m not here to hurt anyone.”

The older man, dressed in overalls, eyed you up and down before settling on your courier bag. The gun clicked again, safety on, and he took a drag from the cigarette in his other hand as he holstered it. “I don’t know what brought you to Primm, youngster, but you might wanna rethink your plans. Town’s gone to hell.”

Slowly lowering your arms, you nodded towards him. “Who are you?”

“Johnson Nash’s my name,” he began, lowering himself onto a bar stool that sat in front of one of the many slot machines in the room. “Husband to Ruby Nash. Lived in Primm goin’ on eight years now, thick and thin. I’m a trader primarily, for what it’s worth with things the way they are.” He ran a hand through his thin, graying hair. “I also run the local Mojave Express outpost.”

Nodding, you edged over to sit on a stool of your own. “I’m a courier with the Mojave Express.”

Johnson huffed a bitter laugh. “Well, I don’t got any work right now, sorry to say. Though I reckon you’ve probably already figured that out, things here bein’ what they are.” 

This was the moment you were dreading, what with the nondelivery clause of your contract. Gulping, you steeled yourself– you were a fast runner, at least. “I lost a package I was supposed to deliver.” 

Johnson nodded gravely. “I see. Well, I’ll tell you whatever I can. Do you have a delivery order you can show me?”

Nodding, you pulled your own delivery contract out of your pocket, handing it over. “What can you tell me about this particular job?”

You sat stock still as he read it once, then read it again, squinting and looking at it straight on, then reading it yet again down his nose.

Johnson finally seemed to find an angle at which his eyesight behaved. “Oh, so you’re talkin’ about one of them packages. Yeah, that job had strange written all over it, but we couldn’t turn down the caps. 250 per order.” 

Now this was news. “What was strange about it?” 

“That cowboy robot had us hire six couriers-" 

"The one in the back of the casino?"

In the adjacent room, a slightly rusted protectron clanked to and fro on patrol, balancing a battered cowboy hat on his metal head.

"Primm Slim? Nah, this fella was different."

Your stomach sank. There was only one other cowboy robot you knew.

"Anyways, each courier on that job was carryin’ somethin’ a little different. A pair of dice, a chess piece, that kinda stuff.” He sighed, folding your order. “Last word I had from the office, it looked like payment had been received from the other five jobs. Guess it was just your chip that didn’t make it.” 

You opened your mouth to speak, but something about the topic seemed to have sparked off a frustration in Johnson. He continued, working up into a rant.

“First deadbeat we hired to do the job canceled. Hope a storm from the Divide skins him alive! Well–" he lost some of his fire, "well, that’s where you came in.” 

“He canceled?” you prodded.

“Yeah, got this look when he saw you next down on the courier list. His expression turned right around, asked me if your name was for real. I said,” he brought his hands up in a shrug, “sure as lack o’ rain, you’re still kickin’. Then he turned down the job, just like that.” He snapped his fingers for effect.

Johnson's demeanor softened, all the upset having gone out of him. “I asked him if he was sure, it was good money.” 

“What did he say?” Now, you had more questions than you ever knew you’d need or want answers to. 

Johnson dropped his voice to a low monotone, trying to mimic the other courier. “No, let Courier Six carry the package."

The mention of six caught your ear– one less question about your past to find answers to.

“That’s what he said, like the Mojave’d sort you out or something. Then he just up and walked out.” 

“Do you know who he was, or where he went? Maybe he knows more about this whole situation.”

“No idea.” Johnson let out a puff of cigarette smoke. “Well, it sounds like you two had a history for him to act like that, and turn down that money, too. Hope he didn’t see any trouble in that package of yours. Maybe he thought your name was bad luck,” he shrugged. “Not for me to say.”

The matter of this mysterious other courier left you wondering how many more people in the wasteland knew more about you than yourself.

“The men who stole my package– there was a man in a checkered suit, and a couple of Khan thugs. Did they pass this way?”

“Hmm.” He thought for  a moment. “Well, now that you mention it, a few nights back, one of the townies was out scavenging for supplies. And he said he saw a fella in a daisy suit come through with some of them Khan misfits, and they was talkin’ about a chip. Might be your man.”

Hope flared in your chest. You were back on the trail. “One of those men shot me,” you said, pointing to the fresh scars on your forehead. “I need to know the best way to get to them.”

“Well,” Johnson said thoughtfully, “for that, your best bet is gonna be to talk to Deputy Beagle. Since they came to town, he was keepin’ a good bit o’ notes on ‘em, and he was slinking around the Bison Steve when your pretty-boy friend came through. He may have heard where they’re going.” 

“Alright. Where is he now?”

You glanced around the room. It seemed as if every refugee from town had managed to pile into the casino floor. Some of them watched you warily, while others were too deep in booze and cigarettes to care. None of them rightly looked like someone you’d think of as law enforcement.

Johnson lowered his voice. “Well, that’s the thing. We haven’t seen him.” 

"Do you think he's dead?"

“Well, nobody saw him layin’ on the pavement when those convicts rolled into town, so I expect he’s out in town somewhere. Best case, he’s layin’ low. Worst case, he might’a ended up a hostage, or he's just dead where we can’t see. But I’d start with the Bison Steve, if I had your backbone.”

Nodding, you slid off the stool to make for the door. “Thank you. I'll see what I can find.” 

“Don’t get yourself shot.”

His warning reminded you of your mental note. “Before I go– what’s with the eyebot in the Express office?”

Johnson chuckled. “That beat-up old pile of bolts? What do you want to know?”

“Where did it come from?” Even still, you couldn’t shake that strange feeling of familiarity.

“A courier dropped it off some time ago." He tapped off his cigarette in the nearest ashtray. “I’d hoped to get it up and running for some courier work, but I never could get it fixed.”

“I might be able to fix it, or take it to someone who can. Any idea where to go for that sort of thing?”

“Not a bit,” he laughed. “Well, I mean, I imagine there must be some people around curious about that kind of technology- but I wouldn’t know where to start looking for them. If you want to tinker with it after all this has blown over, you can. It’ll be nice to have my counter clear again.”

“Don’t mind if I do. Thank you, Johnson.”

“Don’t mention it, Eagle.”

You looked back over your shoulder, despite the cracked front door. “I never gave you my name.”

“Once I saw your order, I remembered you,” he smiled. “You’re hard folk to forget. Be careful out there.”

Chapter Text

Only one of the coaster track patrollers spotted you when you darted across the street. His draw was too slow, the resulting shot missing you by a mile to ping off the street in a shower of asphalt instead. You couldn’t tell if he’d left his post or not, but safe was better than sorry, and it was probably best to assume that the nest of convicts inside the Bison Steve would quickly learn that you were here. Going in through the front door wasn’t your best move, either; but the lock on the side door you discovered was, by rights, unpickable. Breaking out of hiding just to see if there was a back door when your cover was already blown wasn't a great backup plan, either. Readying your pistol and cracking the door just barely enough to slip inside, you entered the old casino. 

The stench of centuries of old, stale cigarettes and ancient must hung acrid in the air. The hotel had likely been in a state of decay even before the war some hundreds of years ago. But, to your temporary relief, there were no guards or other people on post in the lobby. That meant that they either didn’t know you were inside, yet–or that they did know, and were simply laying in wait further in. Not daring to take the chance, you clicked on the Pip-Boy. Its amber display glowed softly in the dim hotel light as you fired up its environmental scanners. There was one person patrolling the hallway on the other side of the wall where you couldn’t yet see, but nobody else. Either these convicts were incredibly secure in their control of the town, or they didn’t have the numbers to back it up, just like the NCR. 

As quietly as possible, you clicked the safety off of your gun, keeping it at your side. Creeping forward, your boots padded silently over the dirty carpet, despite it having been worn nearly flat a long time ago. A moment passed, and you watched your Pip-Boy screen with bated breath for the individual in the hall to go back the other way. Soon enough, they did, and you peeked around the corner.  The convict sauntered down the hall, blissfully unaware of your presence, yet his hand seemed perpetually glued to the grip of his holstered pistol. Taking careful, measured aim, you breathed slow and silent. The gunshot cracked loudly in the confined space, making your eardrums ache. The thud of the convict’s body hitting the floor was, thankfully, the only sound that followed; no running, yelling, or return fire. 

Keeping an eye to your screen, you slunk through the hotel, looking for the missing deputy. Most of the light bulbs were either broken or burnt out, leaving large shadowy areas to duck down and hide in until the convicts wandering the halls passed. You didn’t particularly relish the idea of having to murder everyone inside just to look around, and you certainly didn’t want to get in over your head by pissing too many of them off at once. 

Anxiety only truly gripped you when you came upon a wide, open room. It had clearly been a dining hall or a dance hall at one point or another, most likely the former with the number of tables and broken dining ware scattered about. Several oil lamps sat around the room, leaving little shadow to hide in. Your only saving grace was the upturned tables that were presently being used as a barricade, and the fact that your biometric scanner’s tags marked all the inhabitants on the opposite side of them, and not visible. Not only did the inhabitants of the room not know you were here, they were also likely asleep. Never before had you felt the need to try to tiptoe while full crouched to the floor, and for a moment, you considered simply crawling across the room. You didn’t dare occupy your shooting hand in this situation. Not when there was a tag on a single someone, potentially foe and not friend, in the direction you were going. One careful step at a time, you crept at a diagonal towards another open doorway.

A grey-haired man, some twenty years or so younger than Johnson, knelt in what had once been the hotel-casino’s kitchen. His eyes lit up with fear that quickly melted into intense relief, before the intense emotions vanished from his face entirely, almost instantly replaced with a cool, suave-ish demeanor. 

“Ah, I don’t suppose you came here to rescue me? I’d cross my fingers, but uh, my hands are numb.” He spoke with a tone that suggested that he had merely been tapping his fingers and counting his toes until someone bothered to show up. 

“Who are you?” Not that you made a practice out of leaving people to die; but his attitude rubbed you the wrong way, and it was more polite than the question you wanted to ask. 

