New Places, New Faces
Chapter One: "I was walking along late one night…"
This story was inspired by me diddling about in New Vegas with mods, starting the game with maximum stats. I was fooling around when I got the idea, "Hey, what if the Courier had a history as a badass before getting shot in the head?" So with that in mind –plus the Classic Fallout Weapons Mod- I set out to write this. Several other mods are/will be present in this story, including the CONLERAD radio mod, which made exploring the Mojave much refreshing for me. Now please enjoy!
It had been a long, long walk.
And he hadn't come to make it lightly. For weeks he'd paced, he had wandered the streets and side-passages of Megaton, deep in thought. To stay or to go? But in the end, there really was no other choice. So he left.
He sold everything too. His house, his weapons, his armor, everything. He'd relinquished Charon's contract, said goodbye to Fawkes, goodbye to Reilly, goodbye to everyone. And then he left, striding off down his lonesome road. Wrapped in his Rangers combat armor and shielded by a Regulator duster, he carried with him only the Chinese assault rifle, the ten-millimeter pistol that had been his constant companion since leaving Vault 101 two years ago, and a small fortune in caps. And he walked, always heading west, for the next year and a half.
You see, he was done with the Capital Wasteland. Because that was exactly what it was and what it would always be: A wasteland. Yes the Enclave was gone. Yes he had exterminated Talon Company. Yes the Brotherhood of Steel were distributing clean water to communities all over. But in too many ways it was still the same. Endless super mutant ambushes, constant raider gangs, endless lawlessness. It was never going to change, no matter how many raiders he shot or subways he cleared. It seemed that no one else wanted change but him. And if they weren't going to bother trying, then that was that.
It was a long walk, although he wasn't always walking. Being jostled around in the back of a brahim-pulled cart, zipping through the polished streets of The Institute in their little electric cars, floating down the irradiated waters of the Mississippi, -spending quite a few sleepless nights looking out for Radgators- and even once zooming through the skies in a rusted old vertibird over the Indiana Federation of Ghouls.
Always west though, he never stopped going west. And when he reached the state of Nevada, and heard of the glittering city of New Vegas, he immediately took interest. He quickened his pace, crossing mountains and even lakes. The land here was different; not scorched by nuclear fires like all elsewhere. Plants grew, trees flourished, clean water ran down mountain sides. And when the Lone Wanderer stepped through the gates of the Mojave Outpost and looked down about the sprawling land before him, he saw something about it.
This was what he had been looking for. Rugged simplicity, but not ignorant. Wild and dangerous, but not barbaric. A land of opportunity, and land of possibility. An entire new world opened up before him in the likes he had never seen before. He flashed a reckless grin, and set off, duster blowing in the wind.
It reminded him a little bit of Megaton, Primm did. Not so much as in structurally, but the spirit of it. A small band of close-knit and simple people working together to thrive in a hostile and generally uncaring world. It seemed like a good place to begin again.
"Yes there young 'un? Can I 'elp you?" The weathered old man looked down the newcomer from behind the counter.
"I'm looking for a job. Any offers?" The old man scrunched up his face, as if thinking about it. Then he nodded slowly.
"You know, I reckon we can get something for you. You look like the sort who can take care of y'eself, you mind walking long ways?" The newcomer shrugged casually.
"You could say I'm bit of a wanderer." A smile tugged at the rugged dark skin of the old man, and he grinned.
"Good, good. Now if that's the case. I think I can get something' for y'es. Decent pay too, enough to have a fun time once y'es get there." He winked knowingly and produced a scrap of paper and a pencil which he pushed across the table to the newcomer. "Jus' sign there and we can get you on your way to riches and glory." He said jokingly. The newcomer smiled appreciatively, looked over the paper, smiled again, then signed.
"It's a deal." The old man picked up the pencil and paper and tucked the sheet away into a safe beneath the counter. "You need to leave in one hour, come get your package then."
"I'll leave in half an hour." The newcomer said curtly. The old man looked up at him then grinned again. "I think I'll like you youngster, you got a name?"
"Call me Decks." The old man raised his eyebrows in mild surprise, then shrugged.
"Hmm, bit o' an odd name. But I won't judge." He shrugged again, then stuck out his hand and shook with the wanderer. "I'm Nash Johnson, head of the Mojave Express. Welcome aboard Decks, you're our new courier number six."
I've got spurs that jingle-jangle-jingle
As I go-o-o right on merrily along
And o-o-oh they j-i-ingle...
Radio New Vegas piped up on the tinny little portable radio the Wanderer had picked up in Primm. It admittedly wasn't the smartest thing to do -one wanted to stay alert in strange territory- but it was comforting, and a bit of a throwback to wandering the Capital Wastes, GNR blaring out over his PipBoy's radio.
