Hello, all! I'm fairly new to this website, so try to forgive any beginners' mistakes throughout. Anyway, I'm hoping to bring this story to around 20+ chapters, and I promise it'll get more interesting as we progress.
Thanks for reading, & I hope I get some people to stay along for the ride!
"You still fucking make people abide by that seventy-five-pounds-or-less bullshit?" A voice hissed. The man who had uttered the words dropped a large laser rifle from a strap hanging over his shoulder. The weapon hit the ground with a metallic clang, one which the Happy Trails caravan driver before him didn't so much as flinch at. The only reaction he offered was the furrowing of his brows. He watched in silence as his hardly tolerant customer disarmed until he was satisfied with the extent of his cooperation.
"Yep, and it ain't changin' for you, Remi," he drawled, catching the inhospitable, icy blue glance he received from the one he addressed as "Remi", who seemed to be muttering something crude under his breath. He couldn't make out what Remi had said, but he damn well knew it wasn't kind. "Quit your bitching. 'You still want a ride, you'll get over it," he snorted as the taller, darker haired man before him continued to remove supplies and carelessly drop them next to a crate. ..Which was designated for supplies.
Remi had a distaste for leaving any of his lovely weapons out of his company, however in order to get to Zion… He'd manage to part with them, temporarily. It had to be his weapons that he ridded of, as they were without a doubt the heaviest items in his possession. His only other belongings were his clothing and chems, which were all significantly lighter than a Plasma Caster. At that, Remi had no armor he'd have to remove, fortunately. He practically lived in his Kings jacket, wearing that as his shining armor instead; whether or not that poor, beaten leather offered any resistance in combat. Not that Remi gave a damn, though.
Remi eventually stripped himself down enough to meet the weight requirements- with some reluctance, yes- but he still did as instructed, to say the least. Now, with most of his larger weapons abusively strewn away on the ground next to a crate, Remi was left to an array of small guns, and knuckles. Brass knuckles, that is. Nothing more trusty than your own metal-clad fist, right? Remi thought so.
With surprisingly nimble fingers, he smoothed his jacket neatly over the white shirt beneath and zipped it just about half-way up. The zipper idly rested just below his chest. "Right. Fine. There. I'm down to seventy-five," he sneered, looking to the caravan driver for some response. With arms crossed, the Happy Trailsman swirled around on his heel and headed for his caravan wagon, which was already rigged and prepared for travel as of hours ago. This was his expression of his satisfaction, and that Remi was welcome on the ride to Zion now. Remi's chest rose and fell sharply with a drawn-out sigh. He wouldn't verbalize his irritation at the caravaner this time around; there would be no use for it. He'd just ignore it. Remissum zipped his jacket the remainder of the way up his body, then proceeding to follow after his driver, meanwhile mumbling; "Joshua better be real fucking glad I decided to come…"
The drive from the outskirts of New Vegas to Zion felt no shorter this time around than any other, even with no stops or interruptions along the way. The time seemed to pass agonizingly slower when Remi stared out the back of the wagon at the passing landscape; idly staring as raw, broken Earth passed by. Inch by inch, pebble by pebble. The landscape of the Mojave felt rich and strangely alive when one walks it, however when you're merely a spectator of it like this… It gives off a certain barrenness. Hollowness. Perhaps even death.
Remi exhaled deeply through his nose and drew his aching eyes back from the land rolling by outside. He leaned his head back against the wagon tarp and grunted after doing so, as the caravan had passed over a small obstruction in their path. Probably a rock.- Or maybe a dead animal. The Mojave had a whole fucking lot of rocks. And dead things. Remi shifted his weight back so that his neck and shoulders were partially pressed against the tarp as well, so to hold his body steady. His eyes relaxed as he stared at the dimly lit opposite side of the carriage. He lifted his right hand to move stray brunette locks from his forehead, pushing them up over his scalp in an unnaturally messy manner. Generally speaking, Remi always made quite the effort to keep his hair in a smooth wave atop his head. This was nothing like that, but at least his hair was out of the way. On his hand's way back down, he ran fingers over his chin and down his neck, scratching skin through his short, though thick and coarse scruff.
For the next several hours to come, Remi's cornflower eyes wouldn't move from their place on the opposing side of the tarp. He seemed now as if sight was his least honed sense, as his gaze didn't only look stilled, but it looked distant. Out of focus. Hazed. In his lap, Remi had the fist fitted with brass knuckles balled, while the other hand rolled its fingers over the metal, which by now was uncharacteristically warm from the excessive human touch.