“Why, I am Deputy Beagle, and I am being held hostage,” he said, as casually as if he were making an observation about the weather on a bright sunny day. “Can you imagine?” 

You weren’t sure if he was just full of sarcasm and dry humor, or if his sense of danger really was this dense. Without waiting for an answer, he continued on. “I’d be most grateful if you would set me free.” 

Something about his attitude told you that once this man was free, you wouldn’t likely get much in the way of answers out of him. “How’d you end up being a hostage?”

Beagle blankly stared at you, as if he was used to people simply swooning to obey his every wish instead of questioning him.

“I…must say, it’s been the low point in my career as law enforcement,” he admitted. “The powder gangers stole into town one night and murdered my sister, and her husband, the sheriff, in bed, while I was sleeping in the office. I watched then for a bit, waiting for the right moment to pounce and arrest the lot of them…taking careful notes, as I watched. To my dismay, they found me while I waited in the shadows and brought me here.” 

You weren’t sure what to make of this man, other than that his story sounded awfully rote–and he seemed more than a little too calm about this whole ordeal. “Alright. Keep your voice down. Give me a few, and I can set you free.” 

“Oh, that’s just marvelous. I think I’ll be making my way outside, then.” You raised an eyebrow– you hadn’t even untied him, and he had already admitted to running for the door as soon as he was free. “The air’s a little…close, in here.” 

Your eyes narrowed into a glare. "So you're just going to run away?"

Beagle flashed you a piss-poor attempt at a charming grin. “I’ll, uh, get help. Yeah. I can bring back reinforcements.” 

It was becoming increasingly obvious that he had no intention of doing such a thing. “Sure. But before I let you go, I’ve got some questions for you. You know, in case you get killed when you come back to the fight.”

“Nobody can keep Deputy Beagle down,” he chuckled. You gave a pointed look at his restraints, and he seemed to come to the same conclusion about his statement that you had. “Oh, alright, fine, but make it quick.” 

“Can you tell me about the people who passed through town? Three men? One in a suit?”

Beagle snorted. “Well, you see, I don’t have my notes here, and that’s a pretty long conversation to have in this place…” 

Your patience finally ran out. Seeing him in person, you understood why the other townsfolk didn’t seem terribly concerned about looking for him. Standing, you brushed yourself off, backing away as if you were simply going to walk out. “You can tell me or you can rot in here.”

He showed the palms of his bound hands in a placating gesture. “Alright, alright, fine. I was skul– er, performing recon, gathering information on some of the powder gangers, when some Great Khans arrived with your friend in the suit. They were talking about some delivery that they took from a courier– with that bag, I’m assuming’ that’s you. Anywho, said they’d be heading through Nipton to Novac, to meet up with some contact there.” He squirmed in his restraints. “Now, can you do a man a solid, and let me go?”

“Fine.” Pulling out a small knife, you began sawing away at the ropes. “Thank you. For the information, I mean.”

“Ah, don’t mention it. Really, don’t. I would…rather the other folks in town not know about that. Troublemakers won’t respect a lawman that they think they can tie up and bully into submission. You understand.”

Biting back a snarky comment about him getting respect from anyone in the first place, you simply nodded. “Understood.”

When his bonds were free, he shook his limbs to loosen them up, and immediately crawled towards the hall adjoining the kitchen. “This way,” he whispered. “They ignore this door, and it’s only locked from the outside.”

Beagle didn’t say a word to you once the pair of you exited the hotel, walking off towards the other hotel– the Vikki and Vance Casino, you now saw. Part of you expected him to be shot by the coaster track patrol, but as you stepped out from under the overhang, it seemed they weren’t out on patrol anymore. You weren’t sure what that meant, but standing around outside their hideout to find out wasn't at the top of your list. Instead, you followed the displaced deputy back to the casino. 

“Well I’ll be damned,” Johnson said, looking the pair of you over upon your return. “You’re both back in one piece. Good to see you alive, Beagle.”

Beagle muttered something incomprehensible and stalked past, heading straight for the bar in the back of the room. The other refugees of the casino had relaxed since your first visit, and one of them watched him as he walked away. “Nice. Now that you’ve freed Beagle, all Primm needs is a lawman who can shoot a gun without wetting himself.”

Johnson suppressed a laugh. “You did good, kid. We are still in need of a sheriff, though. As it stands, unless you murdered every one of those convicts–which doesn’t seem like something you’d do–we’re no better off than we were before. We just have one more mouth to feed, now.”

Glancing around the groups of Primm residents, you didn’t see anyone who was, on the surface, sheriff material. “Do you have anyone in mind?”

“Well, honestly?” Johnson grinned halfheartedly, “Not Beagle. Someone like yourself, but who’s more willin’ to put down roots. You couriers tend to wander for a reason, I’ve learned that much in my time. But you’re fair, and kind, and you’ve got a heart of gold, kid. Nobody here would have lifted a finger or braved that danger to save Beagle, I can tell you that. Sad but true.” 

You grinned sheepishly at the compliments. “So there’s nobody in town that would work?”

“I’m afraid not. If you ask Beagle, I’m sure he’d suggest that lawman friend of his that got locked up in NCRCF. But, that tells you all you need to know about how he’d do as a sheriff here, I think. Speakin’ of the NCR, there’s the boys across the way, but we all know they ain’t paid enough or given the time to do that kinda job.” Johnson lit a fresh cigarette, giving it a few puffs before continuing. “I honestly don’t know, beyond that.”

“What about Primm Slim? He looks kind of like a sheriff. I’m sure he could be reprogrammed.” 

Johnson shrugged. “I suppose you can try. It’s miles better than nothin’, I’ll give you that, and he could always be reprogrammed again if we find a human sheriff.” He laughed to himself. “You youngins and your technology.”

Johnson appeared to be the town patriarch, as the eldest individual there, so with that permission you set off to look for Primm Slim. With the tension in the air earlier, you hadn’t taken much time to look around the casino itself. Beyond the lobby, the casino floor showcased an Old World car riddled with bullet holes. The accompanying plaque told the story of two lovers, Vikki and Vance, who went on a spree of minor crimes and misdemeanors, before being killed in the crossfire of a shootout between a gang of bank robbers and police in a place called Plano, Texas. A glass case display stood in front of the shot car, but someone had since broken the glass and emptied it of Vance's submachine gun that was, according to that plaque, supposedly inside. In the very back of the room, you found a framed article about the rollercoaster across the street. Evidently, before the war, there was an incident in which a patron of the hotel ended up ‘splattered’ on the tracks.

The telltale clanking of Primm Slim’s bowlegged walk drew nearer, approaching from some back room that you hadn’t previously noticed. 

“Why, howdy pardner! Welcome to the Vikki and Vance Casino and Museum,” he greeted, high-pitched robot voice tinnier than Victor’s. Now that was a robot who you needed to have a conversation with later. In the meantime, however, the protectron continued. “What can ol’ Primm Slim help you with today? I can show you the displays and tell you about the famous Vikki and Vance death car and Vance’s infamous gun, give you a tour of the casino, or give directions.”

“The gun is missing,” you corrected. “The car is still there, but it looks like someone stole the gun.”

“Nonsense. It’s sittin’ right over there plain as day!” Slim countered.

“No, it’s–” it occurred to you then that robots operate differently than people. Perhaps his memory core was corrupted. “Initiate diagnostics check.”

“Initiating diagnostics check,” Slim repeated. His maintenance door popped open, and you tweaked the internal console to run said check. With some carefully-worded commands, you removed whatever processing block had been activated in his system. An audio file played of a woman and a man were discussing their next moves, after having taken the gun. Some people. It was as good a time as any to do the sheriff reprogramming. You typed in the commands. 

“Law enforcement protocols reinstated, pardner,” Slim buzzed. “Initializing use of force authorization…authorization found. Yeehaw!” Closing him up again, he parted ways with a chipper cry of, “Happy trails pardner!”

“Well that’s that,” Johnson murmured. You both watched as Primm Slim clanked towards the door, on his way towards the Bison Steve to deal with the convicts. “I think we’ll be alright from here. Thank you for your help. If you ever need anything–feel free to drop in.” 

“Thank you. I may be passing through again soon.” 

“I would expect no less, long-haul wanderer that you are. I know you want that eyebot too. It’ll be here whenever you’re ready."

Chapter Text

“See, I knew there was good in you.”

Trudy casually wiped the bartop. You had returned to Goodsprings to update the folks there. They had become quite invested in your story, being a lot of excitement for such a small town. 

“A lot of it was just happenstance,” you said sheepishly. “And I did threaten the deputy.”

“Way it sounds, he deserved it,” Sunny retorted. “I’d’ve decked him, if I were there. Uptight pompous asshole.”

“Him aside,” Trudy chided, turning down the volume knob on the radio slightly as Mr. New Vegas came on. “Now you’ve got some direction, and an awfully long hike ahead of you. I know you’ll make it, and it’s safer than going up the 15.” She wiped the beginning of a teary mist from her eyes. “But promise you’ll write, or visit when you can? I can’t bear the thought of not knowin’ what happened to you, or whether you’re alive or dead.”

“Of course,” you laughed. “I would never dream of anything less. You’re the closest thing I have to family that I know of!”

The rest of the day was spent on your final preparations for your trip. Despite having a very good gps on your Pip-Boy, Trudy insisted that you take an old paper map of the region, just in case the device’s recharger systems went faulty. She also made sure you were well-stocked on water, and enough food for a few days, leaving your bag heavy enough that you felt like a pack brahmin. Sunny gave you pop quizzes as you walked the town, making sure you remembered the wisdom she had imparted for living off the land, and gave you a step-by-step explanation on how to field dress an animal if you were hunting. Chet sold you ammo and you took the time to repair and clean your armor and guns with his kits, and Doc gave you one last good once-over exam, writing off your clean bill of health. With some exploring, and some pointers from Easy Pete, you managed to find both sensor modules on your shopping list–one in a trailer near the store, and another in the abandoned schoolhouse, as part of some Old World school-child’s science project. By the time you had made your rounds and said a proper goodbye to everyone, the sun was nearly below the horizon again. 