He sighed, he missed that machine. But getting caught in a firefight between some raiders and a rogue sentry bot had resulted in a pulse grenade landing a few feet from his face, then detonating. Left him with a sense of nausea for a few hours, but it had also completely annihilated every last bit of circuitry in his PipBoy -thankfully including the biometric lock so he could remove it. That'd been three months ago, and he still felt a bit naked without it.
Jingle-jangle...
A smile tugged at his face, the different style of music here was an interesting change from the styles of Three-Dog and GNR, along with the amusingly charming persona of Mister New Vegas.
A rustle behind him. He snapped the weathered pistol out of its holster and spun around. From the side of one of the road, one of the bushes shuddered just as a two-foot long lizard exploded from the foliage and charged him on its hind legs, mouth gaping fiercely.
Geckos. Annoying bastards. They were a new threat he'd encountered in the last month of travel, natives of Nevada. He'd seen some up to five feet tall that -of all things- actually breathed fire. The fact they traveled in packs didn't help. But this was a small one, and not of the fire-breathing type. So he let it run at him, then with a deft side-step he wound his leg back and kicked it as hard as he could.
The tip of his foot connected with its chin, snapping its head back and sending the creature flipping backwards on his back, stunned. After a second it scrambled back to its feet, wobbled around uncertainly for a moment, took another look at its prey, then staggered back into the bushes. Decks laughed, holstered his pistol, and carried on.
A few hours later it was night, and it would have been pitch black if it weren't for the moon. Thankfully it was a clear sky out, and the moon shone remarkably bright light down on the bleached desert below. The journey so far hadn't been too remarkable, he had made a detour off the road to dodge a small band of raiders, but that was about it; dodging a few geckos asides.
Decks checked his map, straining to see make out the details in the moonlight. Shifting to get his shadow out of the way, he traced where he'd gone and where he was supposed to go. New Vegas, heading down the I-15, bypassing a settlement called Goodsprings, and heading down through the Quarry Junction. The names mean nothings to him, only the distance. And he figured he could make New Vegas in about three days if he pressed hard. Although this map's pretty crude, I could ask for a more accurate travel time in Goodsprings. He tucked the map away and kept going.
What a weird package. Hell, what a weird delivery. He turned the package over in his hands. It was a poker chip, a bit bigger than most, and it seemed to be made out of solid platinum. Who pays several hundred caps for this to be dragged across the desert? And why was it there in the first place? He shrugged. Rich peoples business wasn't his concern. Not of course unless they were willing to pay several hundred caps for him to help out. He smiled, pocketed the chip, and kept going.
..."You got what you were after, so pay up."
"You're crying to the rain pally."
Oh god my head, what the hell happened? A powerful throbbing pain pounded ceaselessly at his skull. He groaned and tried to bring his hands up to tend it. What the hell? His hands refused to obey. His eyes opened, blinking slowly in response to the light. His hands. They were bound with thick rope. Very suddenly, he wasn't groggy anymore. He immediately came awake, yanking at the ropes which refused to budge. His knees, he was on his knees in the dirt. He raised his head to the sound of talking and digging. Raiders, at least two of them. One on his left, a wiry-looking man with a shovel in his hands, digging a hole in the ground besides him. Oh, fuck me. Decks realized with a sudden jolt as he realized just what he was looking at. It was a grave. Looking around he saw more graves dotted around him, he was in a grave yard. OH, fuck. He swore. The tattooed son of a bitch in front of him was digging his grave, his grave!
"Would you just get it over with?" The digger looked up from his process, looking antsy. And then, He walked into the scene. He immediately stood out: a well-groomed man with a clean checkered gambling suit, casually smoking a cigarette. He glared at the digger, then held up his finger to make a point.
"Khans might shoot a guy without looking him in the face; but I ain't a fink. Dig." He shot a look at the raider, who obligingly kept shoveling. Decks shot daggers of hate at the suited man from his eyes. The man noticed this and took a step back, looking genuinely hurt in his eyes. "Hey baby, don't take this wrong way now. I'm sorry it's gotta come to this, but sometimes you just gotta play the cards you're dealt, you dig?" He sounded almost apologetic. Decks said nothing, but kept glaring murder in the suits direction. Then the suit pulled out the chip -Deck's package- and gave it an admiring look.
"Oh you've got to be fucking kidding me." Decks said in exasperation. "I walk here all the way from the fucking Capital territories for this? Nice fucking welcome party you checkered-up prick." He spat angrily. Again the suited man almost looked sorry about the situation.