Touch, by now, was his only sense which was still in crisp, clear focus. The sensation of fingertips ghosting the tiny scrapes and depressions in otherwise smooth metal was one far from dull to him. Remi knew every mark on that metal piece of equipment as well as he knew that of his own hands. It had such a strong significance to him, despite being such a small, invaluable, replaceable thing.
As day fell into night, Remi would eventually press his entire back limply against the tarp, slumping lazily. His head tilted back, and eyes now stared higher, toward the top of the carriage. Faded dull grey Brahmin skin spotted with a couple of patchy stains it'd accumulated throughout its days in the Mojave filled his vision. It probably used to be white when it was first crafted. Or.. at least somewhere close to that. Remi's eyes grew tired of watching an unchanging image for so long, and after some time, closed; succumbing to the heaviness that'd settled on them like a Mirelurk over its nest. By now only his hand moved, still endlessly repeating the motion of rubbing worn metal. Only when he fell into shallow sleep did his hands idle in his lap.
The next several days were barely different from the first. The setting surrounding the caravan took a shift in life as they grew closer to Zion, however. The rocks and dust took on the canyon's natural rusted gold color and plant life became subtly more common. Remi toyed with a small wireless radio in his lap as the noon sun above spilled onto him through the thin curtain at the wagon entrance. The sound of buzzing static and occasional flashes of slurred music caused Remi's lip to curl in frustration. Thus far, he hadn't managed to find one clear station. Static and unrecognizable music was it. Flick upon flick later, still he came to no avail. God, it shouldn't be this difficult to get a fucking-
"You're nobody 'till somebody loves you. And that somebody is me. I love you. - This is Mr. New Vegas, filling in for… Mr. New Vegas." A familiar voice crackled through the radio, at long last. Remi sighed and grinned, satisfied with his success. He moved his fingers from the device and kept it sat in his lap, leaning back and closing his eyes as he waited for Mr. New Vegas' usual smooth "Vegas classics" to play.
"Jesus, man. Will you turn that shit off? It gets obnoxious, fast." The caravan driver hissed back at Remi, triggering an audible huff from Remissum. "I got somethin' to show you, anyways," he continued, giving a gesture for Remi to abide to in his direction with a swift turn of his head. Remi flicked the radio off with stiff fingers and tossed it rudely off his lap, letting it hit the wooden bench beside him. It rolled twice, landing on its side. Silent. "…Well don't take your sweet time gettin' up here," he snapped back at Remi as he waited. At that, his teeth clenched and his fist balled. It'd barely been half a minute since his last statement. He understood that it was a small carriage and moving from where he was sitting to the driver was only a matter of several steps, and that the driver was fully aware of such, but he could still have held some fucking patience.
Remi stood and walked behind the sitting driver, where he curled his right hand over one of the metal bars supporting the caravan cover so that he could keep his balance while standing. "What?" He spat simply and irritably, staring out past the Happy Trails worker at the seemingly drab landscape ahead. His eyes narrowed as he stared out, searching for something of significance. He only got more pissed at the caravaner as his eyes failed to find anything even vaguely impressive. What did he want?
The driver took a hand from his Brahmin's reigns and pointed ahead, though at a slight angle veering off from their path. He pointed at a cluster of tall rock formations a good distance ahead. "Look'it one a' them boulders out there. It's got some a' those.. uh.. signal what-nots them tribals you like use," he said, glancing at Remi for conformation he'd spotted the Dead Horse chalk drawings covering a portion of sandstone pillars. Remi stood quietly as he studied the chalk from this distance, eyes squinted. The fingers he had coiled around metal tightened. He knew some of the Dead Horses' signals by now, however he was still particularly rusty with them. He could get the gist of things, at least. What was really troubling, though, wasn't his less-than-average understanding of Dead Horse communication. Why were Dead Horses out here? They still had at least another day and a half before they reached Zion, and generally the Horsemen never ventured outside their homeland this far, especially with most of their necessities already in the canyon. Could it have been Joshua's doing for his men being out this far? Remi's knuckles twitched and his fingers twisted around the metal bar they held. Something in his stomach turned as he studied the writing; made his hand squeeze so hard his knuckles nearly turned white.
"It's an SOS." The words left his lips with a certain weight carried with them. Remi's eyes didn't falter from the stones ahead for another few moments. "Once you reach them, stop," he commanded, staring down at the caravan driver. The driver only returned a quick flick of his own brown eyes and a rough, nervous swallow. He wouldn't say anything. He would listen to Remi's words, however, and stopped for him once they reached the immense stones. Of course he would.
