The light from the moon guided his way towards his destination. The I-15, the highway which carried visitors from California to Nevada, was littered with remnants of the old world. Dry desert air swept through the land, humming as it sung through the wanderer's hair.
Coyotes howled as they went forth into the night, looking for prey. Deathclaws, nestling nearby, were on the lookout for any trespasser stupid enough to approach them.
And on the highway, was a man. A man on his towards the shining city of vice and sin in the horizon, delivering a package. A simple job, one that would give him enough money for at least a month. It was a simple enough job.
The man was dressed in a blue vault suit, but it was heavily modified. Hardened leather plates protected his left shoulder and knees. A strap went from his left shoulder plate to the waist where it was plates of leather covered his arms, acting as bracers. He wouldn't survive a hail of bullets, but the armor was better than most.
On his waist was a holstered 10mm pistol. The steel was weathered, from centuries of use. However, the weapon worked perfectly. On his back he carried a grenade rifle, a single-shot that fired 40mm rounds. He only had a few rounds, meant for those who were clustered or armored. On the opposite side of the pistol was a machete, broader than the make-shift ones of the legionnaires. It was better made as well, the curved steel much sturdier and stronger than most machetes.
The lights of the Prospector Saloon were nearby, telling him that he was close to his destination. He could sleep there and then head up north and be at New Vegas within a day or so. He hummed to Guy Mitchell's Heartaches by the Numbers, reminding himself not to go to the Gommorah.
"You better stop right there."
He stopped and looked ahead. Two figures dressed in black leather jackets and pants were there, armed with a plethora of weapons. His hand itched towards the grenade rifle on instinct, but he didn't go for it. If they were ahead, then they would probably have others as well. He looked to his left, off towards the desert.
He was right. Two more figures dressed similar where assembled, pistols and what seemed to be submachine guns. He glanced to his right and two more were there, armed to the teeth with the same weapons.
"Put your hands in the air."
He refused.
"Well, well, what do you we have here?" A man said, his voice smoother than brandy. Behind the two figures ahead of him came another one. But he was different. Dressed in a suit, checkered pattern, with tanned white skin and greased black hair.
"What do you want?" he finally asked, breaking the silence he was holding. The suave suit fella chuckled darkly, as if he was telling a joke only he could understand.
"Baby, you just got yourself into a whole world of trouble," the man said, laughing afterwards. "I don't think you know what you're transporting, but you're going to lose your life cause of a bad roll of the dice."
Before he could ask what he meant, he felt something slam into his head. He fell forward, his hands spreading out to cushion his fall. He grunted as his face and body meant pavement. He heard footsteps, but he couldn't see as his vision faded in and out. The suited man looked down at him.
"Drag him to the graveyard. Fella deserves a proper funeral. After all, it wasn't his fault he had an eighteen karat run of bad luck."
Rough hands grabbed his body. And they started to pull him towards his own grave.
A sound of a shovel hitting dirt. Piling up. He pulled at his hands, but they were imprisoned by rough and coarse rope. His feet were also wrapped up and he looked up, only to see a low-light covering the area. A water tower was above them, looking down in sullen silence.
He looked forward, to see the same man in a checkered suit flipping a lighter open and lighting a cigarette. He took a single puff from the cigarette, before blowing a puff of smoke.
"You got what you came for, now pay up," demanded one of the men dressed in black. His black mustache drooped over his mouth and he looked scared and regretful.
"You're crying in the rain paley," the checkered suit replied, spitting out the cigarette and stomping it out with his foot.
"Look who's waking up over here," the other man said, his mohawk turning towards the checkered suit. He was the one with the shovel, the man who dug his grave.
"Time to cash out," the checkered suit stated walking forward.
"Would you get it over with?" the same man who had demanded payment asked, his arms spread out wide.
"Maybe Khans kill their enemies without looking them in the eyes, but I won't cause I ain't a fink. Ya dig? He deserves this. He doesn't understand what he was carrying," the checkered suit almost sounded apologetic.
The "Khan" didn't answer.
The checkered man looked towards him and smirked. He reached into his coat and pulled something out. A chip, the chip he was supposed to deliver. Made of platinum, it looked like any old poker chip. But apparently it wasn't. Especially since he was going to lose his life over it.
"You made your last delivery kid," the checkered suit chuckled darkly, before putting the chip back in his coat. "Sorry you got twisted up in this scene."
The checkered suit pulled out a pistol. It was gold-plated. The entire body of the pistol was engraved with ivy and floral details, with a polished nickel finish and a golden trigger. And on the handle was an image. An image of a woman with her hands together as if in prayer. A final insult.
"From where you're kneeling, it looks like an eighteen karat run of bad luck," the checkered suit said, before undoing the safety. "But truth is kid...game was rigged from the start."
The checkered suit pulled the trigger and his world became black.
She approached. Black hair tied in a loose ponytail, red armor blending in with the night. She heard the gunshot, watching as the tied up man slump into the grave. The dirt was shoveled back onto him, a shallow grave. Her hand went to her side, cradling the grip of her pistol. However, she would not use it. She was outnumbered seven to one, maybe more.
"So we just killed a kid out of cold blood. Cause of a package he was delivering?" she heard someone ask, regret dripping from his voice.
"Yeah, we did. Because if we let him go, the kid would go back to Primm talking about how a Chairman and a bunch of Great Khans robbed him of the package he was delivering. We kill him, we're all good. We don't need any loose ends ya dig?" a suave voice responded, slicker than gel.