"Hey, listen baby. Sorry it's gotta turn out this way for you, I really am. But this is already hard enough for me, so don't go acting like emotional on me, I'm gonna lose enough sleep over this as it is." He suddenly checked over his shoulder, looking a bit worried. He turned around to face one of the raiders and nodded. "Time to cash out." The raider nodded in turn, and headed off behind Decks, just as the suit reached into his coat and pulled out a custom-decorated nine-millimeter pistol.
Every muscle in Deck's body tensed up and his teeth gritted. He burned holes in the suit with his eyes as a cold sweat broke out over him. "This won't end well for you. I can promise you that." He said coldly at the suit. He shrugged, and casually lifted the pistol up, aiming dead 'twixt the couriers eyes.
"Sorry baby, I really am. I know this looks like an eighteen-karat run of bad luck." Time seemed to come to a stop as his finger crested around the trigger. Deck's throat ran dry, and he found himself staring at the blackness of the muzzle, the muzzle which seemed so much larger now it was pointed at him.
"But the truth is, this game was rigged from the start." His final words were burned into the Wanderer's brain, with then there was a flash of light, and then there was nothing.
Thwop thwop thwop
The beat of the vertibirds rotors cut the smoky air, distilling the acrid burnt smell of the destroyed landcrawler base. Ducking low amidst the backwash of the blades, the wanderer stepped up and into the vertibird, ducking the low entrance. Pulling the hatch shut behind him, he took a seat on the nearest crash-seat next to Gallows, feeling particularly crushed next to the power-armored paladin while dressed in his own suit of it.
"You know, I never thought you could pull it off. But every time I say it, you just go and do it anyway." The Paladin smiled lightly and shook his head. "I mean, you're really showing us up. What'd you need us for anyway?" Decks smiled thinly and gestured to the vehicle they were in.
"So I didn't have to walk my ass home." Two of the other Knights grinned widely as the thwoping of the rotors began to increase to a high-pitched whine. Decks leaned back as much as he could in the crash seat, feeling very good about himself.
Thowthwopthwop thwop thwop. Thwop. Thwop. The rotors were slowing, Decks twisted in head around, concerned, but found he couldn't see anything. Rising fear grew as he twisted in his seat, but now he couldn't hear or feel any of the Brotherhood members with him.
"Gallows? What the hell's going on?!" He yelled.
Thwop. Thwop. Thwop. The rotors were slow, steady, rhythmic. Barely like a vertibird at all now, Decks flailed at his eyes, trying to clear them.
Thwop. Thwop. Thwop. He opened his eyes, and saw the blurred, lazy motions of a ceiling fan slowly rotating above him. What? He sat up, the sudden movement sending blood to his face, blurring his vision and sending a shaft of pain through his temple. Oh, god my head. What the hell happened?
"Whoa, easy there. You've been out cold quite a while." A calm voice assured him and two strong hands steadied his shoulders. The blurriness peaked, then slowly drained away. And the courier saw he was in a small, depilated room, on a bed, and with a kindly looking old man facing him.
"Wh-who are-where-" Decks began, dazed.
"Slow down there, take a minute to get a hold of yourself. I'm Doc Mitchell, welcome to Goodsprings." The man interrupted. Decks nodded, taking in a deep breath and steadying himself. He remembered it now, getting ambushed just outside of Goodsprings. Two raiders had come out of the dark threatening him, distracting him. Then another came in from behind and hit him over the head with something. And then the grave, and the gunshot... I got shot in the head. He remembered with a start. He'd gotten shot in the head-and survived.
Instinctively he raised his hand, feeling where the bullet had tunneled into his brain. The rough texture of scar tissue and stitches met his hand, although surprisingly much less than he'd anticipated. "I survived." He murmured to himself, and then again: "I survived!" He sounded more shocked than grateful, and he grabbed forward and shook the doctors hand heartily. "Thanks doc, you're quite a wizard with that knife of yours." He complimented, grinning as the adrenaline rushed through him. Doc Mitchell laughed, then waved his hand dismissively.
"Oh don't go landing the praise too heavy on, with that kind of wound it was more luck than anything else. I frankly wasn't sure you were gonna make it for quite a while." Decks rubbed his eyes gingerly, then stretched.
"Well I damn sure wouldn't have made it at all 'less ya'd fished me out as ya did." He said with a yawn, but once again the doctor refuted him.
"'tweren't me that fished you outta that grave youngster. You got ol' Victor to thank for that. He saw those fellah's that did ya in and he was the 'un that dug you out and brought you over to my humble quarters."
"Look; just accept the gratitude, alright?" Decks said, then laughed. "Not every day I recover from a gunshot to the cranium."