“Remember, write when you get to each of your destinations,” Trudy fretted, adjusting your armor on your shoulders. You stood at the edge of the town line on the road to Primm, building up the courage to go even further. “Stick to the road, don’t drink, don’t gamble, be careful who you talk to on the road–” 

“Okay, mom, I think Eagle gets it,” Sunny said warmly. “We would never have met if there weren’t good survival instincts knockin’ about in that noggin. We’ll meet again, I’m sure of it!” 

“I’ll come back to visit,” you promised, giving each of them a hug. “I don’t know when, but I’ll try. Sunny’s right, I’ve made it this far, and even a couple bullets couldn’t keep me down. I’ll be around for a long while yet.”

“You’d better.” Trudy took one last look at you, then dropped her hands to her sides. “Do us proud, kiddo. We’ll see you soon.”

~

The same soldier who had tried to warn you away from Primm ran up to you again as you approached the encampment. “Hey, who– oh. It’s you again.”

“It’s me.” You held out your arms as you approached, as if to showcase yourself. 

“What’re you doing back here?”

“Just passing through, now that there’s no danger in Primm–”

“But the convicts in there-” he retorted. “They’re pretty dangerous.”

“Oh, they've been dealt with. Primm has a new sheriff and everything, I don’t think there’s any convicts left. But you might wanna confirm that with Johnson Nash. He should be in the Mojave Express office.”

“That…would have been nice to know,” the soldier admitted. “Alright. What brings you back?”

“Just passing through, like I said, and picking something up on the way.” You gestured to your pack. “I mean, I am a courier.” 

“Be safe out there, then. If you’re heading towards the Mojave Outpost and the Long 15, be careful. There’s some radscorps and ants on the way. Some of the other guys swear they’ve seen some ferals out in the distance, too, but that doesn’t make a whole lotta sense.”

“Thanks for the heads up. Tell Hayes I said hi.”

~

“There, that about does it.” Johnson held the last metal piece in place while you worked at attaching it. “Let’s see if this ol’ clunker has any life left in it, eh?”

After a few moments of turning the eyebot and looking around its chassis, you finally found a switch. You flipped it, and the eyebot sprang to life, thrusters and compensators lifting it off the counter and righting it. It chirped a series of greeting beeps that sounded positively cheerful, its antennae shifting and moving expressively. Your Pip-Boy made a noise– the eyebot had connected to its interface in some wireless fashion. On the interface screen were two options– ‘<CompanionProtocol::Begin>’ and ‘<LogOff>’. 

“Looks like he’s taken a likin’ to you,” Johnson laughed. “Ah, well. If you want him, you can have ‘im. He’ll see more use with you than with me.”

“Are you sure?” The eyebot calibrated its floating range, coming down from near the ceiling to hover just above your shoulder. 

“Yes. I’m an old man, Eagle. He needs someone to follow if he’s gonna do courier work, and I ain’t got the wear-with-all to hoof it ‘round the Mojave no more. If you want him, he’s yours.” Johnson began cleaning up the bits of metal and scraps from the counter. “Keep ‘im, sell him for parts– I don’t particularly care. But I ain’t worried about keepin’ him.”

“Thank you.” You selected the first option in the interface, and the eyebot played another, different series of happy beeps. It was almost as if it had a personality of its own, just without any interface with which it could properly talk. In any case, the thought of the little eyebot being scrapped for parts broke your heart.

“Oh, and if you come across any of those radscorps you got warned about out there– bring the stingers on back here. Ruby makes one helluva casserole with ‘em.” 

~

The dark road out of Primm was almost intimidating. Clearly, you’d walked roads with little to no problem before– you were apparently a decently well known courier. But now, with no memory of this road or where you were going, you were left shifting your feet and trying not to find reasons to stay in Primm, or go back to Goodsprings. Sunny would never let you live it down if you made a big production out of leaving, only to come back before sunrise because you got scared. Plus, you’d already made it to Primm, and you’d come out just fine and no worse for wear. The niggling thought of getting ambushed again kept your feet frozen to the dirt. You wouldn’t be able to just run on back to Trudy and everyone else in a few hours if things went south. You’d be too far away. If you went too much further, you wouldn’t even be able to run back to the Nash’s in time. 

The eyebot gently bumped your shoulder, beeping in a quiet way that seemed to be meant as reassurance. Could it sense your anxiety? Most robots did have biometric sensors. You patted it on the top of its chassis, as if it were a large dog or a horse. “I’ll be okay,” you assured it.

You suddenly remembered the feature of the Pip-Boy that Doc had told you about, and you flicked through the menu to the right page. All the radio stations in the area were listed there. Of all of them, only two were active, one of which you didn’t recognize. The other one, however–that was Radio New Vegas. Renaming it as such, you selected it to play, and turned up the volume some. The calming effect was immediate, as if you were sitting back in the Prospector Saloon, eating bighorner steak and chatting with Sunny and Trudy. The night seemed less dark for it, too, and you finally stepped forward down the street, truly starting your journey to find yourself. 

~

A small building came into view off to your right, just around sunrise. It was a low, one story Old World place, painted cream and dark brown to match the color scheme of the surrounding desert. Black and white cars were parked out front, rusting in the wind. There were signs of modern life, however; someone had spray painted some choice profanities on the front doors of the place, and someone had put together some ramshackle scaffolding made from scavenged wood, much like the boardwalk overpass up by Primm, creating a path to the roof of the place. There didn’t seem to be any people around, however, so you dialed the volume on your radio down to a barely audible level and cautiously left the road, slinking around the back of the building. You didn’t trust it to be empty, but you could look around to see what people had left behind, if anything. If there was one thing that you could tell about yourself, it was that you had no qualms about making a stranger's things yours if they were left unattended for long enough. The nearer you drew, the more you could make out that the building was a Nevada Highway Patrol station. 

The boards creaked under your feet as you climbed to the roof, and the eyebot floated along idly behind you, seemingly content to just follow wherever you led. A few ammo boxes had been lined up near the back edge of the rooftop, as well as a few bottles of Nuka-Cola. You gladly emptied out the ammo into your bag. What you couldn’t use, you could sell when you saw a merchant next– Chet had armed you with the knowledge that most ammo went for a cap per round. The sun began to paint the sky, washing the landscape in a pink hue. 

Something metal slammed in front of the building, and you froze, clicking the radio off entirely to listen. Everything was silent, for a moment. Then, voices floated up to you, spoken by someone down on ground level. 

“Alright, you two go find something to eat. James, you take first watch.”

“I don’t wanna do first watch!”

“Boo fuckin’ hoo. You’ll be done with it for a few hours if you do.”

“But I’m hungry Alice–”

“Nothin’ we can do about that right now, we had the last snack cakes last night. Now, go. We’ll be back with food soon.” 

“Angel-” 

You dropped out of earshot as you carefully crept back onto the scaffolding, doing everything in your power to keep the boards from creaking. The eyebot beeped quietly, in a way that sounded like a question, and you pressed a finger to your lips. It floated down the ramp to the ground as you unceremoniously fell over the side and into the dirt, trying to avoid using the noisy structure any more than absolutely necessary. Uncertain as to which direction Angel and her partner would be setting off in, you very cautiously peeked around the side of the building. You needed to get out of dodge before James rounded the other corner and spotted you. Taking a leap of faith, you rounded the corner, beckoning the eyebot to crowd in. It obliged, nestling up under your arm. 

“Who’s there?”

Whoever Alice was, she had evidently heard something. You knelt where you were, sitting stock still. Maybe it was a radscorpion she had picked up on, or perhaps even one of those ferals that the soldier at Primm had warned you about. You really didn’t want to stick around and find out, but you also couldn’t risk blowing your cover any sooner than necessary. 

“I know you’re still here. I found your bootprints,” she yelled. Shit. You hadn’t thought about leaving a trail. Had you really lived your whole life until now being this reckless, or was being crafty something you needed to relearn? “Maybe you shouldn’t take shit that don’t belong to you. Come on out. Don’t worry, I’ll be gentle.” 

The eyebot wiggled out from under your arm, swiveling as if it were calibrating. As soon as it found what it was looking for, which seemed to be around the back of the station, it whirred off faster than you could do anything about it. 

“Bot!” you hissed, but it was already gone. From around the corner, you heard it play a little battle tune. It must have decided to take on the two people on the station. “Goddamnit, if you get destroyed when I’ve just fixed you…” you’d do what, exactly? You knew you’d just repair it. 

Spinning around the corner, you caught sight of a woman in some sort of gang jacket, hair done up not unlike yours, rapidly firing her pistol at your eyebot. She wasn’t expecting you, however, and she tumbled over with a yelp, clutching her side, when you shot her under the arm. Another gang member, who you assumed must be James, fumbled with his holster in an attempt to draw his weapon. Your eyebot gave him no grace, however, shooting him with its laser. It took only a few hits before the man was dead on the ground, clothes having caught fire. 

“Shit. Thank you?” You weren’t sure what else to say. Johnson hadn’t said anything about this eyebot having weapons. Your eyebot floated back over to you, gently bumping its chassis on your hands. Relenting, you held it and patted it like a big, gentle dog. “Yes, I’m okay. You did a good job.”

It beeped a few times, before playing another tune–the victory counterpart to its battle cry. 

“You’re a good eyebot. I wonder why you keep changing hands?”

It only offered a few unhelpful beeps that, if anything, only told you that it was just as confused. 

“Let’s get going. We don’t know when their friends will be back.” It was for that reason that you didn’t bother checking their pockets, either. If there was one thing worse than getting caught stealing or getting caught killing someone’s allies, it was getting caught stealing things off of said dead allies. 

It was midmorning by the time the next building on the desolate stretch of highway came into view around the hill. It was yet another Poseidon Energy station. You weren’t entirely sure what full purpose they had served, but they sure were popular in this region for some reason. The eyebot beeped, before playing a third tune that seemed meant to invoke suspense– was it a warning? Checking your biometric scanner, you saw that there were indeed a few living things around the station. Gesturing to the eyebot, you climbed up on an old, rusted car, this time pulling your varmint rifle from your back. Your other long range weapons were either stashed in your bag, or too securely strapped elsewhere to easily get to for use. 