"Why didn't we take his weapons?" another asked and the first voice answered.
"We ain't robbing him of his guns. The kid deserved that much."
By Mars, what did they do? She was a frumentarii and the only female one. Such privileges came when you were the blood of the Son of the Mars. Scouting ahead and monitoring the area. Primm, the prison, and Goodsprings. Agents on the strip had heard of someone important leaving and heading south. And Caesar had wanted to know who and why.
Vulpes had chosen her.
She had worn her red armor instead of her leather because it was night and it was easier to hunt. Man and beast.
She watched as the men moved down the hill and towards the town of Goodsprings. The Prospector Saloon was open at this hour and she could imagine what they would be doing there. She heard the Great Khans talking before the voices trailed off. She looked at the Goodsprings graveyard.
What would she find there? A dead man the Chairman and Great Khans had robbed and killed. Nothing. But for some reason she wanted to go up there. Pay respects to a man she never knew. Caesar would never let a courier die. The frumentarii had been ordered to never kill a courier. Because most of them were Legion.
Pay your respects. She could follow the others later. After all, they were most likely heading back to New Vegas. Others could track them.
She walked up the hill, her hand on her pistol in case anything came by. She came upon a wooden cross, a makeshift one. It was similar to the ones the Legion used for crucifixion. Except this one was for mourning and remembrance. Not for death and punishment.
She leaned down to look at the hastily dug grave. Why did they kill you? She was deep in thoughts when she heard something behind her. Whipping her pistol out as fast as possible, she turned and nearly pulled the trigger.
But what stopped her was the metal chassis in front of her. A box on a single wheel, with a large screen in the front. On it was a smiling cowboy, gleaming lazily and illustrating the night.
"Howdy pardner. Mighty fine evening we have tonight, ain't it?" the robot asked, tiny hands making motions.
"Who are you?" she asked, pistol still trained on the machine.
"Name's Victor. Now listen missy, you should put away that pistol before someone gets hurt. I don't want to hurt ya and time's a wasting," the robot said, gesturing towards her pistol. She almost didn't put it away, but she knew what those robots could do. Damn Pre-war technology. She begrudgingly complied, holstering her weapon.
"Good. Now miss, I'm gonna need your help. You see that grave? I need ya to help me dig the feller out of it," the robot said casually but terrifying her. She couldn't believe what she was hearing. Desolate a grave?
"And why should I desecrate a grave?" she demanded and the robot chuckled in response.
"Well you see now miss, that feller in there? He's still alive. Barely. We got to get him to Doc Mitchell's, otherwise he's gonna die," the robot explained. "These hands ain't really much for digging, but yours are and those nasty fellows were kind enough to leave a shovel."
The robot pointed towards the ground and she looked, discovering a worn shovel. Retrieving it, she looked at the robot.
"Miss, you should start digging," "Victor" suggested and she did so, shoveling out the dirt. After five minutes, she discovered him. He was dressed in a blue armored vault suit, while weapons and ammunition were piled up next to him as if they were to arm him in the next life. Blood was seeping out of his head, indicating he had been shot in the cranium.
"Friend," Victor said to the body in the grave," It seems like you can use a sarsaparilla. Miss, I need you to give him to me so I could wheel him back to Doc Mitchell's house. Can you do that?"
She nodded, noting she had been expected to be as strong as the other frumentarii she trained with. She went down into the grave and hefted his body over her shoulder. Grunting with effort, he weighed more than he looked, she climbed out of the grave where Victor had his robot arms spread out wide. Her look made Victor laugh.
"Don't worry bout him miss, he'll be fine. These arms can carry him no problem. Those weapons though, you should get them."
"Get him to the doctor. I will retrieve his weapons and meet you at his home," she said hesitantly, before placing the man's body in Victor's arms.
"That house with the flag is where you'll find the doc.."
And with that, the robot wheeled off, dust kicking up as he raced towards the doctor's house. She tracked him, watching as the robot dash past the saloon. She looked down in the grave. An assortment of weapons and ammunition awaited her.
The first thing she saw was the grenade rifle. Forty millimeter, seeing the few grenades spilled out of a bag. She saw that the rifle was darker in both metal and wood than most grenade rifles she had seen in the Mojave. A pistol, more weathered than most she had seen, and a machete broader than her own. Six magazines of ten millimeter were stacked neatly next to it.
She picked up the weapons, throwing the sling of the grenade rifle over her shoulder, and walked towards the town of Goodsprings.
As she entered, the lights of the Prospector Saloon switched off. An old man drank from a bottle of beer, disgusting her. She trudged ahead. Victor was already leaving the doctor's place, his screen lighting up.
"Well missy, the doc's working on and digging out the lead and patching him up. Might wanna leave the guns in the house and let the doc work. Trudy might have a room for you."
She shook her head.
"I'm leaving after this. Victor," she said, using the robot's name for the first time. "Don't tell anyone I was here. Will you do that for me?"
"Of course miss. After all you did help save his life," Victor responded, before moving strangely, as if tipping his hat. "You have a lovely day now!"
The robot trekked elsewhere. She opened the door and put the weapons and ammunition down in the foyer. And like a ghost, she disappeared.
Hello my fellow readers and writers! I have returned after nearly two years of hiatus. My first order of business to is to rewrite this mess of a story and streamline. I will be changing around characters and stories and axing pretty much everything. I have started anew and fresh. Hopefully you will find my new story riveting. Till next time!
-DeathBladeVI