"Yeah, that does usually result in a case of rigor mortis doesn't it?" Doc Mitchell said wryly, then stood up. "Anyways, you mind taking a peek at this here?" He slid out a genetic mirror and passed it over to Decks. "I pride myself on my needle work, but I spent a fair bit of time digging around in yer noggin to pull out all the bits of lead. Tell me how I did." The courier checked out the mirror despite the bolt of apprehension at the thought of him being a deformed monstrosity, but his fears were put to rest. Blue eyes, moderately brown wavy hair, a tanned face. He smiled, then looked up at the doctor.
"Not too shabby doc, not too shabby indeed." Doc Mitchell smiled back. "Well I'm glad you approve. Now, no point keeping you in bed. let's get you on your feet."
Twenty minutes later, Decks stepped out into the glaring Mojave sunlight, wincing at the brightness. For having been shot in the head and left in a shallow grave, he felt surprisingly good. His wound was itching a little bit, and his limbs were a bit achy from laying on a bed for days and days, but he was very invigorated. He felt sharp, awake, and most of all, he felt alive. He had survived, and now his horizons had broadened a bit more than when he'd first arrived in the Mojave.
The only part of him that didn't feel so super was his pocket. Just under a hundred thousand caps, all that was left from his trek across America, had been stolen by his would-be executioners. All he had now were the clothes on his back, his weathered ten millimeter (he guessed it had just looked too weatherworn for the raiders to take) and a hundred caps he'd kept hidden.
Well, he had gotten one particular bonus from Doc Mitchell (asides from being alive). He looked at the glowing PipBoy on his wrist with a smile.
"Good to have you back partner." He whispered to the passively humming machine. The weight on his wrist was as reassuring as any pistol, and although the loss of his fortune stung like a mother bitch, he felt better about it with the PipBoy. Now he was the 'Lone Wanderer' again (he'd spat out a mouthful of Pork and Beans when he'd first heard Three-Dog use that moniker over the radio. He'd protested it at first, saying it sounded positively cheesy, but Three-Dog pointed out that he could have called himself Commander of the Fabulous Fedora and no one would've poked fun at the person who'd single-handedly cleared out Evergreen Mills and Paradise Falls).
Caps could be re-earned. The Mojave was a land of opportunity -especially for a professional killer with a motivation, and if anything, Decks certainly had a motivatio-
"Well howdy there pardner! And might I say, you are looking fit as a fiddle!" Decks looked about in a start. Standing just five feet beside him was the oddest looking robot he'd ever seen. Nothing like RoboBrain or a Mister Gutsy, or a SentryBot, or anything he'd seen. It was six feet tall, had a very triangular chassis, and balanced on a single wheel. Two clawed arms at the 'shoulders' and just above the middle of the frame was a television screen projecting the friendly face of a smiling cowboy.
"G'day there, and thank you. Who exactly are you though?" He asked politely. The robot laughed.
"Weren't no thing. And you can call me Victor, I was the 'un that saw your little pickle up in the graveyard o'er there." He threw a claw in the direction of a hill mounding up behind the town." Oh, that Victor. Decks realized, and broke into a grin, sticking his hand forward to take Victor's claw.
"Well Victor you've got my most sincere thanks. Speaking of that, did you happen to get a good look at the guys who did it? Any idea who they are?"
"Can't say I recognized the rascals." If it had a actual face, Decks felt it would have been frowning contemplatively. "You might try asking 'round town though, I'm sure the folks would be more than happy to help you out. I'd start with Sunny Smiles. She's usually hanging 'round the Prospector Saloon with her ol' dog." He said, pointing one claw over to a two-storied building with bare neon lights flashing over it. Decks nodded.
"Well, thank you Victor. Hope to see you 'round sometime." Victor's avatar winked at him.
"Oh, I reckon we'll cross paths again. Happy trails pardner!" And with that, he zoomed off down the road, single wheel spinning in its axle. The courier regarded him with a slight look of suspicion, then shrugged and carried on to the bar.
If only he got a cap for every time someone told him it would be simple or it would be easy. At least then he would have some reason to look forward to the crazy bullshit he put up with.
"Oh it'll be real easy, 'specially for a shot like yourself." It'd sure sounded easy. Just plink a few geckos around the well. And it would've been easy if it hadn't been more like a dozen geckos. And even that wouldn't have been a trouble, but of course there was some stupid broad who came down alone and got in trouble. And now she was pressed up against a cliff face, slashing feebly at the lunging lizards with a cleaver.