“Can you tell what it is?” you asked. As if the eyebot could answer in a way that you’d understand. But, it tried nonetheless, beeping and booping in a way that clearly meant something. You were starting to think that it sounded a little like some RobCo code, but you weren’t versed enough just yet to understand. Perhaps it was how most people spoke about small children who are starting to talk– only their parents can understand them clearly, and maybe you someday would. For now, though… “thank you, but I don’t understand.”

The eyebot bounced, then zipped off in the direction of the station. Just as you made to follow so it didn’t get itself into more trouble than it could handle, it fired off a few shots, then came zipping back. A radscorpion, nearly as large as the car you stood on from pincers to tail, came scampering over the hill after it. Your eyebot deftly dodged and wove as it made jabbing stabs at it with a massive, gray stinger. 

Activating the VATS system in the pipboy, you flicked the safety of your rifle off and took aim. The system ran analysis, pinging back that said stinger was also, coincidentally, the weakest point of the arachnid. You hoped it was right. The shocks stabilized your arm, locking your aim, and you fired a few shots in quick succession. The first few bullets cracked its exoskeleton, and the latter couple buried themselves into something vital on the inside. The radscorpion’s tail seemed to shatter at the impact point and break off under its own weight, causing its ichor to gush forth. It reeled back, pinching and snapping, but it quickly collapsed to the side, legs curling under in death at the loss of internal pressure. Your eyebot wasted no time in luring the rest of the radscorpions at the station over, one by one. It kept them occupied while you reloaded your gun, and joined in when they got a little too close to you for comfort. When the last radscorpion fell, your eyebot bounced, playing its victory tune. 

“You’re quite the little fighter,” you complimented, sliding off the car to search the station for anything usable. “I wish I could understand you more. I bet you’d make for great conversation.” 

It chirped brightly.

The station held nothing but an abandoned dose of Psycho, and some nearly-overripe banana yucca stuffed in a burlap sack. You suspected that whoever had been here had gotten run out by the radscorpions before they could get comfortable.

~

“Well that’s…something.”

Two giant sheet metal statues loomed high in the air above you, atop the steepest hill you’d seen yet. One was clad in some representation of riot armor, and the other looked more like a cowboy–but their hands were clasped, locked forever in a handshake. Despite the sun nearly being at its peak, you could still see the glint of giant searchlights lighting the installation from below. 

“Trudy says that that’s where this Outpost should be,” you said, talking both to yourself and your eyebot. “That’s one shit climb. Wish I’d known about that before I got here.” 

Old rusted-out trucks and cars packed the route up the hill as far as the eye could see. Somewhere along the way, a trailer truck carrying motorcycles somewhere had suffered an unlatch, scattering the two-wheeled vehicles over the highway. It was a tight squeeze to get through the permanent traffic in some spots, but you and your eyebot persevered until you stood below the massive art installation, cast in the rising glow of the morning sun. 

Chapter Text

You had to crane your neck nearly all the way back to comprehend the enormity of the statues before you, and then, gravity tugged at your shoulders, as if you’d fall all the way back down the hill you’d just scaled. Beyond the art installation, two small buildings and a significant amount of chain link fencing made up an old border checkpoint. The original sign for it had been painted over with the NCR flag of the two headed bear, the words “Mojave Outpost” carefully stenciled on in black. Several caravans worth of people and brahmin milled about, while a few NCR soldiers patrolled the area. You weren’t sure if they were keeping them safe, or keeping them contained. 

The door to the main building swung shut behind you. Soldiers milled about the room aimlessly, looking more bored than anything else. An officer stood at attention behind the counter, but you could tell by the slump to his posture that the soreness of being on his feet was setting in. Tiredness was likely, too; given the number of officers, male and female alike, who stopped to flirt with him, only to be met with oblivious confusion on his part. Weaving through the crowded room, many of whom stumbled aside upon seeing the eyebot at your shoulder, you finally made it up to the desk to speak with him yourself. 

“Caravan, citizen, pilgrim, or…?” he asked dully, clicking his pen on his clipboard. Attached to the board was a manifest of some kind, filled with the names and identities of people who stood here before you. He watched you through half-glazed eyes, waiting for your response.

“Courier.” That was what you were, after all. Even if you, admittedly, weren’t being much of one at the moment. “Call me Eagle.”

“Just need something for the log book,” he assured you, scratching in what you had given him under the appropriate columns. “Gotta keep tabs on traffic through the Outpost, even if it is mostly just in, not out, these days. First time here?”

Nodding, you watched him curiously, mostly to avoid meeting the eyes of the soldiers whose stares you could feel on your back. If you listened closely, you could hear them discussing your arrival and your eyebot among themselves in hushed whispers.

The pen finally stopped scratching on the form, and he set the clipboard down.

The soldier continued. “If you’re looking for the commanding officer, he’s in the back…although he’s got a lot on his plate, so if you need to speak with him…” he winced to himself, “my advice, keep it short. Also, if you need any of your gear checked, we can get you up and running again. Once you fill out the work orders and sign for the parts, of course.” 

“Thank you.” Curious, you tilted your head slightly. “You didn’t tell me your name.”

“Oh.” He blinked a few times, searching for his words.

"You don't have to tell me-"

“Uh, Knight. Major Knight.” Leaning forward, his voice dropped to a whisper. “Look, I know you’re probably not from here, but…it doesn’t do to get too friendly.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“This isn’t the Republic. Oddly enough, the Legion’s a little more forgiving about…friendships. Out here, it’s not as accepted.” Knight shifted on his feet. “Not that I mind being friends, it’s just…being open about it in the Outpost? Well…I have to work here.”

Knight’s pointed pauses were giving you the very quick impression that platonic friends was not at all what he was referring to. The unexpectedly contradictory information about the Legion, however, temporarily outweighed your desire to correct him, instead blurting the first thing that came to mind. “I didn’t realize the NCR was so spineless.”

“Now wait just a minute,” Knight said, puffing himself up with all his remaining dignity. “The Republic’s a sight better than…other alternatives. Women are serving here, after all. The rest, well…it just might take some time, that’s all. And they’re more accepting back West. In the meantime, though…”

Knight wasn’t someone you would typically have expected to catch yourself flirting with, especially with your age difference, and the number of advances he already had to warn away. But, it was also clear that he hadn’t been made to feel that special sense of someone being genuinely interested in who he was beyond the suit in a long time.

Flashing a wry grin at his faint blush, you went all in. “So is that a ‘no,’ you don’t want to be friends, then?”

He sighed. “I would…perhaps some other time. When my orders take me to Vegas, maybe. Wish things were different, but that’ll take time.” A grin pulled at his mouth in spite of himself. “Look, if you need something repaired…let me know. I can sign the work order. As long as caps change hands…well, I can put them back in yours. And I have no problem being platonic friends while I’m here, either.”

“I’ll be sure to let you know first thing if I need something,” you promised. “I’ll be in and out here for a bit, I think. Let me know if you need anything carried to or from somewhere else. Or if I can help with,” you gestured to the room, and the latest caravan arrivals that were now blocking open the front door, “this.”

Knight laughed. “Ah, now that’s a conversation for you to have with our CO. Be careful out there.”

“You do the same.”

It would have been a great help if Knight had deigned to clue you in on who, exactly, their commanding officer was. A name, a description, even a poorly drawn caricature on an old gumdrop wrapper would have sufficed. Instead, you simply wandered down the hall that he had gestured towards when talking about him, looking for someone who looked important, or who perhaps held an air of importance. It did occur to you that you could have gone back and simply asked for more information. The more time that passed since you went looking, however, the bigger a hit you felt it would take to your pride. So, instead, you meandered about, trying not to look like you were looking too hard for anyone in particular, while also not looking like you were plotting how to blow the place up. You had just taken to reading the old, faded magnets stuck to the old fridge in the kitchen when a gruff, droning voice spoke at you from behind.

“Looks like we got a new visitor in the ol’ brahmin pen. Can I help you with something?”

The man was nearly your height, dressed head to toe in attire reminiscent of the cowboy statue outside. He regarded you from under his sunglasses, arms crossed, silently waiting for an answer.

“I was looking for the commanding officer here.” It wasn’t a lie. “I wasn’t sure who I was looking for.” 

“And so you were trying to play it cool,” he finished. You nodded. 

He removed his sunglasses, folding them to hook on his collar. “Well, that’d be me. Name’s Jackson.”

He offered his hand, and you shook it. “Not many people come here in a hurry like you seem to’ve, only trying to pass through. I hope that ain’t why you’re here. If so, you picked a bad time. Road north’s gone to hell. Can’t even let a caravan through. They wouldn’t make it.”

“It sure seems like you have enough soldiers.” The road hadn’t seemed that bad when you came down, and you’d been alone. If you could handle a few raider gang members and a handful of radscorpions, surely caravans worth of people could.

“Soldiers, no. Recruits, yes. Unfortunately, the Outpost has been ordered to have a standing presence here at the NCR perimeter at all times.” He shook his head and rolled his eyes. “So, sending anyone out reduces our numbers here, and would be in direct violation of my orders from back West. Some hot, steamy brahmin shit if you ask me, but my hands are tied.”

“That sounds frustrating.”

“Frustrating?” Jackson barked a laugh. “No, no–I got my orders. Approved, signed, sealed, and delivered, from all the way up the chain–Kimball himself. And…I understand the reasons. I just don't have to like them.” 

"And what are those? I don't see why they can't let you spare a handful people for a few hours."

He let out a long-suffering sigh. “We aren’t a Legion target here, not like Vegas or the Dam, but if they fall, we’re the last line of defense. We’re what keeps them from just walking into NCR territory, at that point.”

“I suppose that’s a noble backup to be.”

He nodded, wiping at his caterpillar mustache. “It is. But, if the caravans get choked here…shit. That’s gonna bite the NCR hard, worse than it did when we lost the only other route we had. Won't matter a hill o' mesquite pods how many men we have at the dam, if they're all starving and too weak to fight.” 

