Raul Tejada knew all too well what it meant to be alone.
The world as he knew it wasn't kind towards life. He remembered a time when it once was, but that was more than twenty-one decades and a nuclear war ago. Companionship didn't seem to last long around him. Trouble seemed to follow him whether he invited it to or not, and it took the lives of ones that he loved as ransom for not dying himself. The majority of his unnaturally prolonged life had been spent alone scavenging, surviving, and in his spare time, fixing miscellaneous things. He had a lot of experience in his two hundred and thirty years of living- too much if you asked him, so over the years, surviving became easier, and there was more time to tinker with guns and Old World machines. Often, his toolbox and whatever gun he had taken to liking at the time were his only companions.
To be completely honest, he wasn't sure what held him together most days. He didn't have a reason to continue, a loved one to protect, a destiny to fulfill. He was simply a shadow of the man that he once was, doomed to wander the wastes until he died, whenever that would be.
He may have been alone, but he didn't dare wish for death. Death was what caused his life to become solitary in the first place.
It had almost been a month since the Courier and the perky Scribe had stumbled across him in Tabitha's radio station. They were the first humans, or even creatures of intelligence, that he had seen in ages. He didn't even bother keeping track of how long he was imprisoned by the Super Mutants. He knew that the time would pass anyway, and longing to be somewhere else wouldn't make the clocks tick any faster. Unsure of what to do with his life now that he was free, he didn't need much convincing from the Courier to agree to join her in her 'adventures'.
Little did he know that her 'adventures' in the past month would lead him into Scorpion gang hideouts, cazador nests, and Legion camps. His only rewards at the end of the day were a few bottle caps to jangle in his pocket and battle scars that were barely visible on his decaying body. Too bad, he thought. Chicas love scars.
But the Courier ended up with the same miniscule rewards that he did. She reminded him of a man that he once was, before the Master's Army invaded from the north and when he had someone that he loved by his side.
But that was a long time ago. And he tried not to dig up memories that were meant to stay buried.
The workbench of the Lucky 38's kitchen was what he called home now, like he had to hundreds of places before. But hey, it was better than Black Mountain. Yet here, even in the strangest company of the almost-too-crowded Lucky 38 Suite, he felt alone. No one here knew his story, and even if they did, they probably wouldn't care. They had their own pressing issues to worry about. The redhead had just lost her caravan, a business she had built from the bottom-up, to a trade powerhouse. Not only was her business gone, but her caravan members were brutally murdered. She spent most nights nowadays getting wasted in the casino bar in the lobby, but something told him that this wasn't new behavior. The Scribe was currently in a struggle with her elders over viewpoints of her Steel faction. Even the robot-dog that the Courier managed to pick up somewhere needed a new brain. And the sniper? Who knew what was on his mind. He didn't speak it, just like Raul. So once again, Raul was isolated from being content with life by his past.
...
The Courier had just returned home from an eight day trip to Camp Guardian with Boone. They were tired for sure, sleeping in their respective rooms for almost eleven hours before waking for the dinner that Veronica had prepared. Over their meal of gecko steak and maize, the Courier tried to explain exactly what happened to the NCR troop stationed on top of that mountain while Boone sat quietly, his only addition to the conversation being the occasional nod. Veronica seemed to be in disbelief that the creatures that the Courier was describing existed, but Raul knew better. These 'lakelurks' were real. He had seen them years ago as he made his way from Lake Mead to the radio station on Black Mountain. They were nasty things, larger than a man and considerably armored with their shells. He kept his distance, wanting to avoid conflict, and had never heard about them from anyone else until now. He considered backing the Courier's story up with his own, but when Boone took a severed claw the size of a pillow out of his backpack and placed it on the table without a word, that seemed to be enough confirmation for everybody.
After dinner, the crew dispersed to throughout the suite. The Courier stayed at the kitchen table after she helped Arcade wash the dishes, and read a magazine. At the workbench in the front of the room, Raul tinkered away at an assault rifle that they had picked up near the camp. The room was silent, except for the flipping of magazine pages and the soft clangs of steel hitting steel. Of course, it didn't take long for the cowgirl to ruin the peace.