Well fuck. From his position on the cliff above her, he couldn't shoot without risking , the Wanderer ground his teeth, gripped his rifle, and jumped right into the mess. He landed feet-first on the back of one of the geckos with an audible crunch as the lizards spine gave out. Decks tumbled off the stricken animal, rolling over and scrambling back to his feet and raising the rifle.
The two remaining geckos lost all interest in the woman who immediately seized the moment and dashed off, blood streaming from her leg. They seemed to size him for a second, then both darted at once.
Crack! The rifle fired and sent a .223 hollow point round exploding through the roof of the left geckos mouth. It dropped like a sack of flour, but the right one kept running. "Fucker." Decks said calmly as he aimed and drew the bolt up and back to chamber the next round, where it promptly snapped off. The courier barely had time to leap out of the way before the gecko barreled past him for ten feet, then spun around on a time.
Decks looked at the broken rifle. The gecko looked at Decks. Decks looked back at the gecko and swore he saw it grin. "You son of a bitch." He said calmly, both to the gun and the gecko. Then the gecko charged.
Decks dropped the rifle and grabbed his pistol in a flash. But the lizard was just a bit faster than a flash, and before Decks could fire, two rows of spindly teeth clamped down on the gun and snatched it out of his hands. "Suuunnnny!" Decks shouted as he stepped back. But not-too-distant gunshots grimly told him that Miss Smiles was occupied.
The gecko took another bite at him, but bit down on only empty air. Decks kicked the big animal as hard as he could in its thick neck. The lizard stumbled at the blast of blood to its brain. The courier seized the moment and jumped on its back. When your rifles down, you go for your pistol. When your pistols down, you go for your knife. When you go for your knife, you're pretty much fucked anyway. Lucas Simms words -and the wry laughter that accompanied them- came to mind. Decks had his knife out and was hanging on for dear life as the invigorated lizard bucked and twisted side to side, trying to knock him off.
Gritting his teeth so he wouldn't bite his tongue, Decks wound back his arm as far as he dared, then stabbed, hoping he would hit the neck. Immediately the gecko went berserk, flailing and bucking like an angry bighorner. Decks dug in with his knees and twisted the knife, digging around the flesh for something vital, then his fingers brushed against something rough and metallic within the warm and wet lizard flesh. He grinned.
Sunny finally finished off the last gecko, heart clenching up at the newcomers yell for help. I should've warned him. Her conscious bemoaned. She ground her teeth and tried to reason with herself. Like hell, how were you supposed to know there where this many of the little bastards?
"Sunny! Sunny!" She turned around. Michelle Rivers was hobbling towards her, blood streaming down a vicious looking cut on her leg. Sunny ran over, alarmed.
"Michelle, you alright girl?" She asked, but Michelle just nodded and pointed her hand to the left.
"Help him! He got them off of me, but now they're after him! I dunno how long he's gonna last!" She panted, face growing white from fear and blood loss. Shit. Sunny swore to herself, then took off down the hill to the cliffs bottom, Cheyenne running ahead of her. They rounded the corner and stopped, and Sunny's mouth actually dropped open at what she saw.
The newcomer Decks was riding a full-grown gecko on the back, bent down low and stabbing it in the throat with a blade, and holding on for dear life. Her rifle was up and aimed, but the fucking thing was bouncing around so much she couldn't get a clear bead. Decks must've noticed her, for at that moment:
"Don't you dare shoot that fucking thing!" He yelled, trying to orientate himself on the berserking beast. Sunny took a step back, hesitant. And then, from the gecko,
Bang! Bang! Bang! Three muffled gunshots, and three large red holes exploded out the top of the geckos head. It stopped moving and piled to the ground. Decks just lay on it, gasping. Sunny stood there, mouth open. Cheyenne wagged her tail and ran over to sniff the dead beast.
Then Decks stood up, brushed himself off, and walked unsteadily over to Sunny, a very messy ten millimeter pistol in his hand. Grinning shakily, he jerked a thumb at the dead gecko. "Bastard stole my gun. Can ya believe it? And by the way," He bent down and picked up the varmint rifle she'd given him, then he gave her the bolt which had snapped off at the base. "Here ya go." Then he walked off as her face turned beet red in horror and humiliation.
Decks was at the deck of the Prospector when Sunny came up behind him and, without a word, dropped a big bag of caps in his hand.
"Thanks. She said plainly. Then stepped past him into the bar. He said nothing, just followed her in.
It was smelled like any other wasteland bar of course, booze and smoke and gunpowder. But it was much neater looking than any other he'd seen. It looked more like a ram shackled cabin than a post-apocalyptic ruin, and even had little amenities like a lazily whirling ceiling fan.