“So the I-15 is it, then?”

“Yup. Only way in or out anymore.” Jackson adjusted his hat. “Anyway, I didn’t mean to talk your ear off. It’s just…some days, it’s easy to feel like more requisition forms and reports come across my desk than results, and everyone here is too up in arms over it all to care about much else if the news ain’t that we have results.”

“Is there anything that could be done? Could they send more soldiers here?”

He chuckled bitterly. “Oh, they sure send more troops. They all come through here on their way to McCarran, or to go out to the front lines at Forlorn Hope, or they’re on leave and are on their way to New Vegas to piss away their pay. All of them pass through, but none of them want to lend a hand on the way.”

You moved to lean against a table, making yourself comfortable. Trudy’s worries about the I-15 beyond Goodsprings came back to you.  “What exactly is it that needs to be done?” 

“There’s an ant nest up the road, at that overpass you might have seen on the way in. Would take all of ten minutes for a few soldiers to go have some fun with target practice." He wiped a hand down his face. "Honestly I’d say that most of the caravans here’d be able to take them on, with how angry they already are, but we lost too many before we found out what was going on. The brass back in California would have my ass if we lose any more.” 

"That's it? Just some ants?"

“Just some ants. I know the upper 15 has gone to even more hell, and I ain't expecting anyone to fix that any time soon. But shit, as long as we can go east on this damn road and cross over near the Ivanpah, they can just go up through Novac. Late’s better than whatever the hell is going on at the quarry.”

“Clearing out some ants doesn’t sound difficult at all.”

"You'd certainly think so," Jackson agreed. "Whole damn thing makes me want to up and quit so I don't get fired for dealin' with it myself."

“...I could help.”

“Help?” Jackson looked you up and down, taking in your overall appearance. “No, look, I appreciate the offer–”

"I can handle myself. I killed a lot of radscorpions to get here. Ants are nothing."

He regarded you a moment longer, and a light seemed to click on in his eyes. “Alright. You know what, yeah, I could use the help. You’re young, I’ll give you that. But even if you didn't take out some radscorps coming here, you’ve got that bot with you, and you’ve survived out there this long. I'll bet you can handle yourself like you say. Here, let me show you where to go.” 

He motioned for your Pip-Boy map, and you obliged. “This will mean clearing the path north to…here,” he marked the intersection of road between 15 north proper and the eastbound road, just near the dry lake he’d mentioned. 

“Sounds like a deal. Give me an afternoon, I’ll have it done. I can’t imagine it’ll take much longer than that.”

“Thanks, I appreciate it.” Jackson tipped his hat to you. “Come on back here when you’re done, and I might accidentally ‘lose’ some supplies to pay you with. We’re not allowed to proper hire mercs, you see. Not that you’re a merc…but you understand.”

~

“I can’t believe he thought we were mercs,” you told the eyebot. It chirped in bemused agreement. 

Weaving back down the hill of vehicles was considerably easier than the climb up had been. The caravan merchants and guards had looked on jealously as you passed, and all you could do was smile encouragingly. You wanted to promise them that you were going to do something to help them, but you weren’t in the business of making promises if you weren’t completely certain you could keep them. So instead, you let them believe that you were off on your own business, enjoying your freedom without mind to their predicament. 

Crouching as you approached the overpass, you swung your varmint rifle off your back, ready to start taking apart ants. Your eyebot beeped mischievously and very quietly, as if making a point that it was trying to sneak around too. As you climbed up to the peak of the overpass, you began to hear the large insects roaming about below. 

Several reddish ants, some slightly larger than the radscorpions you’d passed earlier, scuttled among the shells of cars below. The largest ones meandered at a brahmin’s pace as they climbed up and over the vehicles, but the smaller ones skittered about at greater speed. Once they figured out where you were, you knew you’d need to run, and get to a higher vantage where they couldn’t reach. Carefully, you took your aim, lining up the fastest, closest ant in your sights. Its body broke in two when the bullet struck its fragile waist. 

Just as you predicted, the ants all seemed to zero in on you the moment the crack of your rifle broke the air. The small ones were easy to plink for target practice, just as Jackson had suggested, even though you found you had to constantly move backwards to keep distance between yourself and their shiny pincers. When most of the small ones had been picked off, you left them to your eyebot, who was playing its battle theme and gleefully firing off laser shot after laser shot, lighting some of the ants on fire. You changed your aim to the large ants, who were now beginning to draw close, scrambling over cars with ease. 

Firing, your bullet landed between the closest ant’s eyes. It stumbled slightly, but snapped its pincers in frustration, crawling towards you with more determination. Reloading, you tried again, with similar results. The clack of its pincers echoed off the brick facing of the overpass. This wasn’t how you wanted to die, crushed in the pincers of a giant ant as punishment for your hubris. Not after surviving being shot in the head. You’d helped a whole town get a new sheriff. You’d helped a whole other town fend off a direct attack from pissed off dynamite-toting convicts. To die here would be, frankly, ridiculous.

Powder gangers. Hadn’t Sunny slipped some extra weapons into your bag with a wink and a grin, just before you’d set off together for the edge of town? Sparing a moment to rifle through your bag, with the help of your eyebot’s distraction, you found what Sunny had left for you as a treat. A handful of dynamite, a lighter, and a few grenades were carefully packed together among your other belongings.

“No time like the present,” you murmured, pulling out one of the sticks of dynamite. Easy Pete had once chided you when you suggested that lighting and throwing it was all that there was to dynamite handling, but you’d also had some opportunity to see how the powder gangers had employed it. It seemed that the trick that differentiated the two was waiting a moment before the throw. Flicking the lighter, you held it to the cord until it started sparking, moving backwards to stay out of the ants' reach. Watching the spark travel down the cord until you were too nervous to hold it much longer, you crossed your fingers, and then threw it as hard as you could, aiming under the ants.

The blast blew two legs off the first advancing ant, and injured the other two. It reeled back with a hoarse screech. You began aiming for the legs, now, seeing that their exoskeleton was likely just barely too thick for your varmint rifle rounds to properly pierce. Moments later, the first ant was down, lacking enough working legs to keep going, another was on fire by the grace of your eyebot, and the third was steadily losing legs with each bullet you let fly. You finally stopped shooting when your target collapsed, and when your eyebot’s quarry seemed to have burned to death. Your two targets still snapped idly, simply legless, and you mercifully dispatched them with your pistol, no longer needing to rely on distance and your own agility to survive their onslaught.

~

“The road ahead’s clear. I think I got the whole nest.”

“Well I’ll be.” Jackson set down his cleaning tools, carefully laying his disassembled rifle on the table. “Thank you. I appreciate the help. Wish I had more work for you, but I’ve got nothing else on the radar at the moment.” 

“That’s alright.” You took the burlap sack that Jackson offered you. “Thank you for these. I wasn’t doing this for a reward, though.”

“Good thing I never mentioned anything about a reward.” Jackson gave you a sly smile. “I mentioned that you might accidentally get supplied, and I meant it. A requisition form or two can always get lost, especially with the volume of paperwork here, and they’re not going to come check…so there you go. Just keep it between us.” 

Peeking inside the bag, you saw that it contained some food rations, some ammo, some caps, two universal weapon repair kits, and what looked to be a deconstructed service-issue rifle. “Thank you, again. If I’m in the area, and you need any more work done…” 

“You’ll be the first to know. Be careful out there.”

Chapter Text

You spent the rest of the afternoon holed up in the Outpost’s admin building, nestled in a chair in the back of the main room while you sipped away at a sarsaparilla. After stowing the supplies that you’d received from Jackson in your pack, arranging them among your other things, you’d bothered Knight for some stationery and a pen. Around here, you assumed there would be a surplus of both, and you were right. Making sure not to forget any details, you penned the letter you’d promised Trudy and Sunny, letting them know that you’d gotten to the Outpost safely, telling them about your misadventures with the ants on the I-15, and to please tell Easy Pete that you’d thrown your first stick of dynamite and hadn’t lost a single finger in the process. Sealing it, you stowed the rest of the stationery and your pen. You’d have many more letters to write, and you suspected that the Mojave wasn’t full of shy-but-helpful administrative Majors who had more than enough of those items, and an equal willingness to share them. Knight didn’t seem to mind, either, flashing you a knowing look when he saw you tuck the extras away. 

The night outside the outpost was quite pretty, all things considered. The two statues, which were now fully lit like two Old World skyscrapers, held themselves as a major distraction from the beauty of the dark night around you. Beyond them, however, the stars were still bright, the air was still a little humid, and the desert was quiet save for the occasional chirp of an insect. Boots crunching in the dirt, you made your way towards the Express mailbox you’d seen on the way in, along the side of the first building that you hadn’t yet entered. It would have been nice to know or remember how often such boxes got checked by other couriers, small as the Express seemed. But, the Mojave Express was the Mojave Express for a reason, and you were just happy so long as you didn’t have to make a day's travel back the way you’d come just to hand the letter to Trudy yourself. The mouth of the mailbox creaked forlornly as you opened it, dropping your letter inside. 

“Hey.”

The whispered voice seemed to come from behind you as you began to walk away, but a glance over your shoulder was enough to confirm that there was nobody there in the dark.

“Psst. You.”

This time, a hand-thrown bullet landed in the dirt near your feet. Looking up, you spied a pale woman peering over the edge of a sandbag barricade on the roof. “You, yeah. Come up here. Wanna talk to you for a sec. There’s a ramp around back. Watch your step.”

Unsure of what to say, you simply followed her instructions, rounding the building to the side with the door. The lights were still on inside, late night patrons drinking their cares and impatience away, but nobody noticed you through the grimy windows as you climbed to the roof. 

“Who are you?” you asked, eyeing the woman from head to toe. Judging by her attire, she seemed to be part of whatever NCR cowboy force that Jackson was part of. 

“Keep your voice down,” she shushed. “I’m supposed to be on watch, not social hour.” 

Your voice dropped to a loud whisper. “Duly noted.”

