Evolution Personified: Mercer Helps Out the Lone Wanderer
The Lone Wanderer had to admit: he was growing rather tired of wandering. It wasn't just because it no longer held the appeal it had once held for him (though that was certainly part of the problem) but it was also because he had gone several days without a single drop of a certain liquid with two hydrogen atoms bonded with a single Oxygen atom in every molecule or even a measly parcel of bio-chemical substance.
That itself wasn't too bad for him. He had experienced extreme hunger and thirst multiple times on his journey across the barren wasteland that was once the US of A. However, coupled with the fact that he had eaten some bad "Brahmin Nuggets" from one of the former Lone Star State recently, he found it increasingly difficult to keep jogging forward.
Eventually, his jogging slowed down to a walk, which gradually grew into a waddle, which gradually grew into a crawl along the desert sands.
"Gah!" He yelled out to the prairie grass scratching at his face. "What the hell did those people put into those nuggets!"
Not expecting an answer, he was unsurprisingly surprised when one came.
"Believe me Mr. 101—you don't want to know the truth behind that."
Quickly getting back up to his feet (much to his body's protest) he saw the being who had responded, blurry as his vision was. He was a Hispanic looking man (much like himself) with very pale skin, a half buttoned up white buttoned up shirt, a plain gray hoodie that was kept up, a black leather jacket with IT'S hood kept up, plain blue jeans, and plain black shoes. To further add to the surreality of the situation, said man was sitting on a recliner, smoking a corn-pipe as he seemingly stared into Emmanuel's very soul with those sickly grey tinted eyes of his. He wondered if what was in that pipe had any correlation with whatever ingredient in the nuggets was doing to his innards what he almost did to Megaton when he was struggling to diffuse the nuclear bomb in the town's center. Because that would explain a lot.
"Unlikely." The man suddenly said. "What I'm smoking is a chemical combination known as "Red-Sand." A commodity that is not even present in your Universe, much less accessible to a band of hicks in Paris, Texas."
His hand instinctively hovered over his holster, a motion whose swiftness did little to assuage the sickness playing kick the rad-roach with his digestive system.
"How'd you know where I just came from? And for that matter, how'd you know what I was thinking?"
He asked in the most demanding and serious tone his dazed state could afford him (which ended up sounding more like he had just woken up after an eventful night on the town more than it sounded threatening).
"Short answer? I'm telepathic & I stalked you. Long answer: I've been stalking you for quite some time and happened to be telepathic." He replied dryly. "As to why I've chosen to make my presence known to you Mr. 101, well let's just say I've finally come up with an experiment that requires…YOUR presence."
Not a second after finishing that sentence, the man found the barrel of Emmanuel's "Blackhawk" magnum aimed directly at his forehead.
"Now lookie here mister!" The Wanderer belched out. "I may not be in the best state I've ever been, but I can still gun-sling well enough to say I ain't going to participate in any of your experiments any time soon if me and ol' "Hawkie" have anything to say about it."
Unlike most of the people he usually pointed a gun at, to Emmanuel's surprise (and irritation) the man's reaction was to develop a very predatory, very feral, grin (rather than back-off and beg him not to pull the trigger like most folk).
"I mean it mister. I may not wanna, but if you don't back off, I will not hesitate to defend myself. And if that involves filling you full of lead, well, you're the one who brought it on yourself. And your head."
The man out his hands up in a placating gesture, the smile growing wider rather than receding.
"Relax Mr. 101. Though I probably can't assure one as experienced and cautious in the cruel, unusual, and demented ways of THIS earth that I wish you no harm, I can assure you that you'll find my offer to be quite…enticing."
As Emmanuel was about to respond, he felt a rumbling in his stomach that quickly worked its way up his esophagus and exited his mouth as vomit green…vomit…all over the ground right before his feet. Ground that his wobbly posture almost caused him to fall onto if he didn't somehow find the strength to stand up at the previous question.
"Wha—Wha—Whais dat?" The Wanderer said, his eyes flickering.
"Well for one, you'll be in an air-conditioned locale for quite a bit of the experiment's duration. Secondly, you'll be in an environment that shall be safer, for the most part anyways, than this irradiated sand-heap packed to the brim with the deranged, Feral Ghouls, Super-Mutants, Raiders, Slavers, self-serving elitists with advanced technology, other self-serving elitists with even more advanced technology that think only they are true Americans and want to kill everyone else, and more."
The man smoked some more before continuing.
"Thirdly, you'll have the opportunity to do things that no one, or at least no one anyone remembers, have ever done on your world and make quite a "Massive Effect" where the experiment is to be conducted. Fourthly, you'll meet a couple of other guinea pi—I mean—"volunteers" who you'll find to be much like yourself in many ways, different in others, and among some of the more interesting beings you've ever encountered who shall be accompanying you. Fifthly, once the experiment has been completed, I'll have you returned right to this exact spot and you can continue on to see just what all the fuss is about the Mojave."
The man smoked yet again before chowing down on the pipe as though it was a bowl of sugar-bombs.
"Perhaps most importantly however, if you decide to take me up on my offer, I'll help you with your current case of food poisoning and make certain that the food you get is of a quality before the bombs dropped. A five-star quality that won't make you feel as though you got into a fist fight with a Super-Mutant Death-Claw with two power fists in a shell of T-51B powered armor." He said before spitting out the wooden remains of the pipe into the puddle of putrid puke separating him from the kid from Vault 101. "So, will you take this opportunity I'm presenting you with?"
"No. But you can take this—" Emmanuel said before giving the man both of his middle fingers. "—and shove it right up your piss-hole."
The man looked more perplexed than upset at this insult.
"I'm surprised 101. Not so much at your rejecting my offer, but rather at you doing so in a matter so…vulgar. So…unlike you."
Emmanuel huffed.
"Yeah? Well I ain't exactly…ain't exactly…" He stammered out. "Myyyy-s-s-s-s-ee-ee-lll-lll-fffffff…"
After days and days of wandering about, Emmanuel finally succumbed to the pressures the Southwest had bestowed upon him, falling face first into the viscous liquid in front of him, unconscious. The man chuckled slightly to himself.
"Don't worry Mr. 101. You can sleep soundly knowing that when you wake up, you'll be feeling good as new. Better even."
With a flick of his pinky finger, the man created a portal above Emmanuel's body that drew him inside.
"Because where you're going, you're gonna have to be…"
With another flick of his pinky, the man disappeared from the irradiated wasteland that was once an entire region of the United States, whistling "I don't wanna set the world on fire."