"I'm through playing nice!" Decks heard the voice and sighed at once. He knew that voice, it belonged to hundreds of people he'd met over the years. 'Tough' and 'hardcore' and all those other silly words used by punks to compensate for their lack of gonads. The courier lazily stepped around the corner into the bar and slid onto a stool. The bartender -a weary forty-something lady- was getting increasingly and increasingly annoyed with a twenty-something dark-skinned punk. He had all the traits of a punk, from his overly aggressive voice to his threatening posture. He was wrapped in a vest of what looked like kevlar and had a big revolver strapped to his thigh.
"We. Don't. Have. Him. Here. Now either buy something or get out of my bar." The woman said firmly, a threatening look in her eye. The punk shot her a disgusted look.
"Either your hand Ringo over or me and my boys'll burn this town to the ground." He spat on the floor and stomped off, brushing a few shot glasses off the counter with a crash. Alright, that's it. Decks stuck his foot out and sent the punk flat on his face. With a yell he scrambled back to his feet, fire in his eyes. "Which one of you smartasses did that?" He shouted hostilely.
"Oi did." Decks said casually, raising his hand. He waited for the arm to grip his shoulder and for the threats to begin. "You think you've got something to prove dipshit?"
"Yep." Decks feigned a yawn. And with lightning speed he snapped his leg out behind him kicking the punk in the shins. As he stumbled forward, leaning into Decks shoulder, the courier grabbed the offending arm and gave it a sharp twist, flipping the punk around onto the bar. In no time at all the Wanderer was out of his seat and pressing his forearm into the punks throat and blocking access to his gun with his thigh.
He pressed a bit harder and spoke casually. "Listen here matey, you know those guys who eat punks like you for breakfast? Well I made them all my pretty little bitches, m'alright? Now, I like this town. It's decently quiet and not a bad looking place. So when little roaches like you walk in waving your cocks around I get fairly peeved. But I'm a bit tired from surviving bullets to the head and devouring the hearts of men and all that, so I'm just gonna tell you and your boy band to mosey off, m'kay? How's that sound?" He raised his arm enough for the punk to speak.
"Powder Gangers... Gonna fuck you up man, gonna burn this whole town." the punk croaked, and the wanderer just shook his head and sighed.
"Powder Gangers? That's whatcher calling your little frat gang? Alright then. I'm gonna play by my rules and let you go so you can stop being a 'Powder Ganger' and so you can stop all your friends from being 'Powder Gangers' too. Because in one hour I'm gonna start exterminating every 'Powder Ganger' I find, until you are all extinct, capiche? So come back here if you wish, but please remember that I will kill every last one of you and your buddies, alright? Now, run off now." He released the punk, helped him up, and patted him on his shoulder with a smile. "Oh, and I think I'll be taking this." He said as an afterthought, and slipped the revolver from the punks holster and set it on the table. The punk just stood there, face a mix of shock and rage. Then he raised his hand, pointing at Decks, and then at the entire bar.
"You're dead. You know that right? You're all fucking dead! And you've got this fucker to thank for it!" He jabbed an accusing finger at Decks, who picked the revolver up off the table, drew back the hammer and casually shot the punk in the chest, knocking to the ground.
"I honestly don't know how the fuck you've ever lived this long." He said in astonishment, setting the smoking gun back on the table. "Now get the hell outta here. before I aim higher." Gasping at the mark in his vest where the magnum round had punched him, the punk stumbled to his feet, eyes wide and face white, and made for the door. There was a creak and a slam as he ran for the hills.
The courier looked back at the bar, everyone in which was staring at him like he'd lost his mind. He turned to the barmaid and plunked a few caps on the counter. "I'd like a scotch please." She pulled out a bottle and filled a glass, setting it before him and looking dumbfounded.
"I don't know whether to give that to you on the house or kick you out of my bar. You've just dragged out little town into something we were trying to avoid." Decks sipped the scotch.
"You woulda gotten involved anyway. Guys like him, they do it anyway. Woulda happened in a week or two. And besides, I got a free gun." He waggled the .357 in his free hand, then went back to drinking. "What was he so ticked off about anyhow? And who's this Ringo?"
"Ringo is a problem for us. He's a trader with the Crimson Caravan who got in trouble with the Powder Gangers. Entire caravan was wiped out, and he ran to us for help. So we've been letting him stay in the old gas station up there. But a few days ago Cobb and his gang showed up, demanding Ringo. They haven't done anything beyond threaten now -that is, until now." She shot him a stern glare, but then softened. "But it was damn satisfying to watch you do that, he's a real pain in the ass. But still, now they're out for blood." she looked worried. "I mean, it was nice watching Cobb get a thrashing, but he's pissed now. He'll try and take it out on all of Goodsprings." The wanderer just waved a hand dismissively.