From this angle, stopped beside the formations, Remi could see that within the giant boulders was a hollowing. A wide split right down the middle of the rocks. Plenty big enough to accommodate people, however also big enough to accommodate animals, or worse. With a loud thud of his boots hitting solid dirt, Remi stepped away from the parked caravan and toward the rocks. He kept one hand pinned to a holster on his hip, harboring a .45 pistol.
His shadow cast dark and long through the hollow, falling over a long dead campfire in the center of the small cave. He took a step further to investigate, however was stopped by the sudden sensation of cold and lifeless steel pressing to his neck.
"Y-you take one more step, I swear I-I'll cut your head off!" That voice felt familiar. He tried to turn his head, look at his attacker, though the blade hugging his neck being pressed harder halted him. He grunted quietly. "Don't make me hurt you!" He insisted. Oh, how kind of him. The knife he's got pressed to Rem's neck really exhibits his compassion.
Remi swallowed and he felt his Adam's apple press the blade as it shifted. "…You told me not to take a step," he said, earning a faint sigh from the one holding the knife.
"I-…" He made a short, irritated sound, "just don't move, okay?" He asked, obviously inexperienced with these sorts of situations. Attackers generally aren't polite. Remi's shoulders and neck loosened now. This guy wasn't going to hurt him, he knew that. He sounded scared. Yet still… That voice, and now behavior.. It felt familiar. It felt… Oh, fuck.
"Follows-Chalk?" The knife pulled back.
"M-mister Remissum?" Definitely Follows-Chalk. "I'm sorry! I thought you were another bandit.." He apologized, sheathing the hunting knife in his belt. His shoulders were raised high as if he were still nervous and on-edge.
"Another?" Remi repeated, now able to turn his head and stare at Follows-Chalk, who looked a mess. His skin was dirty and signature headdress was covered in a thick blanket of dust. His fingertips were faintly stained with dry blood. "The fuck are you doing out here, Chalk? Does Graham know you're out this far from camp?" He demanded, leaving his previous statement to the wind. He didn't sound directly angry, but he did sound undoubtably displeased. Perhaps concerned.
Follows-Chalk made a quiet whimper and looked away, toward the floor of the cave, which was now completely dark as the sun had shifted just enough to neglect the cave of its light. "He… He knows that I am away, yes," Follows-Chalk began, trying and evidently failing to side-step admitting he left camp without telling Joshua he would be traveling this far out. He seemed to flinch as Remi grumbled, dissatisfied with that response.
"You know it's a terrible idea to lie to him, Chalk," Remi said, and saw the Dead Horse before him open his mouth once again to speak, however he cut him off as he continued, "you're coming with me now. I don't know how well you got out here alone, and I don't care, but you sure as hell aren't going back alone," he growled, "I'm on my way to Zion now. Only reason I stopped was because of your stu-"
"My distress signals, I know. I was hoping you would see them," he interrupted, "I… did not draw them for myself, though," he confessed, voice strained and slow, which made Remi's expression falter. Rather than verbalizing his intentions of the SOS, Follows-Chalk stepped away and sank into the pitch-black back end of the cave. Remi heard the quiet shuffling of skin against the sandy stone floor as Follows-Chalk moved about. He returned walking much slower, more weighed down, with… Fuck.
A Dead Horses scout. In his arms, unconscious. Covered in bloodied bandages and too many bruises to count. Remi's brows raised and quickly furrowed again at the sight. He remained silent for a few moments, and resisted the urge to snap at Follows-Chalk at this point. He wanted to smack the damn kid upside his head. Remi stepped closer to Follows-Chalk, nearly up against him, and taking, forcing, the injured tribal into his own arms. It wasn't that his trust for Chalk was broken, however it was.. stained. He thought it best he assume responsibility for the wounded man for as of this moment. As of seeing the trouble Chalk had gotten him into. Follows-Chalk didn't put up any resistance when Remi took the man. He gave him up willingly, if anything; as if he were grateful for Remi's assuming temporary care of the tribesman.
Remi's eyes cast between the man he held and to Follows-Chalk one last time before he sucked in a long, deep breath, and spoke with his exhale. "We'll talk- with Joshua- once we're back. Right now I don't even fucking want to know what the hell you did," he said, turning around to face the exit of the cave before Follows-Chalk even had the opportunity to speak, much less protest.