“I didn’t hear you come up the ramp, at least. You don’t broadcast your movements, I like that.” The woman stepped forward, holding out the palest hand you’d ever seen. “Name’s Ghost. Ranger Ghost. Three guesses why that’s my name.” 

It was no wonder. Beyond her skin nearly reflecting the moonlight, her hair was a stark white that couldn’t so much as pass for platinum blonde. She peered at you from under her hat with pale blue eyes that seemed to shine with a pinkish sheen in the dim lamplight.

“Call me Eagle,” you offered. “I’m not sure who called me that first, or why, but that’s my nickname.”

“Oh, I think I can see why. You’ve got sharp eyes, like a bird o’ prey. If someone hadn’t already called you eagle, I’d’ve started callin’ you Hawk,” Ghost said. “Anyways, Eagle. Now that we’ve got introductions out of the way…look, I need your help.”

“Why mine?”

“Well, you’re a courier, for one. That’s what Knight has you written down as. That means that you take information back and forth.” Ghost sighed. “And…I saw what you did for us, for those caravans. Don’t look at me like that, I’m up here almost 24/7 and it ain’t that far away. You can handle yourself. You’re strong. Reliable.”

Despite the fact that there seemed to be nobody else anywhere in the vicinity, Ghost was starting to give you the impression that she was uncomfortable with risking being seen asking for help, and needed a bit of prying. You offered her a knowing grin.

“What is it you need done?”

“Well, if you don’t mind walking a bit, and your eyes are good, this could be your lucky day,” she began. 

“Depends on the work,” you countered. A big part of you wanted to agree upfront, but you suspected that brand of behavior was exactly what got you landed in the Goodsprings cemetery.

“I think there’s trouble in Nipton,” Ghost finally admitted. “There’s been no traffic from there on the roads. I can explain that away, but the smoke from the town–I can’t. I’m sure it’s been hit. What I need to know is if they survived it. Might be Powder Gangers, with all that smoke in the air.”

Something in your stomach writhed uncomfortably at the thought and implication that Nipton could look like Goodsprings, had you not been there to play your hand. 

Ghost continued. “If there’s anybody left, I’m sure they’d be in the Nipton Town Hall. That was their emergency gathering place back in the day. Go there, check it out, and let me know what you find. Please.”

Recon was easy. It was engaging that was difficult. But, even if that came into play, you’d taken on powder gangers and convicts before, both alone and with the help of a town. Perhaps all the people of Nipton needed, just like Primm, was someone to lend a hand and take the lead. 

“I’ll do it.” 

Ghost chuckled quietly. “Look at you, all fired up and ready to go. Wish the others around here had that kind of attitude.” 

“I try,” you grinned. “When you’ve been well and truly put on your ass a few times, you learn to enjoy getting to go places and do things.”

Ghost’s demeanor became serious. “Listen, just please be careful. I don’t want you getting killed for this. If you head there and you run into trouble, I’m just asking for your eyes and ears, not your life. Alright?”

“Alright.” You adjusted your pack. “I’ll head out first thing in the morning, if you don’t mind. I’ve been walking since before dawn.”

“That’s fine. Nipton has been in whatever state it’s in now for a few days, I can’t imagine it’ll get worse if you sleep. They’re lucky anyone is coming to check on them at all.” 

~

Your eyebot woke you with gentle prods and pokes to your shoulder just before dawn, beeping a cheerful but concerned series of sounds when you turned over in the barracks bed. Offering it a few headpats, while pressing a finger to your lips, you quietly crawled out of bed, careful not to wake any of the sleeping recruits and soldiers in the room. It was only when you stepped outside the main building, into the chilly pre-dawn air, that you finally spoke. 

“I’m alright, just tired,” you assured it. It bounced a few times, seeming pleased with that answer. “Let’s get going.” 

On the way down the hill to the road, you downed some of the box of snack cakes that Trudy had put in your pack for your trip. They were sickeningly sweet, slightly stale, and you could almost taste the preservatives that had kept them from fully spoiling for the better part of two centuries. All things considered, they weren’t as bad as they could have been, despite their strange unnatural flavor, and they did their job of staving off your hunger for a while. 

Ants crawled around and over the corpse of a radscorpion several meters away from the road you walked, taking it apart piece by piece as part of an ambitious scavenging project. You were beginning to sympathize with them, going from one location to another and back, just to be handed something else– be it an item, or a job–to go do and come back. Perhaps it was better to resign yourself to visiting each town or stop on your way two or three times before you could truly move forward. The thought made you laugh under your breath. Or, you could also stop talking to everyone you met and asking them what could be done. That could also help. But, when you spent hours on the road without true conversation....where was the fun in being silent when you showed up at your next stop?

Something whizzed by your head, punctuated by a crack. Instinctively, you ducked down close to the road, pulling the service rifle from your back. Before you’d gone to sleep last night, you’d broken the varmint rifle down to fit in your bag, which was steadily becoming more packed, and you’d built the service rifle, offering no explanation to bewildered onlookers as to where you’d procured it from. Now, it sat heavily in your hands compared to your previous weapon as you tucked it against your shoulder, bracing for a fight. Someone had shot at you, you knew that much, but you couldn’t see anyone in the ruins ahead with your own two eyes.

Flicking on your Pip-Boy’s biometric radar, you moved off the road, creeping down behind the back of an old billboard. It was likely largely pointless, you knew, given that whoever had shot at you not only knew you were there but had likely watched where you went, and now, your view was completely obscured. At best, the billboard provided some concealment while you readied yourself. 

According to VATS, there were four individuals of some sort in the ruins proper. Perhaps you could take them by surprise. Rather than popping back out where you’d slipped into hiding from, you crossed behind the billboard, trying to keep as low and quiet as possible. Part of you expected someone to jump out from behind either end of the structure and rain bullets on you, but no such attack had come by the time you reached the end of the billboard furthest from the road. 

Peering out, it seemed that you hadn’t been noticed by anyone at all. Had you imagined the shot that missed you? Was it perhaps the ghost of a memory from when you’d been shot in the head? Now you had more questions than answers again. The dusty mojave dirt held the night's chill when you rested your hand on it to brace yourself. The inside walls of the ruins flickered with golden light; there lay the telltale signs of a campfire. Your eyebot beeped quietly, and you held up a hand, wiggling your fingers in a gesture to wait. 

Carefully, ever so carefully, you crept forward, slinking up to the nearest wall. A few bricks were missing, just above head height. Craning, you stood on tiptoe, trying to see in. A few lumps the size and shape of people, nestled down in sleeping bags, were huddled around a fire built in an old tire that was on its last wood scraps for the night. None of them seemed to be awake, or on guard duty. Anyone in their right mind in this wasteland would have someone on guard duty. Perhaps that was who shot at you, wherever they were. It didn’t make sense, however, why they wouldn’t have given chase when you ducked out of sight, presumably towards their sleeping friends. Whatever the reason, the people in the ruins proper were sleeping, ignorant and unaware of your presence, and that suited you fine. The less bullets you wasted on random fights, the better. 

Beckoning for your eyebot to follow, you made your way around the opposite side of the building from the road, keeping your eyes and ears peeled for their guard. Ideally, upon witnessing your desire to simply pass by, they would leave you alone, but you weren’t holding your breath. Nobody and nothing stirred on the road, or in the desert opposite you, when you surveyed the space ahead. Creeping along the ground wasn’t your favorite thing in the world, but it was better than getting your head blown off. 

“Get back ‘ere, you goddamn mother-fuckin’ piece of–oh fuck you! ”

You froze. The man’s voice came from the desert across the street. The hairs on the back of your neck prickled, and your spine went tense. Now you were beginning to wonder if the bullet that missed you had instead simply been a missed shot for whatever he was yelling at. Perhaps he was the person who was supposed to be on guard duty, and got distracted. Weighing your options, you looked around. If you stayed where you were, it was a risk that he would come over the hill and see you. If he was anything less than friendly, that was a firefight breaking out next to his sleeping friends, who would invariably join in. Hiding had no more benefit either, bringing about the risk of discovery should he give chase around your side of the ruins. Taking your chances, staying low and quietly sneaking off through the desert parallel to the road, you crept onwards. Wherever he was, the man either didn’t see you, or didn’t think you were worth chasing down, his voice slowly fading into the distance. 

~

The closer you drew to Nipton, the stronger the acrid stench of smoke hung in the air, choking out any other scent on the wind. Black plumes rose above the buildings and the wall of tires, trailers, overturned cars, and chain-link that served as a barrier around the town. Nipton's destroyed skyline stood out stark against the sunrise sky that had run blood-red from the pollutants in the air. Even from a distance, you could see the torches dotting the edge of the street like Old World electric lamps, as well as the flags that flanked the entrance gate. Those banners fluttered in the wind, their backdrop as scarlet as the sky, a golden bull emblazoned in the center, with decorative touches of gold around the edging. The bull insignia glistened in the sunrise glow, as if it were printed on in gold leafing, or woven into the fabric itself with golden strands. 

Just as you passed the wooden sign that welcomed you to the town, a man came sprinting from around the corner of the street ahead, nearly slipping and losing his balance with the speed of his turn. He pushed off the ground, picking up speed as he barreled towards you. He looked to be a powder ganger, there was no doubt in your mind about it. His shorts were the same as every other NCRCF convict you’d seen thus far, and he wore a bandolier of some sort across his bare, dirtied chest. His once-blond hair looked as if someone had gotten drunk, finished their noodles, and convinced him to wear the bowl as a hat for a haircut, and the strands lay plastered to his scalp with ash and dirt. Somehow, despite looking as though his face had been smashed into the ground several times, his glasses were unbroken and surprisingly clean. 

“YEEEEEAH!!” he hollered, waving a small scrap of paper triumphantly above his head as he ran at you. “Who won the lottery? I DID!”

“Who-” 

He skidded up to you, narrowly avoiding bowling you over. If he had heard you, he gave no indication. 

“Smell that air!” He inhaled dramatically, making a noise not unlike a loud brahmin snort, and his eyes rolled back in his head. “Couldn’t ya just drink it like boooooze?!”