She strolled in, a bottle two-thirds of the way full with whiskey in hand. She's losing her game, Raul thought, it's almost been thirty minutes since she picked up the bottle, and that's all she's had? Cass set the bottle down on the kitchen table, and smiled at the Courier.
"You know what I've noticed?" Cass said, a matter-of-factly tone in her voice.
"What's that?" The Courier asked, her eyes still fixed on the copy of Milsurp Review that she had picked up at Mick and Ralph's that afternoon.
"You've hit every place there is to see on the Strip. The Tops, The Ultra-Luxe, Vault 21, that weird sign maker's shop..." She started.
"And?" Six asked, flipping the page of her magazine.
"Except for one." Cass smiled, "The one straight across the goddamn street."
"What, Gomorrah?" The Courier looked up, "I try to keep my distance from… places… of that nature."
"You mean that red casino with the rotating hooker sign?" Raul piped up from the workshop, "Not going to lie boss, when you first took me to your 'home' on the Strip, I got a little worried when my first sight was two topless, drugged, prostitutes dancing in the street. After that, an abandoned casino that belonged to a tyrannical maniac didn't seem like such a bad idea."
The Courier shot him a sarcastic grimace.
"No, but seriously, we've lived here for almost four months, and you haven't even met the neighbors?" Cass asked.
"I pick my company carefully." The Courier ruffled her magazine and crossed her legs.
"So that's why you have a zombie mechanic, an overly-cheery Steel girl, a mute NCR grunt, a nightkin that's out of her fucking mind, a doctor who shits his lab coat at the mention of conflict, an Enclave robot that's probably planning to take over America again, and a robot dog following you?" She retorted. "I'd hate to see who the hell was cut when you made this team, coach."
"Don't forget the cowgirl who doesn't know when to shut up anymore because she's hit her head on too many bar floors." Raul chided. "Keep that talk up, and the zombie might misplace the trigger of your caravan rifle the next time he takes it apart to clean it." He warned, waving a finger at Cass.
"Both of you, knock it off." The Courier sighed, throwing her magazine on the table. "Gomorrah is the sleaziest place to go in the wasteland, and I'm not willing to be associated with that. But they haven't done anything that concerns me, or the rest of the Strip, so I'm not going to bother them if they're not going to bother me. I don't care if you go, I just won't be accompanying you."
Cass stood at the end of the table, partially in shock of the Courier's leisurely opinion of her destinations, and partially in denial that her plans had just been rejected. The Courier was only home a few nights a month- shouldn't she let loose and live it up in Sin City while she could?
"Fine." Cass grumbled, turning towards the elevator in the hallway, "I'll be in the lobby if you need me."
"We won't." Raul said quietly after she had left the room. The Courier gave him a nudge.
...
The Courier decided to stay at the Lucky 38 for another day to regather her strength. Regardless, the suite was still relatively quiet. It was a good change of pace for a few days for her, Raul thought. She needed the company of close friends to remind her what she was fighting for all this time.
In the afternoon, she went into her room, closing the door behind her, to try and transfer some of the older messages on her Pip-Boy to her terminal. All was quiet, all was peaceful, until a sudden knock broke the silence.
"Six?" Arcade asked urgently.
"Come in." she called. He poked his head around the door, and after seeing her at her desk, ran to her side.
"Julie sent a runner for me. There's been another incident between the squatters and the NCR in Freeside. I have to go before the body count gets any higher."
"Where?" Six asked, standing from her chair, "Do they need help?"
"Hold on." Arcade said, holding his hands out, " I think they need something else from you instead. The runner gave me this. It's for you." He said, handing her an envelope with an NCR seal.
She examined the plain letter, puzzled as to why they would be so discreet as to send a letter instead of calling her to their meeting places in Freeside.