"Don't worry, I'll take care of it." She looked at him skeptically.
"You will? You'll go on out there, guns blazing, and take on an entire gang? Jus' like that?"
"Well, help is always nice." She snorted derisively. "Talk to Sunny then, she's bound to help Ringo even if no one else does. And speaking of which, don't even think of asking me to help." She said warningly. Decks grinned.
"Aw come on, it'll be fun! You can just kick back on the deck, blasting bad guys and downing whiskey, right off the porch too! And it'll be a helluva story too." She narrowed her eyes at him.
"I'll think about it. Now you get a move on." She said. Decks shrugged and slid out of the bar stool to find Sunny.
"I'll do it." She said, no hesitation.
"Good. See if you can round up some others to help. Anything else I can do to help prepare?"
"Yeah, see if you can wheedle Chet at the general store into supplying us with some armor, I hear he got a new shipment of leather armor in. Easy Pete's got some dynamite buried somewhere which could come in real handy, and if Doc Mitchell could spare some medical supplies that'd be real swell." Decks nodded curtly. Gotcha. He turned around and began walking off when he felt a tap on the shoulder. He turned around to have Sunny thrust a new .223 rifle into his hands, looking a bit sheepish.
"Sorry about the other one, I honestly had no idea it was in that bad of shape. Take this one for free, and a this." She tucked a few extra clips into the chest pocket of his duster. He accepted the rifle, but waived the apology.
"Forget about it, I'm intact anyway." Then before she could say another thing, he took off down main street towards the gas station. Time to meet Ringo.
"Make one move and I'll blow your head off. Said a shaky but determined voice.
"Nice piece. Put it down, I'm here to help." The muzzle of a Mauser C96 lowered awkwardly.
"Sorry, just a bit jumpy. Who're you?"
"Decks, and I take it you're Ringo? The guy Cobb's looking for?" Ringo nodded slowly.
"Yeah, I hear he's been in town looking for me. But I hear he's also scared, and for good damn reason. I'll shoot the bastard if I see him. But if his friends get involved, well then I'll be in trouble." Decks shrugged, a reaction of his to almost anything.
"Well you better get your clips out, he and his friends'll be here in an hour or two. Me, Sunny, and a few others are gonna help you out. I'll get you when they're here, just got a few more preparations to make." Ringo looked surprised, but he steeled himself and clenched his pistol tightly.
"Alright then. I'll be here." He said plainly.
"Good man." Decks tipped his wide-brimmed hat, then took off, slamming the door behind him.
"Nope. Too dangerous." The old man shook his head stubbornly.
"I am fully qualified in the operation of demolition explosives, including dynamite in all of its forms." Decks said professionally. Easy Pete narrowed his eyes at him, leaned forward, and then slumped back in his chair with a light shrug.
"Well, you sound like you know what you're doing. Lemme go get my keys to the safebox." The courier grinned and followed. An hour later, several sticks of dynamite were wired up and buried under the most likely avenue of approach, and all wired to a makeshift detonator.
Chet was a little harder to convince, but after Decks pointed out that a rambunctious gang burning the town would not be good for the economy, he relented and equipped the militia fighters with leather armor -on loan, of course. And a quick stop at Doc Mitchells resulted in half a dozen stimpacks, some syringes of MedEx, bandages, and a bottle of whiskey to disinfect. All-in-all, Decks was quite pleased with it all. After that was set up, it was justa matter of waiting.
Decks waited in the gas station with Ringo, learning how to play caravan. Cards were rather rare back in the Capitol Wasteland, and he'd never managed to pick up more than basic poker during his travels. The door opened then, and Sunny stepped in with her rifle in hand, looking terse.
"Powder Gangers are here to play." Decks and Ringo both immediately got up and grabbed their guns.
"How many?" Decks inquired.
"Six of 'em, plus Cobb of course. Little rats hanging back a bit, letting his buddies go in first, damn coward." Decks smiled lightly as he headed out the door and broke into a run for the detonator a hundred yards away.
He skidded to a stop, crouching down low. There they were, walking down the roads. Some with kevlar on, some shirtless. Most of them had long guns of some sort, and they were about thirty yards down the road, coming towards the town.
"Cobb warned you this was going to happen! You didn't listen, and now's you all gonna pay!" One of them shouted.
"Last chance Powder shits, get outta our town before things get messy!" Sunny shouted back defiantly.