It took a significant amount of restraint not to say something rude out of shock. “Are…you alright?”

“Are you kidding me?” The man grasped your upper arms, a grip that would have felt desperate if he hadn’t been so cheerful. “Never felt better!” 

Your eyebot played its suspenseful drum sound, which you assumed was a warning to the man. His wild-eyed expression was making your heart begin to race, and not in a good way. As carefully as you could, you shifted your shoulders, trying to shimmy out of his grip. “What…kind of lottery did you win?” 

“What lottery?” The man let go of you, if only to throw his hands up in grandiose drama. “ The lottery, that’s what lottery! Are you stupid?” 

He didn’t wait for an answer before he continued. “Only lottery that matters!” He inhaled deeply again. “Oh my god, smell that air!”

“Are you a powder ganger?” This man seemed to be making less and less sense as time went on. Maybe reminding him of the clothes he wore would ground him enough for you to get some answers. 

“Powder ganger? What?” His mood deflated as if he had suddenly been brought back to earth. “I mean, yeah, I used to be, sure.”

“What-” 

Once again, he continued on without so much as letting you finish your sentence.

“But not no more!” That delirious tone was back in his voice. “Powder gang is small-time, man! I’m a winner! I won the mother-fucking lottery!!!” 

Before you could even pretend to ask him anything more, he tossed the scrap of paper he’d been holding high in the air, and took off running like hell itself was on his ass, cheering and whooping all the way. If he’d been a little more delirious, you’d have expected him to jump and clack his heels in the air like characters in those old holotape cartoons sometimes did. 

With him out of the way, it was just you, the front gate, and an eerily silent burning town. Your eyes and ears, Ghost had asked. You hadn’t walked all this way just to have an uninformative conversation with a madman. 

The town itself felt hotter than the surrounding desert when you stepped inside, and a terrible feeling settled low in your chest. A large pile of burning tires sat in the road ahead of you, another bull banner planted neatly at its peak on a metal pole. You thought about ducking into the building to your left, but Ghost said that any survivors would be in the town hall, so that would be your first stop. 

Bile rose in your throat as you slowly turned the corner. The town hall loomed above the road ahead, more bull banners staked on its roof, and draped from its awnings. The same had been done to every building that lined the road, giving the visual impression of someone having marked their territory by splashing the blood of the town’s former inhabitants on everything in sight. The longer you looked, the more you realized that whoever had done this may as well have done just that. Wooden crosses lined the street leading to the town hall, with people affixed to every single one. Some had been tied with rope. For others, when the rope ran out, it seemed the culprits had simply turned to nailing their victims to the wood by the palms of their hands. Some were clearly powder gangers. Others looked to have been residents of the town. Heads of both had been mounted on pikes, two or three between each cross, each face clearly beaten, or contorted in pain upon death. Whoever had done this didn’t discriminate between the two groups. 

There was something reverently horrifying about walking down that street. You couldn’t help but look up at those who had been crucified. Most were too weak now to even open their eyes, but those who had some strength left quietly begged you for mercy as you passed. Your eyebot hovered very close to you, quietly beeping in a way that sounded worried, if not outright scared. The figures at the end of the street, seemingly the culprits behind this, were the only thing that stayed your hand. You had no doubt that you’d get shot for your efforts if you tried to show the victims any kind of mercy. 

Two dogs padded down the steps of the town hall on your approach, growling and barking. One snapped its jaws at you as it barked, saliva flying in stringy globs, as if savoring the thought of ripping into your flesh. They looked to be some breed of domesticated dog crossed with coyotes, but their coarse coats had a glossy shine from bathing and brushing, even under the blood caked around their muzzles and down their muscular throats and chests. They were clearly too well-fed and cared for to be wild dogs. 

“ Mane ,” one of the men barked, as if giving a harsh order to a soldier. Both dogs stopped in their tracks, deferring to their handler, but they continued to growl. 

The other soldiers drew blades from their belts, readying for a fight. You weren’t sure what to make of their armor–it looked more costume than protection. Their chest pieces appeared to be made of red-dyed leather reinforced with studs and metal, and some of them had some sort of full-face helmet on. Their boots were sturdy as well, leather clearly cared for, even with the blood and dust coating them. However–they wore only skirts. Skirts that looked to also be made of dyed leather, given, each pleat seemingly reinforced with metal. But, their legs from the knees down were completely bare, save for the tops of their boots. It would have been comical if it weren’t for the clear evidence of their atrocities surrounding you. 

The apparent leader of the group stepped forward. He had fashioned a headpiece from the skinned head of a coyote in addition to the rest of their uniforms, and wore sun goggles even darker than Ghost’s glasses. 

“Don’t worry,” he purred. His voice was colder than a nuclear winter. “I won’t have you lashed to a cross like the rest of these degenerates. It’s useful you happened by.” 

Your guard went up, icing your demeanor.

“Why’s that?” you asked flatly.

“I want you to witness the fate of the town of Nipton.” He raised his arms, as if presenting a world-renowned piece of art. “To memorize every detail. And then when you move on?”

He paused for dramatic effect.

“I want you to teach everyone you meet the lesson that Caesar’s Legion taught here, especially any NCR troops you run across.”

For a moment, you couldn't breathe. The Legion did this.

You were lost for words. A significant part of you wanted to give some snappy comeback, or threaten him, or maybe do both. The part of you that didn’t want to risk repeating the experience of death bit back any such responses. Courier though you may be, you were nobody’s war pigeon.  

“What lessons did you teach here?” you finally managed to ask. You saw no lesson in what they had done, beyond that if you’re determined enough, you can brutally murder and butcher an entire town in a matter of days. However, the man seemed like a talker–and you suspected that wasn’t the point he intended to make.

“Where to begin? That you are weak, and we are strong?” You narrowed your eyes, and he chuckled, calculated and sadistic. “This much was known already.” 

“This seems a pretty piss-poor way to get that point across.” Your mouthiness would be the death of you, you were sure of it.

One of the other legion soldiers reached for his gun, but their leader raised a hand as if to shush him. Unfortunately, you also knew that this was the perfect way to get their message across– given that was exactly what you, incorrectly, reasoned the main message wouldn’t be.

“Oh, that’s not all,” the man laughed. “It also speaks to the depths of your moral sickness, your dissolution. Nipton serves as the perfect object lesson.” 

You were certain you were about to regret asking your next question. “What exactly happened here?”

“Nipton was a wicked place, debased and corrupt.” He waved a hand dismissively. “It served all comers, so long as they paid. Profligate troops, powder gangers, men of the Legion such as myself…the people here didn’t care. It was a town of whores. ”

You bit back your snarky comment about him being served here, if only so the other soldier wouldn’t finally lose any measure of self control and shoot you. 

“For a pittance, the town agreed to lead those it had sheltered into a trap. Only when I sprang it did they realize; they were caught inside it, too.” 

“So you captured everyone,” you simplified. 

He nodded. “Yes, and herded them into the center of town. I told them their sins, the foremost being disloyalty.” 

“I assume that wasn’t enough.” 

“No.” The Legion dogs and the other soldiers seemed to be getting antsy to leave, shifting on their feet impatiently. “I told them that when Legionaries are disloyal, some are punished, and the others are made to watch. And so, I announced the lottery.”

The lottery. Now you knew the kind of win the powder ganger must have had. “What did you do?” 

“Oh, it’s not what I did. Each one clutched his ticket, hoping it would set him free.” The Legionary shook his head. “Each did nothing, even when loved ones were dragged away to be killed.”

“You slaughtered innocent civilians?” you asked coldly.

“Innocent?” He spat on the ground, as if trying to desecrate the mass grave Nipton had become. “Hardly. Cowardly, though. They outnumbered us, but not once did they try to resist. Instead, they stood and watched as their fellows were butchered, crucified, burned…one. by. one. They stood and hoped their turn would not come. Each cared only for himself.”

Part of you, a small part of you, felt and understood his frustration. Selfishness, unwillingness to help others...you had just witnessed the epitome of it at the Outpost with Jackson’s story, about all the soldiers sent East who wouldn’t so much as make the slightest detour to help make significant change. It wasn’t quite as dire as the situation that the people of Nipton had been put in, but you disliked the similarities. You especially disliked that you understood where he was coming from, just a little bit. Disliked that a small part of you agreed with him. Not his methods, you still did not condone the bloodbath around you…but you saw why someone like him would turn to do something like that. It turned your stomach cold. 

“Your crimes are unforgivable,” you said quietly. It was all you could muster. Now was not the time to inflict feelings of hypocrisy on yourself.

“As are all crimes,” he agreed. “If you feel strongly about it, attack us, and soon you won’t feel a thing.”

With that, he made to walk away. Your curiosity was faster. “What’s your name?”

“Vulpes,” he said over his shoulder, still walking. “Vulpes Inculta. Until our next meeting.”

He continued forward, whistling to summon his dogs to his side. The legionaries with him hesitated, but without a direct order from their superior to attack you, they followed behind Vulpes. You stood rooted to the spot, watching them walk east, until they were well and fully out of sight. 

The first crucifixion victim you tried to help squirmed as you undid his bonds, whispering thank yous through sobs. He fell to the dirt hard, curling in on himself to ease the ache of his overstretched muscles. 

“Are you okay?” The man did not answer. You checked him over for any open wounds as best you could, but you didn’t find any. “Are you hurt?”

“Thank you,” he whispered again. His sobs were growing fainter, voice growing weak. Your eyebot beeped its concern as the man’s breath became shallow. 

“Stay with me,” you tried, shaking him. His condition only continued to worsen. “Come on, we can get you a stimpak, see? You’ll be okay.” 

By the time you got the stimpak out of your bag, his blip had vanished from your biometric sensor map. 

The next two people you untied fell to the same fate, even when you’d managed to inject a stimpak into one’s side the moment she fell. There was no way to save any of them, you realized. They’d all been tied up too long, and the damage had already been done. If you took them down now…they’d just die anyway. 