Earlier, Remi was merely agitated and concerned over his tribal friend, but now- now he was mad. Genuinely angry. How did Follows-Chalk manage to get himself into shit like this? As far as Remi knew as of this moment, the man in his arms had the potential to be either just a matter of several Stims, or on the brink of death. In the wasteland, even the smallest wounds can count, depending on who or what you got them from. Follows-Chalk better have some hell of a convincing story as to how all this came to be. Remi lay the outed man on one of the benches within the caravan, and took a seat at his feet. Follows-Chalk sat directly opposite of him. The two seemed to mirror each other's posture; sitting slumped forward, forearms set against their knees, and heads low.
For the remaining hours of the trip, none of them would speak. Not the caravan driver, not Remi, nor Follows-Chalk. They all sat in a continuous, enveloping silence, one which each of them had a different reason for contributing to. Chalk's being shame, Remi's being pent up aggression, and the driver's being indifference. The only notable sound to break their silence was that of Remi's lighter flicking open and snapping closed seconds later as he lit a cigarette which he'd placed between his lips. The distracting curls of smoke which would cascade from his lips for the next set of breaths would at least shift the men's focuses. Momentarily.
The caravan reached Zion in the earliest hours of morning, before the sun had the chance to breach the high canyon walls. They entered Dead Horse camp not long following, and at the hour Remi and Follows-Chalk arrived, most of the camp was still asleep or otherwise silent. Inactive.
All save for Joshua Graham, of course.
Remi lingered at the entrance of Angel Cave. He flicked his cigarette onto the ground and pressed it into the dirt by the heel of his boot before entering. Alone, for the time being. Follows-Chalk wished to stay outside until he was instructed to do otherwise. Remi wouldn't object. He "wanted to stay with his friend," the wounded tribal.
Inside, the cave was dimly lit; darker than in the active hours of the day, and Dead Horses covered the sleeping matts spotted throughout the chamber. He passed them by quickly, heading directly for Joshua's own section of the cave. While the main room was relatively dark, Joshua's was quite the opposite. The torches in his chamber were still as bright and as flickering with live light as ever. Not unexpected in Joshua's regards. He started his days early and ended them late. Remi figured he was already up inspecting guns. Or something else Joshua-like.
At that, he would be correct. Upon entering the chamber, Joshua immediately came into the center of his vision. He sat at his desk in the middle of the room, working with .45 auto pistols in the same practiced, perfected manner he always did. New, clean, white bandages covering his damaged skin seemed oddly illuminated by the light of the torches surrounding him. He practically glowed. He was aware of Remi's entering the room, however he didn't even make the slightest movement to acknowledge such. His hands continued to move in quiet, routine patterns. They never faltered. The way his hands moved was an art in itself.
Remi would be forced to walk close enough to a point at which he could press his hands onto Graham's desk, or reach across it and grab his attention by other means. He hated when Joshua did this. When he didn't react. It made him burn like radioactive fire, despite being such a small thing. Joshua had this certain… silent form of manipulation that he used on Remi. And only Remi. Because it only worked on Remi. No one else in the Mojave was as bothered by compete silence as Remi was, and Joshua seemed as if he had grown aware of that, and knew how to exploit it.
Remi slammed his hands, palms down, onto Joshua's desk, sending a thick vibration through the wooden planks of the table and through each of his guns. Yet still, no reaction from Joshua. Not even a fucking flinch. He proceeded to work on his weaponry as usual. Unaltered. Remi's nostrils flared as he released a deep, frustrated sigh. "I brought your fucking kids back." Referring to Joshua's men. It pissed him off even more that it was him that had to break the silence. It was typical of Joshua to remain silent long enough for Remi to lose his tolerance, because he knew it didn't take long for that to happen.
Remi was too easy for him.
"Was it necessary I was informed?" Even if Josh's returned wits didn't make Remi happy, he was at least appeased by the sound of Joshua's voice. There were times when in a situation like this, Joshua would remain in complete silence until Remi was practically behaving like an obedient dog. Too easy. "I trusted Follows-Chalk to his own devices. Any trouble he's gotten himself into is at his own fault," he said solemnly, eyes still keenly focused at the gun in his hands. That was another thing that would crawl under Remi's skin. Joshua was perfectly capable of engaging in conversation meanwhile never maintaining eye contact. He didn't like it. He felt as if the conversation couldn't be focused if Joshua never made eye contact. Which was odd, because he didn't feel that way about anyone else. In fact, the matter of eye contact never even crossed his mind around anyone else. Perhaps it was simply the notion that everyone else made eye contact, and it was only Joshua who didn't, so he only noticed it in Joshua. Only grew irritated with it in Joshua.
