Parable of the Farmer
Hey folks, this is a story that I've had on the backburner for a while now, and I finally decided to upload. The main problem I had was writing Ulysses' dialogue, cause dear golly gosh, does he have an unusual speaking pattern. But anyway, I hope you wonderful people enjoy this!
I do not own Fallout: New Vegas, that belongs to Bethesda and Obsidian
Russell Pasternak stood at the entrance to the Divide, examining the desolate wasteland in front of him. Storms raged in the distance, covering every inch of the irradiated place. The sky was filled with dark clouds and no matter where the old Ghoul looked, all he could see was death and destruction. The Sierra Madre had been horrible, but this place...it was something else. Just desolation and destruction everywhere he looked. This trip to the Divide, this accursed place of storms and radiation, had not been a pleasant trip. It had been a necessary trip, no arguments could be made there, but it definitely wasn't pleasant.
"Hell is empty, and all the devils are here." Pasternak mumbled. "What a fitting quote…"
A tired groan was heard, shaking Pasternak from his thoughts. Oh how rude of him; he had completely forgotten of the man who had invited him to this dreadful hellscape in the first place. Ulysses was currently laying on a roll-up bed, his shirt torn to pieces and his breather removed. It had been a bitch and a half dragging his unconscious arse from his Temple all the way back here but at least the Stimpacks were working their magic, given Ulysses was finally waking up.
"Good morrow, Ulysses." Pasternak stated. "I hope you slept well?"
Ulysses gave a confused groan as his response, until realization hit him like a super mutant fist. The injured courier tried getting up but only managed what looked like a half-arsed sit up, before collapsing back onto the ground in pain.
"Don't get up, you'll only hurt yourself even more than you currently are." Pasternak explained, shaking his head. "Also I don't plan on killing you; believe it or not, I am not a fan of murder and use it only as a last resort."
"The Temple…stop the fire…" Ulysses groaned.
"The missiles have been dealt with, no thanks to you." Pasternak explained.
"...Your friend….the machine….where is it?" Ulysses inquired.
"...like I said, the missiles have been dealt with." Pasternak answered, as he sat down next to Ulysses. "Luckily I stocked up on Stimpacks, given how much you were bleeding."
"Saved me...why? Would be easier...to let me die." Ulysses muttered, a confused tone evident to his voice. "I do not understand."
"I have my reasons, as always." Pasternak explained. "Everything I do, it has meaning behind it. So don't think I am doing it out of the generosity of my heart."
"Plans...ideas….beliefs." Ulysses muttered, spitting out each word as if they were poison. "Just like House...just like Caesar….just like Kimball. Playing games, using people."
"Oh my dear Ulysses, I am not like any of those men." Pasternak chuckled, a grin forming on his irradiated face. "Why? Cause unlike them, I'm still alive, despite some very good attempts. I'll admit it, Father Elijah nearly had me at the Sierra Madre."
"Sierra Madre...city of ghosts, monument to old world greed." Ulysses growled. "Perfect grave for man like Elijah."
"Eloquently put, Ulysses. Now as for you…I do plan on letting you live." Pasternak explained. "But...you pull any shit like this again? I'll personally hunt you down, drag you all the way back here, and toss you over the edge into the Divide myself. Understand?"
"Threats, no need. Not planning on leaving the Divide." Ulysses huffed, shaking his head. "Walking forward, not seeing the scars you leave? NCR's way, Caesar's way, your way. That...that is not my way."
Russell Pasternak didn't say anything, instead just nodding his head. The two couriers sat there, the only sound being the howling winds of the Divide storms. After a while, Pasternak lifted his head up, looking over at Ulysses.
"You know, this actually reminds me of a story." Pasternak chuckled, shaking his head. "You ever heard the story, of the Parable of the Farmer?"
"Stories...tales of a dead world." Ulysses muttered. "Let...past sleep."
"Well, I'll tell you the story anyway. A farmer comes home one day, to find that everything that gives meaning to his life is gone. Crops are burned, animals slaughtered, bodies and broken pieces of his life strewn about. Everything that he loved taken from him - his wife, his children." Pasternak responded, his voice growing hoarse. "One can only imagine...the pit of despair, the hours of Job-like lamentations, the burden of existence. Truly, you cannot help but pity the farmer."
The world had seemingly gone silent now, as Ulysses paid attention to Pasternak's words. Even the storms of the Divide had died down, as if the scarred land too was interested in what the old Ghoul had to say.
"The farmer...he makes a promise to himself, in those dark hours. A life's work erupts from his knotted mind. Years go by. His suffering becomes...well, complicated." Pasternak continued. "One day he stops - the farmer, who is no longer a farmer - sees the wreckage he's left in his wake. It is now he who burns, he who slaughters...and he knows, in his heart, he must pay. It's...it's a fascinating story, isn't it?"
Silence falls between the two men, the two Couriers bearing their respective flags. After all, what more is there to say? After what seemed like hours, Pasternak placed a satchel next to Ulysses, before getting up and making his way towards the exit of the Divide.
"There's enough Stimpacks and food there to last you a while." Pasternak explained, not bothering to look back. "Enjoy life, if you can call living here 'life'. Now if you'll excuse me, I have a Strip to run."
Ulysses did not say anything, instead watching as Pasternak made his way down the torn road and was swallowed up from sight. After all, what was there to say? Their story had now ended, right in the Divide, the place where it all began.
And Parable of the Farmer is done and dusted! I hope you folks enjoyed this story!
Love,
The Desert Dancer