Wandering Cowboys
I do not own Fallout New Vegas, that belongs to Obsidian and Bethesda. I also do not own Ezra Walker, that belongs to ThisMessIsAPlace (aka couriers_mile).
A drink, that's what Ezra needed right now. Well he needed a shower and a nice bed, but a nice tall glass of booze was something he needed right here and now. It was why Ezra found himself sitting in a bar in the middle of damn nowhere, instead of finding a safe place to sleep for the night.
Hunting down and killing Fiends was an exhausting task, especially sick bastards like Driver Nephi or Cook-Cook, but the bounty money was definitely worth all the hassle. Plus, it meant less of those crazy bastards running around and hurting others, which was definitely a plus in Ezra's book.
"Rough day, kid?" A gruff voice inquired, causing Ezra to turn to his right.
Sitting at the bar next to Ezra was a man, a bottle of whiskey in his hand and staring straight ahead. The man had a rough stubble growing and had greying brown hair that reached his shoulders, and a face that was heavily lined from the ravages of time. The guy looked like straight outta one of those old cowboy holomovies from the pre-war world, from the worn cowboy hat right down to the scuffed boots.
"Well, huntin' down n' killing Fiends sure ain't a walk in the park, stranger." Ezra answered. "And let me tell ya, a bit of booze an' a long nap is what I'm in the need for."
"Hunting Fiends, eh?" The stranger inquired. "Definitely a rough day, for a kid like you."
"No offence to ya, but I ain't exactly new to this whole fightin' stuff." Ezra muttered, shaking his head slightly. "
The stranger let out a slow chuckle at that, before he fully turned around to face Walker. And Ezra was pretty sure his eyes widened in surprise, as he saw the stranger's face properly. Ezra had been called an ugly sonnabitch many times in his life, but this guy was something else. The entire left side of this man's face was covered in scarred flesh and misshapen bones, as if his face had been smashed in and someone had tried to resemble it, but was missing a few pieces. While his right eye was a hazel colour, his left eye was a pure milky white, like the white ball from a pool table.
"Hmmf, you're definitely tougher than most of the people I've met so far." The stranger stated. "Most people would've commented on my face by now."
"Well I ain't mucha looker myself, stranger." A cheeky grin appeared on Ezra's face. "What's that old sayin'? Ain't good luck ta throw stones at glass houses?"
Silence fell between the two men, before the stranger began chuckling. It wasn't a particularly pretty laugh, as it sounded like the man was gargling nails, but at least Ezra hadn't pissed the guy off. Cause right now, getting into a bar fight was pretty low on Ezra's priority list.
"You definitely got some guts on you, kid. I like that." The stranger stated, as he extended his arm. "Name's Cameron, Eli Cameron."
"Ezra Walker, pleasure ta meet ya." Ezra stated, accepting Eli's handshake. "If ya don't mind me askin', whaddya doin' out here?"
"Me, kid?" Eli inquired. "Having a drink, resting my bones. Ain't as fit as I once was."
"Can see that, with all 'em grey hairs ya got." Ezra added with a grin.
"Smart ass." Eli muttered, shaking his head. "Least I still got my health…well, at least what's left."
The two men fell silent at that, going back to their drinks. Ezra looked around, to find the establishment mostly empty, but then again he shouldn't be too surprised. After all, it was quite late at night, definitely not a time that would attract a lot of customers. The only sound coming from the nearby radio, as the voice of Mr New Vegas filled the bar.
"A package courier found shot in the head near Goodsprings has reportedly regained consciousness and made a full recovery. In possibly related news, Goodsprings has fended off a mob of escaped convicts after organizing an impromptu militia, according to an old man armed to the teeth with dynamite. Boy the Mojave sure is a fascinating place, isn't it?" Mr New Vegas stated. "Got a song for you, now. It's about a guy who's cold on the exterior, but deep down, you know he's a good man. And his name... is Johnny Guitar."
Eli Cameron whipped his head to face the radio and stared daggers at it, as though the small machine had caused unspeakable acts against the scarred cowboy. Eli reached over and quickly shut off the radio, flooding the bar with what could be considered uncomfortable silence.
"Ain't much of a music fan?" Ezra inquired.
"Nah, just can't stand that Johnny Guitar song." Eli huffed, shaking his scarred head. "It grates on my nerves. Plus…well, lets say I haven't had a good history with radios, least recently."
"Radios?" Ezra enquired, eyebrow raised. "Whaddya got 'gainst radios?"
The scarred cowboy didn't respond to Ezra's inquires right away. Eli instead grabbed the whiskey bottle and took a nice long drag from it, before placing the bottle back onto the table and gave his answer.
"Let's just say that radios and I ain't always been friends," Eli explained. "And let's just leave it at that, kid."
It all looked the same, this entire fucking place. All the corridors, the narrow halls, all looked the damn same. The only ways they looked different was the dried blood spatters and random corpses, and that's all Eli had to tell where he was going.
"Fuck me, I ain't gonna die today." Eli muttered, as he run through the streets.
This Cloud, this damn fucking Cloud, was burning his damn lungs. It was like acid, as every breath burnt his throat and brought tears to his eyes. The sound of metal scrapping against stone and heavy breathing sounded behind Eli, which meant only one thing.
Those damn Ghost fuckers found him. Which was just great, as he had used up the last of his bullets.
"Fuck you, Elijah you old bastard." Eli growled. "You old fucking miserable bastard."
It might've seem crazy, and it might have happened given how long he's been here, but Eli knew. He knew that that old bastard Elijah was listening in through the collars, hiding away in his little hole in the ground, keeping tabs on the scarred cowboy and the other idjits who got captured. Eli might very well die in this place, in this casino with Ghost people and deadly clouds and fucking radios that could kill him. But Eli had promised himself one thing, from the very moment he woke up at that fountain and talked to Elijah.
If this was gonna be Eli's grave, then he was gonna bring Elijah with him to hell.
"Doesn' sound like a topic ya like talkin' 'bout, do ya?" Ezra inquired.
Eli just gave a shake of his head and a tired grunt, before looking up at the clock hanging over the bar. A few mumbled curse words escaped Eli's lips, as the scarred cowboy stood up and dusted himself off.
"I reckon it's time to head on out, now. Got a woman back home, that's probably worrying about me." Eli stated. "Nice chatting with ya, kid. Word of warning though; go easy on the booze, especially 'round these parts. People won't hesitate to mug a stranger."
"Thank ya for the warnin' partner, safe trails to ya." Ezra answered, with a smile.
The cowboy just nodded his head at Ezra's words, as he turned and exited the bar. Eli reached the door and opened it, but stopped at the doorway. Eli turned his head, directing his next words at a still sitting Ezra.
"I reckon this might not be our last encounter, kid." Eli stated. "Gotta feeling we'll bump into each other, somewhere down the road."
With that, Eli turned and exited the bar, the door swinging shut behind him. Ezra stared at the door for what felt like an eternity, before turning back to face the bar, bottle of booze in hand. Silence filled the bar, before Ezra reached over and turned on the radio, with the sound of Johnny Guitar filling the silence.
"Guy's right, song ain't that good." Ezra muttered. "But silence definitely ain't for me."
And that is it for this story, between Ezra Walker and Eli Cameron! Super huge mega thank you to ThisMessIsAPlace (aka couriers_mile) for letting me write his character of Ezra! Anyway, I hope to see you folks soon!
Love,
The Desert Dancer