"Kid didn't just get himself into trouble, though." Joshua's hands paused, "I found him outside Zion with another Dead Horse. The one with him got attacked by…" he hesitated, "somethin'," his tone raised at that final word, laced with uncertainty. Because, really, he didn't know what had attacked that tribal. Being hazed by annoyance and anger toward Follows-Chalk aside, he hand't gotten a good look at his wounds, as Follows-Chalk had already dressed them by the time the two were found, so as of the current moment all he knew was that he was, quite frankly, pretty fucked up. And unconscious. In front of him, Joshua dropped his gun onto the table and cast his slate blue eyes up at him. It's a shame it took the threat of his men being injured for him to finally make eye contact. 'Guess that's just what's really matters to him.
"Something?" He repeated. He already sounded irritated. "How bad are his wounds?" Now concerned.
"Chalk's already got 'em bandaged up, so I'm not sure. I can tell you there were quite a few of them, though. A couple looked pretty nasty, too," he replied, nasty being a synonym for big. Joshua's hands impatiently twitched against his desk. He was waiting for something in particular to be said. "..The hurt one's still out cold, but Chalk's up. Seems like something scared the shit out of him, but he's up," Remi added.
"Where is he?" There we go. He found what he was looking for. At that, it clicked for Remi that Joshua probably wanted to find Follows-Chalk and lecture him on his poor actions as punishment for what he's done. …Now, generally, yes, a lecture doesn't sound much like a worthy punishment for nearly killing another member of your tribe, but a lecture from Joshua Graham, on the other hand, is a more than worthy punishment.
Graham stood from his chair and faced Remi eye-to-eye. The piercing look in his eyes which he passed on insisted he answer clearly. Any side-stepping would come with an immediate consequence. But, more than that, the look in his eyes seemed.. aggressive. Like that of a hunting Deathclaw.
Well, Chalk's really got something coming for him now. Joshua Graham is a man to fear when he's angry.
"..Just outside."
The remainder of the night became a blur from there on out. Remi could recall Joshua casting him off to a bed, telling- well, more so commanding- him to get some rest. Because "he had a long trip." Right. What bullshit. Nice as that gesture was, Remi knew well enough Joshua only wanted him to be out of the way when he left to talk to Follows-Chalk. Despite Remi having absolutely no intent or even need to sleep, …he listened. He was intimidated by Graham, to say the least. Whether or not he would ever admit that, the fact of the matter still stood.
Now, about eight AM in Dead Horse camp, Remi sat at the edge of the shallow pool of water which hugged the camp's border. The sun just barely peeked over the canyon walls by this time, spilling only slivers of light into camp. Behind him, he heard Joshua arise from Angel Cave and walk up behind him. He immediately knew it was Joshua due to the sound of his boots tapping the clayish soil underfoot, unlike the generally bare-footed tribals. He sat a few inches from him on the ground, moving stiffly as he did so. Somewhat due to restriction from his bandages, somewhat due to fatigue. Joshua could act as if little to no sleep didn't bother him all he wanted, however it was no secret that it did effect him.
"Yao Guai," Joshua began, casting a glance at Remi, "one of their cubs attacked Follows-Chalk and his friend. ..Fortunately, the cub's mother didn't find them," he said. "They'll both be fine. Chalk isn't leaving camp again for a while, however. He said he left because he was following someone," he spat those words with a certain distaste, " 'Won't tell me who, and only God knows why the hell not. In any case, I'm not going to force it out of him; I just told him as long as he's putting other lives at risk for his own pursuits, he's not leaving this camp." Joshua's voice came across low and strict, even more so than usual. This didn't come as a surprise to Remi. Joshua came to care deeply for his tribe and their well being, especially after their endeavor with the White Legs. He was also probably on-edge about his tribe now more than ever, what with the Legion now posing a potential threat to Zion.
Remi remained quiet, fingers subtly ticking involuntarily in his lap, as if.. nervous. He turned to look directly at Joshua, who had already moved his gaze away to stare down at the water before his feet.
They both began to share this tense, brooding silence together, as if there were a worrisome thought that had crossed the both of their minds, however neither of them were prepared to verbalize it.
But, alas, Remi found the unsaid, the silence, worse than the words. "You think there's any way he was following one of their couriers?" There was no need to define who their referred to. Joshua would know. He already knew.
"…Unfortunately." They sat in silence.