She had a problem. A big, big problem. Contrary to what you think when seeing the mass of people following behind her every step – which was by now, amassed almost double what she could count on two hands in people – she was not a people person. In fact, as her ol' pappy used to say, she was a right lone wolf.
A lone wolf that couldn't keep its' paws off of shit that didn't belong to it, but a lone wolf for certain. She had learned their names – though more through eavesdropping than actually talking to them, as talking to them right now would be suicidally dangerous, and she rather enjoyed living instead of lounging on Death's couch for eternity – though she was sure they weren't pleased she did know.
The first one she could make out was a dead-eyed man; seemed pretty okay, didn't really talk much but when he did, he swore up and down the minute he'd catch her and gotten back his prized beret, he'd shoot her head off.
That was a problem. Mostly because she enjoyed having her head on her shoulders and not on the shit-stained wasteland everyone now had to call 'home.' Plus, there was also the whole 'being dead' part that was contradictory to what she wanted. After all, if she was dead – and if you wanted to get reeeeal technical about it, she had been before, and that was sure as hell no picnic; come to think of it, if it was a picnic there'd been sandwiches and peanut butter and jelly..Oh! Her pappy and mammy would always cut them juuust how she liked them too! – she couldn't get her grubby little hands on everything in sight.
Everything. In fact, while the small amass of people that were following her had been asleep, she had stole a few more things. The dead-eyed man's – Boone, she later recalled his name – underpants, for instance. Not that she wanted to see how much he was packin' – because she was sure he was packing plenty of bullets to shoot her with if she did get too close – but more because fancy underwear these days were hard pickin's, and she ain't had no new pair for awhile.
Disappointingly, they reminded her of her own underwear. When she'd gazed on it, she had had to stare and wonder what a dead-eyed man was doing with boy shorts. In fact, she also wondered why the hell everyone else's underwear had been the exact same, too, though she imagined they wouldn't be pleased to find out she'd stolen everyone of their undergarments at night.
In fact, she was sure their spirits'd be renewed in hunting her down. The second person who was after her – some crazy fucking super-mutants, who were ALL pissed she'd tried stealing some of their stealth boys and been caught – well, except for the old lady without a blouse, hat, or nifty looking sword, though she screamed something about 'Leo' and then called her her granddaughter, for some inexplicably weird reason – then fled the town quickly.
She remembered their names, too. The old ladies was something that began with an L. Lila? Lucy? Lily? Yeah, probably Lily. Her hat was nifty. Her blouse...not so much.
It was rather itchy. So was her underwear. Why did Super mutants wear the same freaking underwear as humans did? More grey boyshorts!
She had enough grey boyshorts by now she could start a freaking business with them. 'Come, buy newly ironed pairs of grey boyshorts! Only 200 caps!'
200 because she had had to go through some iiiicky places to get these damned boyshorts, and by the gods she wasn't going to get something out of it. At least she always had time to clean them these days. Well, usually anyways. A few of the other super mutants growled occasionally, though the two bigger one's – a man named..Keane? And some dude named Marcus – growled at each other then growled some more at her.
Speaking of Keane, she took his boots and pants. And underwear. Why did Super-mutant Men wear the same underwear as super mutant women? If she didn't know no better, this'd be a right trite in the olden days. Well, before they created the Catch A Thief organization.
Ironic, really, since the ol' Doc – who's supplies she also stole, not to mention his awesome bandanna and underwear – gave her the nickname 'That crazy Cat.'
...funnily enough, she was also being chased by a damnable fox. Well, not a real animal fox – though his looks sure were foxy enough, along with that fine blonde haired man who scowled at him, and Boone who shot the bastard in the leg until he'd told them he was after the same bitch who stole everything from his tent – then shot him in the arm.
In fact, it took everyone else to calm Boone down and keep him from shooting the guy. She'd been surprised the groups scribey, crazy lady calmed them down enough to put their focus back on who was the main enemy here.
Bloody balls of Baltimore Beagles, if only she hadn't stolen the girls overall nice-looking scrawny coat..thing. Whatever the hell it was. And cowl. She had liked the cowl quite a bit, in fact. So much so she'd had no problem stealing it then wearing it.
In fact, she had it on right now. That seemed to rile the diplomat real good. Still, she had a lot of people following her. Including a couple of Caesar's boys, a couple NCR Rangers, some doctor fella', a bunch of super-mutants...
In fact, looking over the small passe of people gathered around a small campfire, she could easily spot about twenty to thirty different people there, all huddled around, working together against a common enemy – mostly since her fingers itched to grip onto every damn thing in sight then 'borrow it' – which seemed to work well for them. Especially considering they were all mortal enemies with one another.
So that was odd. The only group missing was them Freeside boys, but she supposed helping them out and becoming an honorary 'King' was fine enough, though Pacer was there, probably glowering at her for stealing everything -but- the clothes on his back.
She did admit, however, to 'accidentally' burning his hair off. Whoopsie.
Rex was a good best friend to have when you're being hunted down through the wasteland by a bunch of people. She supposed now was the time to recount how many there were chasing her.
Let's see, where to beeeegin...Well, she remembered talking about that Lily girl, the Dead-Eyed Douchebag – an apt nickname since he always shouted at her how he was going to shoot her once he got his hands on her and his beret back.
