Part 2 – Choices
Well-dressed gamblers and drunk NCR soldiers wandered to and fro in the bustling, cleanly swept street. Most everything was neat and tidy, save for the occasional puddles of puke that were left by a gambler or a soldier who had drank more than they could handle. Even those were cleaned up rather quickly by workers and robots. It was barely after noon in the day and the sun still hung high in the sky. Most of the famous Vegas lights were off save for the main signs advertising the casino. As Donnovan and Glade pushed their way through the crowds, heading for the main gate, they briefly glanced at the towering spire of the Lucky 38 Casino. It was completely closed off to the public, though its structures still lit up the entire Strip during the night. This was the supposed home of Mr. House. Despite his curiosity, Donnovan had not managed to enter the Lucky 38. It was not for lack of trying. The visible, outer doors seemed to be machine operated, and a Securitron robot guarded the sealed entrance. On the screen, a cheery looking cowboy was frozen in a permanent wink, and the robot's voice seemed to come straight out of one of one of the classic, pre-war, Old West movies Donnovan had seen back in Vault 101. Donnovan and Glade walked forward, taking the long way out of the area: Freeside.
Only the brave, stupid, or extremely well-armed entered the Strip through Freeside. Most of the pampered visitors preferring to take the monorail line from the large NCR base known as Camp McCarren. It was much safer, not least of which due to the fact that on every trip there, the passengers included NCR soldiers on leave. Despite the complaints about the overall NCR government, the soldiers were usually very well trained. Donnovan's thoughts about the mysterious Mr. House, his imposing casino, the NCR presence, and the Strip as a whole were soon thrust out of his head as he and Glade entered Freeside.
The contrast between Freeside and the Strip was shocking, no matter how many times one went through the south Vegas gates. Donnovan had stowed his chips safely before entering the ghetto, knowing this would only draw attention, and he planned on gambling for several days to come without several extra knife wounds. Trash-filled side alleys and decent sized streets shot off from the massive, main, two-lane drag that made up the slum, no doubt used by cars in the pre-War world. The road was flanked on both sides by several-story buildings, from which occasionally a scream or gunshot could be heard. Here and there, dirty towels and dingy blankets hung from windowsills, the remaining individual apartments and rooms in the buildings and businesses that weren't occupied being claimed by NCR squatters long ago. Glade, almost always happy and go-lucky, walked on without a care in the world. Donnovan on the other hand unsuccessfully attempted to avoid taking in the sights of Freeside every time he walked through it. He tried hard to keep his mind on the philosophy Morgan had instilled in his head several months ago: "only care about your own." It was difficult, however, watching people suffer. In the trips he'd taken through Freeside to the Strip, he'd seen something that pained him every time, and yet, did not react. A murder here, a mugging there; he simply could not bring himself to make a move. The only time he had intervened was when a scruffy, middle-aged man clad in a dirty brahmin-skin traveling outfit attempted to drag off a small girl by her hand down a side street. He had cracked the man in the mouth with the butt of his assault rifle, stopping the attempted kidnapping and god knows what else, but that was it. The very next day, he had walked right by an alley where he saw two obviously jet-addicted tweakers with rusty golf clubs beat a man's head in over the dose of psycho in his pockets. Despite his focus on Morgan's mantra, there was a constant battle raging in his head as to whether or not to intervene into the seemingly daily life of Freeside. These thoughts were soon interrupted as two men gripping knives and clad in torn tan leather resembling raider outfits began to make their way toward Glade and Donnovan.
"Yo, Don." Glade grunted, keeping his eyes looking forward as the unscrupulous-looking men closed the distance, whispering to each other. One of them was scratching himself furiously on the shoulder with his free hand, an obvious sign of Jet addiction.