"Feisty one, Ricky likes 'em feisty!" The punk hooted. Close enough. Decks though, and plugged in the cord, sending a current down the wire into the dynamite. There was a moments silence, then a earth-shattering explosion as six sticks of TNT went off in cracks of the road. The shockwave rattled the couriers teeth and send hunks of concrete and debris flying everywhere. He popped his head back up, rifle aimed.
Four of the Powder Gangers were still standing, bleeding and dazed. Two others were on the ground, not moving. Decks was reminded faintly of target practice as the towns militia opened up, dropping two of the survivors immediately. Decks smiled, and fired at his own target, catching him in the left breast and spinning him around. He worked the bolt, fired again, hitting his target in the neck and dropping him. The other one looked bewildered, and took a panicked shot at the militia before turning and running like the wind.
"Oh no you don't!" He yelled, leaping over his cover and coming to his feet. He rapidly worked the bolt and aimed, leveling on the fleeing figure, then he squeezed. The gun jerked slightly in his hands and the running figure tumbled to the ground. Decks looked around and saw six bodies, a few of them moving slightly, but not for long. And, no Joe Cobb. Not yet.
He grinned a toothy grin and chambered another round. "Cobb! Come out now, and I won't kill ya."
"Fucking bullshit man!" The angry voice rang out from behind a small pile of rubble. Decks's grin widened. He sauntered over, holding his rifle casually.
"It's either me, or mob justice. And I think they're hauling out the rope now." He said cheerily. There was a few seconds silence, then from behind the rubble a shaky figure came out, holding a nine millimeter Berretta M9. He dropped it to the ground and kicked it away, where Decks watched it admiringly. "Well well, that's two guns I've gotten from you. He grinned wolfishly, walking over and dropping the .223 in the dirt. He slid the ten millimeter from its holster then, and casually raised it at Cobb. Cobb's face went white.
"Hey, hey! Hey man, you said you wouldn't kill me!" He said rapidly. Decks just shrugged.
"I g'ess I lied. Any last ones?" He asked, leveling the gun steadily at Cobb's head. Cobb gaped like a fish for a second, then began to speak.
Bang! The pistol bucked in his hand and Cobb fell right over on his back, almost like a cut-down tree. "I didn't care that much anyway." Decks said, then shrugged and holstered the pistol. He scooped up the Berretta, patted down Cobb for loot -and found a stealthboy to his delight- then headed back to town.
Small town folks didn't party that hard, but Decks didn't care. Not much of a battle to celebrate anyway. Ringo was happy as a clam though, shoving a small sack of caps into the couriers hands.
"If you're in the area, swing by Crimson Caravan and I'll have a little more something for you. Now I gotta run, adios amigo." He said with a wave, then ran out the door. Decks waved back, then settled down in the bar to have a drink. It was then he finally learned the barmaids name (Trudy) and began asking around in earnest about his would-be killers.
"Oh I saw them all right. Some city fellah in a checkered suit with a couple of Khans. Kept trying to get free drinks out of me, but I'm pretty tough." She rolled her eyes and jerked her thumbs towards the radio behind her. "Although he "accidentally" knocked my radio down on the way out. Still can't get the damn thing to work straight."
"Pass it over." Decks said through sips of scotch. Taking the banged-up machine in his hands, he looked it over, took another swig of scotch and popped the back off. The machinery was fine, just a few loose wires he had to tighten up. He screwed it back together, flipped the power on, and Mister New Vegas's smooth charm filled the room, loud and clear. Trudy smiled gratefully and put it back on the shelf just as the music went back on.
Ruuussia Russia, put that missile down,
Ruuussia Russia, why you always frown?
"Well, thank you. Scotch's on the house." She said, pointing out the glass in his hand. He raised it in a cheerful toast.
"Well thank you. Now, any idea where they went off to?"
"Yeah, back to New Vegas I'd reckon. Or at least the suit would. Which means he'd be taking the I-15 around Primm and through Novac." Decks frowned and pulled out his map.
"Bit of a hike, why not just take the direct route through Quarry Junction?" Trudy shook her heard.
"Ain't you heard? Whole place is overrun with deathclaws. I doubt even the NCR would try and use it 'till those beasts are done with." Ah, yes. Deathclaws would certainly be a good deterrent.
"So, I guess I'd best go that way too then, righty?"
"If you value your life I'd reckon so." Trudy said. Decks finished off the scotch, then stood up.
"Right then, I'd best be off. Thanks for everything, really. And I would stay longer, but I don't want to waste more time than I must. So thanks for the drink and for the information." He dropped a few caps on the table. "I'll probably swing around here again sometime." He winked and headed for the door. Trudy smiled warmly.
"You do that, we'll always have the door open for you. Take care hon, and thanks for everything." Then the door slammed and he was gone.