So you did right by them, despite your own feelings about the why of things. You untied each and every person, letting them down as gently as you could, and sat by each one’s side until you were sure they were gone. Perhaps the rest enduring a moment of prolonged suffering so that nobody had to die alone, enduring it in the name of a selfless act, was your own form of punishment for their selfishness. But, it didn’t do to debate your agreement or disagreement with Vulpes any further. Now, you were simply cleaning up the mess he and his legionnaires had left behind in the most humane way you could bring yourself to. When the last crucified person passed, you dragged their bodies to the giant bonfire, laying them on it as carefully and reverently as you could. Granted, it felt neither of those things, more or less having to throw them into the flames to avoid burning yourself, but giving them a funeral pyre felt better than leaving their bodies to be picked at by scavengers. It’s what you would have wanted, had you not been buried in a shallow grave. You wouldn’t have wanted the man who shot you to leave you laying in the elements somewhere. 

~

“You smell like a grill.” 

Ghost looked you up and down, subtly checking you over for injuries. “It wasn’t good, was it? Smoke trail’s not getting any shorter.” 

Was telling her the truth of what happened doing what Vulpes had asked of you? She had asked first. That meant that his request was only getting fulfilled by happenstance.

“Nipton was attacked by the Legion. Vulpes Inculta was leading them. He said he wanted it to be a ‘lesson’.” 

“Legion this far west? You’re fucking kidding me.” If it were even possible, Ghost paled even further. “That’s not outside the border like we thought. They’re moving in, and fast. Nipton wasn’t the most friendly town, but…” 

“I’m sorry. I gave them the closest thing to a funeral that I could.”

“Not your fault,” she sighed. “Well…thanks for checking on that. I hoped it would set my mind at ease, but now, I’m just more on edge than ever. Did you see which direction those bastards went?” 

“They went east, and kept going that way until I lost sight of them.” 

Ghost let out a long sigh. “Alright, at least they aren’t coming here.” 

Niggling guilt still ate at the inside of your stomach. Perhaps it was the part of you that felt awful for seeing any reason behind Vulpes’ motivations. “I didn’t mean to be the bearer of bad news.”

“Unless you burned the town, don’t take blame that’s not due. Things are gonna get uglier before the year’s out, I’m afraid.” 

“Let’s hope not too much out here. You’ve got enough on your plate.”

She offered a weak smile. “Thank you for hoofing it there and back, even if it was bad news. Wish we could spare some troops to go hunting, but orders are to stay put.” 

“Of course. If I’m in the area, let me know if you need me.” 

“Will do.” Ghost sat and buried her face in her hands, either out of frustration or worry, you weren’t certain. “Fucking Mojave’s going to hell, and all I can do is sit here and watch.”

Chapter Text

Walking the road east again, you were pleased to find that the encampment you’d passed on the way to Nipton had been abandoned. In the daylight, it also happened to make for a good spot to stop for lunch. You weren’t sure what Jackson had put on the sandwich rations he’d paid you with, but it was the best sandwich you could remember having. Not that it was saying much, but it was very good. 

The fires of Nipton had died down, too, with nobody left there to feed them. Thankfully, those you had left for cremation had properly disintegrated in the sheer heat of last night's flames. You offered them a respectful nod as you passed, wishing them well in whatever came after this life. 

Now, you followed the road beyond Nipton, passing over the train tracks. An old weathered metal sign bid you welcome to the state of Nevada, as if you hadn’t been walking in what used to be Nevada this whole time. The safety gates that blocked travelers on the road from crossing the tracks were down, forever warning of a train that would presumably never be coming. You simply stepped around them. 

The road ahead wound between some particularly high hills, and you felt the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end. As a precaution, you readied your rifle and flicked on your Pip-Boy. This would make for a perfect ambush site, and you suspected that that was exactly what it had been made into. 

Your suspicions were confirmed a moment later. A few individuals sat perched on the ridgeline, taking potshots at you. Returning fire, you climbed as far up the side of the opposite hill as you could, letting the old trucks and cars on the road take their bullets for you. Laser shots accompanied your own rifle fire as your eyebot fought valiantly, trying to protect you as you both kept moving. It became clear very quickly that this was a waste of ammo for both sides–they were too far away to hit a small moving target such as yourself, and they were too far away with too much cover for you to get a shot in edgewise. 

It was only when you had begun to round the bend that you saw the landmines that had been laid in the road, likely to trip up the next caravan that came along.
That wouldn’t do. Taking careful aim, you shot one, setting off a chain reaction. They exploded, one, two, three, sending anything near them flying, including an old, faded orange traffic cone.
The explosions were followed by an unexpected bang. Looking around, you couldn’t quite pinpoint the source of it, and there was nothing but dirt within a ten foot radius or so of you.
A man from the group that had been shooting at you came sprinting down the road, now free of worry from stepping on the landmines one of his allies had planted.
You took aim–but didn’t get the chance to pull the trigger before the engine of a delivery truck exploded beside him, vaporizing him instantly in a miniature nuclear blast. The shockwave knocked you back on your ass, just in time for you to watch the small mushroom cloud reach the height of the hills around you. You thought back to all the times up until now that you’d used cars as vantage or as cover, and you shared a grimace with your eyebot. 

After that, you passed through the remainder of that stretch of highway unchallenged. 

~

Early evening was setting in by the time you came across the next friendly encampment of any kind. The sign out front had a painted version of the NCR flag on it, which you had come to learn meant that you’d be tolerated at worst, and given work by friendly people at best. However, despite there being several trailers arranged into a circular fortress of a kind within the old trailer park’s walls, there appeared to be no NCR personnel in sight. The main building, a brick and mortar structure that must have been the park’s office once upon a time, had soft light glowing from between the slats that boarded up the windows.

The single officer inside the building jumped out of his skin as you entered. He first straightened to attention– expecting someone else –before relaxing into apprehension. Shock melted into a scowl as he looked you up and down. “You know we don’t typically allow civvies to wander around here, right?”

“Sorry. What is this place?”

“Oh, you don’t– ah, nevermind.” He shrugged. “This is Ranger Station Charlie. We’re responsible for keeping the road up through Novac civilized.” 

At least you were heading in the right direction. “Is Novac far from here?”

The man gestured for you to take a seat, and he himself sat down behind his metal desk. Radio equipment sat atop it and hummed with static while its dials bounced idly, searching for any signal or any information on their tuned frequencies. Your eyebot floated around the room seemingly aimlessly, investigating all the technology in the room in its own way. 

“Novac ain’t that far, no. If you left right now, and I mean right this minute, you’d probably make it there by sundown if you hoof it.” 

“That’s not as bad as I was expecting. Thank you.” Now, you were just mildly curious about everything else. “What’s your name?”

“I’m Comms Officer Stepinac. You can call me officer S if that’s too complicated for you, lotta people have a hard time with it for some reason.” He adjusted his red bandana. “So, what brings a civvie like you to a comms station like this?”

“I was walking the road up from Nipton,” you answered honestly. “I’m on my way to Novac. I was just recently at the Mojave Outpost, so I thought I’d stop in and see what this place was.” 

“Fair enough. Well, we’re a radio station and recon camp, and that’s about all you need to know. I’d direct you to my CO but he’s out on patrol right now.” He sighed, perhaps a little louder than he had meant to. “Also…we’re a ranger station. We’re only really NCR by treaty and affiliation.” 

“Oh.” Looking at his uniform, it was beginning to make sense why some NCR officers were dressed more like cowboys– they must be the rangers. “Are there lots of rangers in the Mojave?”

He shrugged. “Couple dozen at least, I’d say. At least enough to run these stations, that’s where most of us are posted. We either man the station or patrol the immediate area, which is what Ranger Beaumont and the rest are up to right now.” 

There was a certain vulnerability he was showing you in admitting that he was all alone at the station, and you respected it. “How does one become a ranger? I assume it’s much different than becoming an NCR soldier.” 

“Oh, far, far different. You ever seen those old recruitment posters for the army from before the war? Walk into the office, sign some papers, you’re in, that’s how the NCR soldiers work.” Stepinac gave a hearty laugh. “These days, since the treaty, the rangers do draw from the NCR army. A trooper who shows exceptional skill at fighting and scouting can be nominated for training.” 

“What makes for the difference, then?” Now you were getting curious. All the NCR people you’d met so far who had been the nicest, save for Major Knight, had been rangers. Should you ever decide to become anything more than a courier…the rangers had a certain draw. 

“Well, we're part scout, part commando, part sheriff. The training is brutal, and I'd say eight out of ten recruits washes out before the end.” He leaned forward, getting serious. “But before you get your ranger badge, you've got to prove you can be quieter than a shadow, and more ferocious than a Deathclaw.” 

You didn’t remember what a deathclaw was, nor did you get the sense that you wanted to find out any time soon. What you were confident in, however, was that you might someday be able to fit that description once you got more of your skills re-honed. “Do the rangers still take outsiders?”

“As far as I’m aware, it’s just exceedingly rare. Easier for them to pick from those who have demonstrable skill already, you see. But it’s not unheard of. Some of the old timers like them best, because of how overbearing the NCR feels at times, even though that treaty was meant to be more fifty-fifty.”

The door banged open, and a kitted-out officer stepped into the building, followed by a few soldiers of clearly lesser rank. “Stepinac, we’re back. Who’s this?” 

“I’m a courier, just passing through and asking for directions,” you assured him. 

“This is Ranger Beaumont,” Stepinac said, introducing his superior. 

“Pleasure.” Beaumont eyed you warily. “Look, McCarran doesn’t like it when civilians wander into military outposts, so if you’re here on business, make it quick. Don’t want anyone getting in trouble, and we’ve got reports to write.”

“Even if they can’t get the right supplies to the right places. They sent us a ton of medical supplies that we didn't need not that long ago.” Beaumont flashed Stepinac a warning look, and got rolled eyes from the comms officer in response.

“We were just finishing up, actually. Thank you, Stepinac. See you guys later if I pass back through.”

“See you.” Stepinac waved as you made your exit from the building, not wanting to test Beaumont’s temper and patience.