"I see them." Donnovan stated with a laugh as he glanced at Glade, both of them acting like they hadn't noticed. It was rather difficult to do this, as the two men advancing on them weren't exactly being surreptitious. A nearby member of the gang known as the King paused in lighting a cigarette, his eyes fixed on the two men. He kept the flame of his lighter burning with one hand, while his free one hovered over the pistol on his hip. The Kings weren't the typical gang. Despite their rather intense dislike for the increasing number of NCR squatters in the area, they cared about the original residents of Freeside and usually attempted to help with what resources they had. This particular King hadn't readied himself to necessarily protect the travelers, but was prepared to jump on the chance to clear out two of the minor problems with Freeside.
When the men finally caught up with Donnovan and Glade, the two reacted with the precision and lighting reflexes that could only have been gained fighting in the claustrophobic ruins of Washington D.C. As one of the men drew his knife back, Glade spun around, clenching his hand into a fist. The hand of the large man connected with the jaw of the attempted mugger and sent him sprawling to his right, the knife clattering away. The thug attempting to knife Donnovan had only raised his knife and stepped forward, when Donnovan whirled around, gripped the man's wrist, and using the man's own momentum, tossed him forward. The man landed painfully on his back, his knife laying forgotten several inches away. It happened so quickly that the King gangster's eyes widened, the flame still going on his lighter. He cut off the fuel to the lighter before taking in the rest of the scene.
Glade stepped forward, grabbed the man by his throat, and raised him into the air with one arm. The skinny jet-addict's weight was nothing to the incredibly powerful heavy weapons specialist of Lyons Pride.
"You know," Glade sneered, drawing his sawed-off shotgun, double barreled shotgun from his back and putting the barrels to the powerless man's stomach, "you really need to be more careful in who you try to mug, shit-for-brains."
The attacker could only rasp out a barely audible word in response. "Sorry."
Glade tossed the man aside, causing him to land next to the thug that had tried to attack Donnovan. The young man had drawn his M1911 and was standing over his attacker, gloating.
"Get your fix elsewhere, you dirty son of a bitch."
"Don." Glade interrupted. "Let's just go."
Donnovan nodded, returning his pistol to its holster. "Not worth the caps I'd spent on the bullet."
Glade shoved Donnovan in a friendly manner and laughed. "The fuck are they thinking, attacking us?"
"Dunno." Donnovan shrugged, but smiled nevertheless. The rush of adrenaline from the attack had briefly taken over his conflicting thoughts on Freeside.
They were no more than twenty feet from the site of their attack, right at the exit gates when a gunshot rang out from very close by. The two drew their weapons again and whirled around, only to be greeted with the sight of the nearby King gangster standing in the middle of the street, a smoking revolver in his hand. One of the thugs lay motionless on the ground, blood spreading from the back of his skull. The other man, still lying down, panicked. He tried to awkwardly push away from the King gangster, but to no avail. The black-jacketed man pinned the thug to the street with his boot, raised his revolver, and cleanly put a bullet through the mugger's head.
"Fuck me…" Glade muttered.
Donnovan simply stared at the scene It was new, but not exactly unexpected. "Let's… get the hell out of here."
The walk back to the base camp, passing by ruined bridges and over crumbled roads, was spent in quiet discussion. The two were mulling over what they'd seen, and soon fell into silence. Donnovan was still pondering the actions of the King gangster as Glade led the way into the expedition's makeshift basecamp.
"Hell of a day!" Glade announced far too loudly as he entered the repurposed shell of a house.
Over in a corner, a pained grunt came from under a blanket.
"Who's that?" Donnovan asked, tossing his head in the direction of the roused individual.
"Dusk… She's trying to sleep off a hangover." Olin laughed.
"HOW'S YOUR HEAD, DUSK?" Glade practically screamed, causing everyone to jump and Donnovan to wince and put his hands over his ears. In response, a hand with the middle finger extended emerged from under the blankets for several brief seconds.
"Jesus Glade. Loud enough? I don't think they heard you back at the Citadel." Donnovan grumbled.