Funny story about that beret, actually. She didn't have it anymore. Yep. She had sold it. Not like she could use it, but hey, why go broke and hungry when you've got an NCR beret to sell? She'd neglected to tell him – especially since she enjoyed living – that she'd pawned the beret off in one of them Legion camps. What was the damn camps name again? Cavenwood Comes? Woody McTamperstown? Something Cove. Whatever. Met a guy named Canyon Rider, got called pretty for a trader, then socked him in the balls, sold the beret, and booked it like a hooker out of holes. In fact, she'd socked some guy named Aurel there, too. Aurel? Aural?
That sounded like a girl's name. Or something you do to pleasure men. Hehe. She wondered if the other legion boys teased him about it. She bet they did. Either way, she socked him in the balls too, after filching his armor and helmet, booking it the fuck out of there and selling it to some traveling merch or something along the way.
Hell, she'd sold all legion shit to the traveling merch and booked it the hell outta there. Well, except for that fox guy's sword. Whatever the hell that was. Ah well, she'd always kept most of the smaller blades. The bigger one, like that one Lily always used then that she stole, had been sold off as well, in some far off place called 'Novac' or something. Whatever it was called, she sold it off there, and the merchant was more than happy to take it, since it looked like it was worth somthin'.
Hah! Jokes on you, buddy, 'cuz most of the shit she done sold was pretty worthless, barring the occasional weapon or some such she had no use for. Bigger blades or guns and weaponry that wasn't needed beyond the pistol she'd picked up. Boy had that been useful. She was good with pistols. And smaller blades. What was the point she was trying to make, again?
Oh right. Heheh. Some of the shit she stole was probably pretty important to the men she stole it from. That fox guy – Vulpes Inculta? He was fast. She was faster. He always cursed at how she could book it so much faster than the fastest fucking fucker who ever done fucked a fucking, well you get the point, in the Legion, he'd called for his men to throw spears at her.
Then Boone killed them. Whoever threw the spears anyways. Mostly because, and she quoted, 'she's mine. Ain't no one gonna kill her until I get my beret back.' There was a big argument about that, actually.
'Who's gonna kill her first' was the huge buzz around the camp fire, and Vulpes and Boone had agreed to split her death in two, surprisingly. Or rather Vulpes said he'd do it, then Boone pointed a gun at his face and they argued for a good three hours about it. Then Boone had been given his daily dose of Mr. Fisty.
Not the robot, but that diplomat's fist hit him out cold every time. Then Vulpes got it, too. Heheh, losers.
Ah, but good ol' Rex. The King had a good dog, and now she had a good dog. Plus a strange floating..eyeball. So that was odd. She'd snatched the eyeball up – couldn't figure out how to fit it in her backpack, so she just got the hell out of dodge as fast as possible – and took it to some guy who said he'd fix it right up.
And here she was, being chased by about twenty different people, with a cybernetic dog and a floating eyeball that shoots lasers and..floats, conveniently useful for shooting things that weren't shot by Boone – who was still adamant that no one and nothing kills her until he got his beret back, though he was probably lucky that she'd not died the first time someone shot her – and listening to the radio. Nat King Cole was her favorite, though 'Big Iron' and 'Johnny Guitar' were fun, too. In fact, she had stolen a guitar.
An acoustic guitar! He wasn't too happy about his guitar being stolen, she'd noticed, but before he could shoot her she'd kicked him in the balls and ran. That was always effective against men of any kind.
Well, except for the eunuchs, but thankfully in the good ol' Wasteland, they ain't got no eunuchs. Well, none that she's known of yet. And she would know. The Courier'd kicked at least two hundred different men in the balls before. Mostly so she could grab everything they owned and take it.
She had to admit, though, she couldn't help it. It was very hard to resist taking things. She was a good girl, a nice girl, always looking out for everyone, helping her ol' pappy and mammy until she'd been shot in the face by some pussed up white guy in a checkered suit for a damned chip.
Ah well, she was reminiscin' too much and if she wanted to live long enough to see the next couple o' years, she'd best be goin' on her way. Hoisting up the hefty backpack, she started trotting right along, onto her next stop, Boulder City. It was getting real dark, and the Courier had a couple packages to deliver. Namely, several kicks to a lot of Khans' balls, a couple shots to their faces and some big fat loot to sell.
She always wondered why they never checked the goddamn stores. She sold everything on the way, mostly out of necessity but sometimes because the stuff was useless, but nope, never checked the goddamn stores. She wouldn't bother telling them, though; getting close to them was suicide enough as it is, telling them she already sold their shit and pawned it for easy caps?
Not exactly how she planned to die, nope. Not even if you'd paid her a super mutants weight in caps.
It had taken than a few days to get to Boulder City – and the group'd been hot on her tail ever since – until finally she'd managed to slip away and sell all the loot in Rex and ED-E's – convenient! – compartments, plus the bag she always took around with her. The Courier was swimmin' in the caps by now, and ho'boy did she have one helluva collection goin'.
The Courier stopped for a moment to catch a swift drink and food, then left with an [fairly] empty bag and her companions, after storing most of the food in both of their compartments to eat and drink later. Now it was time to drop by and bust some balls. Khan balls.