"I'll look into it right away." She said, flipping the envelope between her fingers, "Thank you."
"Anytime." He said. "Now, I have to go." He bolted out of her room and to the elevator, not to be seen for the rest of the night.
The Courier opened the envelope.
...
Raul stood up from his chair in the guest room, and made his way to the workbench in the kitchen. He had tried to find a copy of Fixin' Things that he hadn't already seen, but after two hundred and thirty years, he realized that it was becoming harder and harder to do. He wanted to fix something. Anything. It would be something to keep him occupied, at the least. He hated the feeling of being a squatter, like he was simply there to help eat the food in the refrigerator and occupy another bed. So he went around the suite asking the other companions of the Courier if they needed anything repaired. Boone would typically give him a strange look, but most would suggest to him a weapon put away for safekeeping that had been used until a hammer had jammed or plasma had leaked inside the casings. He would fix them, and place them onto the beds of the Lucky 38's inhabitants, where they would find them in almost mint condition, without a single reason. It was the only interaction that he had with them really, and he didn't have a problem with that. Except for the fact that Boone wouldn't let him touch his sniper rifle that was being held together by duct tape and loose screws. Too bad, Raul thought, if he was a name to be feared across the wasteland, he couldn't imagine what he would do with a tuned rifle.
He entered the kitchen to find that Veronica had already claimed the workbench, who had an array of electron charge packs scattered across the tabletop.
"Oh! Did you need something?" Veronica asked, gesturing towards the workbench.
"No, seniorita, I'm fine." Raul said, "I'm just getting a drink. You go ahead and keep at it."
He opened the refrigerator and retrieved a Nuka-Cola, which he opened before sitting at the far side of the kitchen table. The silence didn't bother Raul, but it was more along the lines of torture to the scribe. She decided to be the one to ignite the conversation of their newest addition to the family.
"So…" she started, "How long were you on Black Mountain?"
"Too long." He replied. "I ran out of things to fix. I grew bored in a hurry. But it doesn't seem like that will happen soon around here, with another gun being broken every time someone leaves this place."
"Hey, at least with me, you won't have to worry about that." She smiled, her perky voice ringing in his ears that were accustomed to silence. "All I ever use is my glove. And I keep it fine-tuned."
"Then I guess you're one less thing to worry about." He chuckled.
"I'm sorry if I'm getting a little too nosy already, but…" Veronica questioned, "what's your story?"
"My story?" Raul asked.
"You know, where you're from, where your family is, what you do for a living, dirty little secrets, all that jazz." Veronica explained.
Raul knew what she meant the first time. He was just trying to prolong an answer.
If only you knew.
He heard a door creak in the hallway, and the sound of footsteps coming his way. The Courier approached him, unknowingly saving him from reliving memories that he had covered up long ago.
"Raul?" the Courier asked, her voice timid with embarrassment.
"What's up boss?" he replied. He figured that whatever request she had, it would lead him to another couple of bullet holes.
"I need to ask a favor of you…." She started, tapping her fingers on her leg. "I need to get into- that place across the street. There's talk of trouble. I'm bringing Cass, but I don't know if the two of us girls going in there alone is a good idea… I didn't want to ask Boone; he's got ties to this city that he doesn't want to remember, and Arcade is on call at Fort Mormon. So I was wondering if…you could be so kind as to escort us inside?"
She had the look in her eyes of humiliation. It was obvious that this was not something she wanted to do, but it was equally obvious that this was important. Besides, if he stayed, he might actually have to get around to answering the Scribe's question. So he agreed. She let out a sigh of relief and thanked him repeatedly before going into the guest room.
"Cass!" She called to a figure cloaked in sheets on one of the guest beds. "Come with me." The Courier ordered.
"What do you want now?" she moaned, throwing her blanket off the bed as she rolled over, eyes still adjusting to the light.
"Get dressed. We're going to Gomorrah."
Cass's grimace broke into a wide smile. "Meet you in the lobby in ten!" She hollered.
...