The Mojave was unforgiving.
He learned that quickly. The dust bit into his skin, tore at his clothes, and got practically everywhere . His first encounter with a sandstorm had led him to bunkering down in an abandoned house while vainly attempting the wash the grit from his tired eyes. His gun hadn't fared much better- being oblivious of how to actually clean it, he had to toss it aside in place of a crude lead pipe. The heat was intense, the sun pounding down on him as he walked along the worn remains of highways. He found himself nearly wishing for a nuclear winter- he'd almost take radiation over this nigh-unbearable temperature. Almost . His clean water ran dry quickly, and he grew used to the sharp tang of radiation. The night was, dare he say it, better. Back home (could he even call it home anymore?) night meant death . The absence of light was the most opportune hiding spot for raiders, for ferals and radroaches. But here? In this Old World land, reclaimed by the earth? Night was peaceful. It was cool, and the brisk wind felt good against his weathered face. The geckos hunkered down until the sun came up again, and raiders were few and far in between. Every now and then he would come across a large, hulking robot slowly meandering its way down the road- he tended to trail after them, as he found out that these patrolling machines had more firepower than the average Brotherhood soldier. Nothing awed him more than a simple mantis being obliterated by a missile barrage. He supposed it did get the job done.
The man preferred travelling at night, spending his days in whichever town he came across first, learning more about this side of the wasteland that was so foreign to him. Legion, New California Republic, Great Khans… the meaning of these names were lost upon him. He knew some of the Legion; it was their territory he had traipsed through in his venture west. He was glad he did so, for he learned that NCR, as they were commonly referred, territory was much wilder than the Bull's. They were spread too thin was the common consensus. Not that these people praised the Legion either- criticism fell just as quickly from their lips for Caesar and his nation. These people, once he found himself in the Mojave, had no affiliations. They were independent. They cared naught for the politics of the warring factions, and simply wished to live their lives. Live . Not just survive.
This is what amazed the man the most- the conditions of the West. This was civilization , pure and true. There were towns of people who could live day to day without cowering in constant fear of the environment around them. The NCR and Legion were actual governments, ruling over more than just a single town. They had trading routes, leaders, towns that were protected. Cities that were prospering, thriving, people living a life they would have lived pre-War, without a care in the world for deathclaws or Super Mutants. They had food; they never went hungry. They never had to drink irradiated water.
The East coast was leagues behind the West. And while the desert was unforgiving… the man had to admit it was much better than wandering around the harsh landscape of the Capitol.
At least there were some plants here.
He had heard tales of the Old World city, nearly untouched by the invisible fires that had rained down two-hundred years ago. Buildings still stood as intact as the day they were built (perhaps a tad more worn, but, so was everything). The towering spire that glowed as bright as day, a beacon in the darkness of the desert around it, caught the man's eye as soon as his feet met cracked dirt. It was visible even from a three days journey away, and he had inquired about it at every stop he made.
New Vegas .
The glittering city of vice and sin- at least, the Strip was. Vegas, he soon learned, referred to a large outcropping of land from the NCR Mojave Outpost, with the statue of the two rangers which he was confused as to how it could have possibly been made, to a place called Nellis AFB. The moment he brought it up in a raggedy bar he had been told to never go anywhere near- ' a bunch of homicidal idiots, those lot is. '
He had different prospects than visiting an old military base, anyways.
It was a quaint yet quiet town where the man got what he was looking for. Goodsprings , the proudly-standing sign said. A town that wouldn't have looked out of place in those old Westerns that they used to play every Saturday night in the vault.
He leaned forwards on his barstool, catching the eye of the bartender; Trudy, she was called. Taking a sip of his drink (how odd tasting it was compared to the Nuka Cola he was used to…), switching his gaze to the radio on the counter, blaring some tune he had never heard about some fellow named Johnny Guitar. It was the third time it had played since he had sat down in the saloon, and frankly, it was getting annoying.
"So." Trudy broke the not-so-quiet silence, resting an elbow on the counter and looking expectantly at him. "You don't look like you're from around here, honey."
No, he did not. With his Vault suit and Pip-Boy, he must have stuck out like a sore thumb. He hadn't found as much evidence of vaults- except for that one community that was aptly named Vault City . His suit was worn and weathered from years of use, with poorly-patched holes and dark crimson stains that couldn't have been anything else. Around his neck was a kerchief, which he had picked up early on in Two Sun after spitting out one too many mouthfuls of dust. Likewise for the biker goggles perched atop his greying hair. The man chuckled, tired. "I'm… looking for someone."
"Really?" The mayor slash bartender rested her other elbow on the counter, propping her chin up in her hands. "Who? Maybe I can help… not saying I can, but we try to be as helpful as we can in our little town." A smile graced her young features.
After a moment's hesitation, the man reached into one of the suit's numerous pockets, and pulled out a wrinkled and folded picture. He carefully unfolded it, and smoothed it out with a calloused hand. It was an old picture of the man, much younger with hair that still held color, and a woman- who seemed to be around nineteen, give or take a year or two. They both wore suits like the one the man wore now, and they were posed with large smiles. The girl bore a striking resemblance to the man, and in the background, the monstrously large hull of an aircraft carrier, cracked in half, was visible. Trudy raised an eyebrow, gazing at the picture, then back up.
James took a deep breath.
" I'm looking for my daughter. "