You come around like a bad habit
He gulped down the last few dregs out of the bottle of whiskey and threw it against a nearby rock, the sharp shattering sound a sudden contrast to the low chirping of the nighttime bugs of the Mojave.
He fumbled for his hunting rifle as his ears heard the angry buzzing of a Cazador behind him. He grabbed his Sheriff's Hat from its spot beside him on the sandy ground and plonked it onto his head. He leapt to his feet and swiveled around just in time to see Rex rip out the bug's thorat. Good boy.
The Courier fell back to the ground and reached into his bag for more alcohol. His hand eventually grasped the last bottle and he freed it from the confines of his duffel bag. His jade eyes studied the scruffy bottle. Moonshine. He unplonked the cork and guzzled down the bitter-tasting liquid. He stared at the diamond pendant securely roped around his palm and the little rose encased within. He clenched his fist.
Throw some whiskey in the mix, and I'm game
Just 24 hours ago Cass had been alive, completely drunk, but alive. The Courier corked the half-empty moonshine and carefully put away the drink back into the duffel bag. He slung the bag over his shoulder and grabbed his rifle and hat from the ground. He would save the rest for a special occasion.
He stiffened when heard the heavens erupt above him and acidic rain poured down. Now that was a rarity. He pulled his hat down over his eyes and started to walk, Rex padding alongside him. He glanced at the pendant again, just to make had to make sure it was still there. It was all he had left of her.
Got his name, got this pendant, and that's about it
He should've seen through their sly smiles and bold-faced lies. He should have instantly seen through their honeyed words and seen the ugly truth underneath. He should've have known they were cold-hearted thugs and not honest, if a bit too businesslike, traders. But he hadn't!
And Cass had died. And he had done nothing. And it was all his fault!
Walking the Mojave with you can't be any worse than here, that's for sure. All right, I'm in
They had nearly killed him and dumped his septic, dying body in the wastes. But, they had made one fatal mistake. They hadn't counted on him being a stubborn sonofabitch who refused to die, Rex had found him and dragged him to the New Vegas medical clinic. It had taken him two weeks to wake from his coma and another two weeks to get back to full health. And now here he was.
The place he had promised to take Cass but now could never take: the final resting place of her Caravan.
Only wishful thinking on my part, most likely. At the least, I'd like to pay my respects.
The Courier spare one last glance at the wreckage behind him as the rain pelted down before he continued his trek towards the New Vegas rain calmed him down as he walked. Maybe it would be more satisfying to see the Van-Graffs spend the rest of their lives in chains, their dreams crushed. Crocker owed him a favour anyway.
Yeah, that's what he would do. He'd keep his moral compass appeased and his hands clean.
They try to put their stake in everything they see. Nobody's dick's that long, not even Long Dick Johnson, and he had a fucking long dick. Thus, the name
The Courier stepped out of the Embassy, his body quivering with rage as he thought of Crocker's apologetic smile and half-assed excuses that made him want to smash the politician's face into a wall. "Not nearly enough evidence" and "men already stretched too thin" rung in his ears over and over and over and over.
The Courier looked up to the clearing sky, closed his eyes and he roared. For how long, he didn't know but when he stopped his lungs and throat burned like hellfire and gamblers and soldiers nervously hurried past him, eyes glued to the pavement.. He reopened his eyes and they were no longer the eyes of a grief-stricken man.
They were the hardened eyes of a predator on the hunt.
All right then, let's get the train rolling
He looked down at the cyberdog by his side. "Rex, go back to the King." The dog whined and raced off.
The Courier needed to blow off some steam and he knew exactly who he was going to dismember. Someone who had been on his shitlist for far too long.
He walked into the Tops. "Where's Benny?"
It was a demand, not a question.
He blinked as his eyes adjusted to the sunlight after being cooped up in Benny's suite for so long. Blood was splattered across his head and combat armour and he did not immediately notice the suited man in front of him. He looked at the face of the man and immediately placed it to a ravaged town and crucifixes. "You," The Courier growled, reaching for his rifle.
"Me," Vulpes Inculta stated calmly as he held out a silver medallion. "Take this."
The Courier accepted the token warily. "What is it?"
"The Mark of Caesar," Vulpes explained in monotone, "it nullifies any crimes committed against the Legion."
"Why are you giving this to me?"
He looked at the silver medallion in one hand and the diamond pendant in the other. He looked up at the smiling faces all around and at the drunk NCR soldiers doing fucking nothing.
"Caesar wishes to speak with you, travel to Cottonwood Cove to meet him."
The Courier watched the Legionary slip back into the crowd, becoming just another face instantly.
He clenched his fists.
Who you are comes from the choices you make when life gets tough
He made his decision.