The air about the khaki tent hung heavy. All about the triangle of rough patchwork leather, which was reverberating violently as it surrendered to the evening breeze, the typical sight of relative nothingness was clear; the tent had been erected atop a large rocky outcrop that flaunted a bright, colourful orange which somewhat alleviated the dullness of the flat brown land that encompassed it. There was scant little life here; to the immediate north, a few cacti had pierced the barren and dry dirt to make their lonesome mark, and to the southeast, down the rocky slopes that gave the outcrop its shape, a large herd of Brahmin had been making its way for the past day, looking like a large jagged line against the horizon as the sun began to retreat.
Of the most immediate concern to the inhabitant of this tent was immediately below them, no more than 50 metres from the wall of the outcrop, where small radioactive pools cratered the landscape like shell-holes, framed crudely by creamy rocks that were large enough to fit a car inside. About this small area, a group of Radscorpions stalked about, digging out places to sleep, depositing discarded foodstuffs in the shaded places beneath the rocks; the arm of a ghoul, with what little flesh had remained picked clean; the head of a coyote, eyes still glimmering with the residue of fear and animalistic brutality.
Above this radscorpion den, a small orb bobbed recklessly in the air, piercing the smooth sandy breeze and printing a rapidly distorting shadow across the desert sand as it moved. Finishing its most recent patrol, it turned hastily backwards, skirting the rock-wall and forcing its way through the flaps of the tent.
"Still there, boss," the Eyebot reported, its voice a patchwork collection of audio recordings. It spun in a full circle as its master sat up from the bedroll.
"How many?" the merchant enquired with frustration, resting his right elbow on the stock of a hunting rifle for support and moaning tiredly.
"Five," the Eyebot said loudly; this time as the disjointed imitation of a young girl, "Same as there was an hour ago, and the hour before that. Can't we just shoot 'em?"
"No. I can't get hurt, Vix. I need to see this transaction out in person."
Vix's antennae rocked in frustration, "They're a bunch of savages. They'll take what we give 'em: especially after their last wonderful disaster, they'd be shooting themselves otherwise!" The girl's voice, increasing and decreasing in age in no particular pattern, protested.
"Just in case." Was the only reply.
A few seconds of silence ensued as the human beneath Vix planned his next move. Vix resumed to strafe the tent idly, like a hover fly, mumbling to itself incoherently.
Finally the human stood, lifting his hunting rifle by the tip of the barrel and clutching it with both hands idly. "We're moving" he commanded.
Vix immediately turned and darted outwards. In this short space of time since it had last been outside, the sun seemed to be no-longer retreating; indeed, it was now apparently in a full-scale rout. There was a choking shroud of darkness through which (Vix imagined) no human could see.
"Light on." A voice muttered through the emptiness. "We're headed east for now, going to bank our last riches at William Adams. Then we're going to carry on up until Boulder City and take a hike from there."
"Right on, boss." Vix's circuitry grumbled as a light weakly flickered into life before stabilizing and creating a cone, extending no further than 10 metres, through which the human could see. For its part, Vix again twitched to activate his screen's night vision with a triumphant buff of smoke from its left exhaust port.
For no more than an hour did they travel, over the same barren sand that inhabited in daylight hours, though this time plastered a drained turquoise by the night-time hue. They travelled past the perimeter of the canyon; huge angular rocks, as tall as flats, which progressed from a dull brick-orange to a livelier red-tinted bronze as they progressed eastward. All throughout their travel the wind pursued them, licking at the human's back and spiralling down Vix's exhaust.
At last they came upon the sign of civilization that they wanted when Vix flew visor-first into a crude wall of corrugated iron, swearing loudly in a hearty Scottish accent. The merchant simply laughed, strolling calmly, as if in a position of authority, through a gap in the wall over which a straight, neon sign read "WILL-ADAMS". The eyebot trailed behind the merchant as he walked, musing at how he would occasionally slow down to greet those people he passed; most of them guards holding small pistols, SMGs and the occasional rifle, but some of them shivering, mumbling druggies.
"Enough snorting to make a piggy blush." Vix chimed. One of the addicts had heard this belittlement, protesting quickly by standing to his feet, nearly falling over, balancing himself and pulling out a small knife. He lunged at the Eyebot before its laser could be charged, madly trying to stab at it as the trio of leather-coated guards around them simply watched in uncertainty; after all, it was just a robot.
The addict only ceased when a loud gunshot echoed through the night and he began to cough up blood, losing his grip on the twitching, nervous eyebot before sprawling onto his back against the cold earth.
Vix turned to see his saviour; the merchant had, from his pristine leather coat, drawn a .44 magnum which he casually slid back into its unseen hiding spot, tipping his dirtied pre-war bowler hat as an acceptance of the robot's thanks. He then turned, walking again on coal-black boots that seemed camouflaged against the dark hue of night, and even as the guards watched in shocked indecision, raising their weaponry and then lowering them again, he simply muttered: "Stop pissing off the locals."
"Oh, stop pissing off the locals!" Vix mocked in a posh, English accent that he assured passers-by was intentional. He resigned to slowly trailing the merchant, scant metres above his shoulder, to a large, brown door, framed in rusting steel welding, which gave access to the town hall. His eyes darting protectively about him, the human opened the door and swaggered inside. The Eyebot followed.
Inside, the warm sensation of light made its final reappearance, ode to a trio of gently swaying chandeliers that flickered sporadically, painting morphing grey shadows on the wooden walls and across the decked floor, onto circular tables and about vending machines. To one such vending machine did the merchant walk, his hands scurrying about every pocket for a coin, but not just any coin; he drew a handful, analysing and then discarding each one, until he found the one he wanted; an old, rusting penny, a miniscule red band coating its trim. The origin of this coin the merchant wouldn't ever divulge, but it had great significance to him.
"Oh," Vix muttered, flying over to catch a glimpse and tilting his whole spherical structure down towards the floor in disapproval, "These jackasses again."