Glade yawned hugely and threw himself onto the bed he had claimed, the old metal springs of the base squeaking loudly. "I'm thinking about a nap."
Olin glanced at him. "Really? Since when do you take naps, old man?"
Glade snorted and hung his forearm over his eyes. "Says the shut in who's been inside all day."
"Touché."
Donnovan look around. "Where's everybody?"
"Lyons and Yearling headed off to the Silver Rush about half an hour ago, and Rockfowl and Amata are at the Crimson Caravan."
"Where's Morgan?"
Morgan announced her presence before Olin could respond by walking out of a side room clad in her traveling gear. "I'm here, and I can't take it any longer. We're going."
"Huh?" Donnovan shook his head in surprise.
"Get your gear and some guns, we're going to travel. I can't sit here anymore." Morgan commanded.
Donnovan stood rooted to the spot. "Slow the hell down… What now?"
"Going somewhere, Morgan?" Glade lifted his arm and looked over at Morgan.
"Hurry up." Morgan said, annoyed.
"Hold your damn horses!" Donnovan exclaimed, still trying to decide. "How long will we travel?"
Glade looked surprised. "You're actually considering it, Don?"
Morgan ignored Glade. "I'm thinking four days tops if we're slow, but closer to two."
"Two days?" Donnovan cocked an eyebrow.
"We aren't going to go that far. Just Southeast a ways, maybe across the Colorado."
Silence settled on the building. Olin took a break from her tinkering, Donnovan looked surprised, and Glade sat up straight.
"That's Legion territory." Glade said.
"Across the river, yeah, but that's it. The Southeastern Mojave's pretty untamed." Morgan countered.
"Didn't Morrill tell us all to stay put?" Olin questioned, tilting her head slightly.
Morgan rolled her eyes. "He also said he'd be back a week ago and we'd be off to Lost Hills, where we're supposed to be going. He can't honestly expect us to stay put without orders for this long."
Glade snorted. "That's true. I mean hell, if Donnovan didn't get to gamble, he probably would've brought down the whole NCR down on us by, I dunno, accidentally knocking their president off of Hoover Dam or something. Not like he hasn't done shit like that everywhere else."
Olin titled her head. "Yeah, but why do you want to go?"
"Why not?" Morgan asked. "Besides, don't you want to know a bit more about how the Legion caravans travel, and how they're so well supplied?"
Donnovan thought for several more seconds before walking to his pack. "Good enough for me."
"Should've known." Glade yawned, laying back around. "Stay out of trouble."
Donnovan closed up his pack and slung it across his back. He had just set his AK-47 into the straps of the backpack when Dusk's sniper rifle caught his eye. It was leaning against the wall near Olin's desk, completely cleaned. A small stack of .308 ammunition boxes was arranged on the corner of the desk.
"Hey… Dusk…" Donnovan stated walking forward and grabbing the weapon. "I'm borrowing your rifle."
An incomprehensible series of slurred sounds drifted from under the blanket over Dusk's unseen form.
"I'll pay you back for any ammo I use." Donnovan checked the bolt of the rifle before glancing back at Morgan. "Okay, now let's go."
.
.
.
With the proximity of the Arizona border and the Colorado River, it wasn't long before Morgan and Donnovan had the Colorado River in sight. They had been lucky, not seeing hide or hair of any Legion scouts or patrols on their way. Still, though unsecured, they were in an area where both NCR Rangers and the Legion had been sighted, and had tried keeping out of sight by traveling through rocky trails. They had chosen to make camp for the night inside the old wreckage of a pre-War transport plane that had belonged to the Arizona Air National Guard. Not wanting to risk fires, they had packed food that didn't need to be heated or cooked.
"I think there's some other cake-like thing that's supposed to last forever besides these." Donnovan mused as he tossed a sealed Fancy Lad Snack Cake to Morgan, who was seated, cross-legged, across from him.
"How the hell do you know that?" Morgan raised her eyebrow as she carefully tore open the package.
Donnovan shrugged. "Kind of a rumor back in Vault 101. I guess it started way before the war, though. Some yellow, cream-filled cake or something." He leaned back against the wall of the transport plane. It had been used as a shelter before, judging by the discarded wrappers and empty ammunition boxes scattered here and there. Nevertheless, it was a good find, and gave them a rather clear view in all directions through the destroyed windows. The sun had almost set when Donnovan voiced something that was on his mind.
"So I've been really torn lately." He began. Morgan's eyes met his. She didn't need to ask what this meant.
"How so?"
"Freeside. I can't stop thinking about the people there."
"Don…"
"I know, I know… It's just… It's not easy, you know? I've gotten so used to helping people back in the Capital Wasteland, that it seems wrong to just do nothing."
"You're not in D.C., anymore, Don." Morgan said earnestly. "There's no single focus on survival. There's no single caravan chain to support. There's no Three Dog to talk about your actions and encourage people to stay strong. We're in the middle of a warzone, where even the damn merchants have taken sides. Civilians will always suffer in war. You know that better than anyone."
Donnovan was quiet for several seconds, thinking back to his father sacrificing himself to keep Project Purity out of the hands of the Enclave. "I know. I just feel like a terrible person walking by a mugging or a beating."
"What if you killed a mugger attacking someone, and the mugger ended up being a King gangster? You'd probably have the entire gang out looking for you because you got mixed up in business that wasn't your own. It's far more complicated here than probably anywhere else in the entire world. Politics, blood, lead, and lasers make for a potent, chaotic mix."
"I guess." Donnovan muttered. "How do you-?" He looked up, only to see Morgan looking over his shoulder through one of the broken windows of the plane. She held a finger up to her lips, and Donnovan whirled around.
They had been so engrossed in their conversation that they had let their guard down. From the distance, several figures had appeared and were growing larger as they neared. Donnovan and Morgan watched briefly, before Morgan voiced something that should've been immediately obvious to both of them.
"They're going to come through here."
Whoever these people were, Donnovan and Morgan preferred not to come into contact with them, or rather anyone at all in this area. They quickly began to pack up their gear as quietly as they could. Donnovan's pack was ready first. Taking advantage of his early finish, Donnovan grabbed Dusk's borrowed rifle and peered through the scope. Through the ever-fading light, he could make out the unmistakable shoulder pads and red cloth that made up the armor of soldiers of Caesar's Legion. There were three of them. Two were wearing red cowls that covered their heads, while a third wore a hard leather helmet and sunglasses, a balaclava covering his mouth. One of the cowl-wearing Legionaries was gripping a rope. The other end of the rope was wrapped tightly around the wrists of a fourth person, a female, judging by the shape of the prisoner's body. A bag had been placed over her head, and another rope connected her two ankles together, so that she was forced to take rapid, small steps to keep up with her captors.
"Morgan. They're Legion. They;ve caught someone!" Donnovan whispered.
"So what?" Morgan retorted. "It's none of our business. Let's go."
"What? Come on, they've caught someone. They've got her bound." Donnovan said quietly.
"Bound? What not a slave collar? That isn't suspicious to you?" Morgan asked in a low voice.
"Fuck, I don't know. Maybe the collar was… broken or something." Donnovan suggested.
"Are you serious? They'll hear that damn rifle." Morgan warned.
Donnovan looked away from the scope, awkwardly. "Oh come on, we've seen plenty of bullet-ridden wildlife on the way here."
"Don… Did you just forget the entire conversation we had?"
Donnovan stared at Morgan, a pained expression on his face as he fought with his confliction emotions yet again. Finally, his altruistic side won out. "God fucking dammit." He hissed, cursing his own actions as he chambered a round into the sniper rifle and set the sights on the Legionary escorting the prisoner.
"Dammit to hell, Don." Morgan shook her head before jamming a magazine into her G3.