Disclaimer: Fallout is owned by Bethesda.
Review Replies:
AgoTheTiny(again): I admit the MGS4 sequence in the last chapter was a bit overdone. As always, thank you for your input and support. It means a lot, mate. Descriptive writing has always been one of my downfalls. I've got dialogue down, and I can usually translate an action sequence from my head to paper(or a text document) without too much being lost in translation. It also doesn't help that I was pretty burnt out by the time I finished the last chapter, resulting in the general loss of quality. The upper floors of the Bison Steve were supposed to be a longer sequence.
shadowelf144 : Hugs and support are appreciated!
Assozat: Wow. That is... well, an interesting OC to be sure. I'll see if I can work him in, but it likely won't be for a while. If I do include Zach, he'll be rebalanced a lot since you went overboard on his stats.
003
"Hey, hey, it's Mr. New Vegas letting you know I've got a new Christmas compilation coming out soon; Nuclear Winter Wonderland. Look for it on holotape. If you like news, then you're gonna love our next segment. Traders from California are being turned away from Mojave Outpost, where the NCR is concerned about dangers along Nipton Highway and I-15. That's the news. This is Mr New Vegas, Filling in for...Mr. New Vegas. Hey New Vegas, have you ever said that you loved someone when it wasn't quite true? Sure you have, but you shouldn't because It's a Sin to Tell a Lie."
"Damn, you're still at it, sonny?" Johnson Nash's voice interrupted my concentration as I finished inputting yet another four digit code. Six hours. Six hours straight I'd been sitting at that safe,testing code after code, from 0000 and climbing upward to 9999. One of them was the password, and unlike a computer, I had infinite tries. Infinite tries that were getting me seemingly no closer to cracking the damn safe. I didn't even look up at Mr. Nash as I responded.
"This is a test of will. My will against that of whoever manufactured this safe. There's something good in here. I'm not sure what, but it's something that is going to be worth all of this trouble."
It took me roughly three seconds to put in each code, followed by another second for the safe to process its accuracy and let out a negative beep. I was reaching the low 5000 range, my hand working nearly on its own to type on the pad. I'd been smart enough to keep a stock of drinks and food nearby, but the lack of sleep was starting to wear on me.
"You don't go halfway on anything you do, eh?" Johnson chuckled, "Well, you might want to take a small break. The NCR boys from across the bridge are asking about you."
5158... nope. I forced my hand to pull away and grabbed a loose sheet of paper and pencil to write down my stopping point. Standing was a painful experience, and I nearly fell over in the act.
"May as well find a trader while I'm up and get some of this stuff sold off," I sighed, gesturing to my massive pile of assorted goods.
"Heh, nobody really uses the Bison Steve in the first place, so I suppose anything that you grab does technically belong to you. As for a trader, well, that would be me. I'll help you carry it back to my shop, and we'll talk over a deal," Nash said, "If you trust me enough, I'll handle it while you talk to the NCR."
I nodded in agreement and stretched out the kinks one more time, letting out a sigh of utter relief as multiple joints popped. Mr. Nash cringed at the sound, and I rolled my eyes at the man. He could handle the blood from shooting me, but joints popping bugged him? As soon as I was outside of the hotel, I froze like a deer in headlights. Standing in the middle of the road was Private McMahon, and he looked pissed.
"You look like hell, Rain," He said.
"Climbing through an abandoned building will do that to you. Kill count was confirmed at..." I paused and mentally counted up how many convicts I'd taken down. There were the four outside, six on the first floor, and eight on the upper floors. "Eighteen. Most of them were using improvised weapons. Tire irons, lead pipes and the like. The firearms that I did find on them are going to be refurbished and sold to Mr. Nash. The NCR can trade directly with him if they want any of the stock."
"Those firearms are the property of the NCR," McMahon protested.
"Then they were the property of criminals. Now they're my property. Do you want to argue this point, McMahon? You were the one who approached me with the mission in the first place. You knew that I wouldn't be paid for completing it. Now you're trying to take away the only thing I could find on-site that would cover the costs?" I took a step forward, and McMahon put a hand on his sidearm. "Did you even care about the civilians? Or was I just supposed to be a delivery boy for some cheap guns?"
"I..." McMahon closed his mouth and shook his head, then stated again. "Just give up the rifles, Rain. They're not worth the trouble."
I felt a deadly calm wash over me. Betrayal. The man I'd thought was a decent human being had played me for a few guns that the troopers didn't even need.
"The variant of the AR15 you're carrying is the standard issue rifle for the NCR. What would you need the lower grade Varmint Rifles for?" I asked. McMahon hesitated. In that moment of his uncertainty, I darted forward, ducking and weaving to make myself a harder target. McMahon's eyes widened, and he clumsily thumbed the safety on his 9mm. By the time he even began to aim, I was on him. I grabbed the man by his wrist and head, hooked my leg around his, and rotated my body. With a loud thump, McMahon was down, and I'd actually applied enough force to knock him out. Without further ado, I lifted the man's body, slung him over my shoulder, and began walking towards the NCR's camp. The sentry on duty, who I recognized as the female trooper that had been inside the command tent, just stared at me with her jaw hanging open as I passed into the camp. I dumped the backstabber near her post and kept walking further into the camp, making for the command tent.
Hayes was inside, as I expected,and he nearly jumped out of his chair when he saw me.
"You're back! I heard the gunshot hours ago and assumed the worst," He said, then cut off when he saw my expression. After a moment, he gathered the nerve to speak up again. "What happened?"
"The entire mission was a clever play by McMahon to earn a few caps," I growled out. "He just wanted to sell off the guns the convicts were using. Confronted me right after I got out of the Bison Steve Hotel."
"Dammit... First Jameson's incompetent, Tyrone's shady, and McMahon abandoned his post for this," Hayes sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Please tell me you didn't kill him?"
"Nope. Pulled a pretty standard takedown and bounced his head off the road, but he should be fine. I dumped him with your sentry at the camp entrance."
"He got one by both of us. I honestly thought he cared about the civilians," Hayes shook his head and smiled sadly. "I'll make sure that proper action is taken. How about you? What will you do now?"
That question caught me by surprise. I honestly didn't know. Aside from cracking that safe and selling off enough loot to put myself back at a decent carrying weight, my to-do list was pretty short.
"I'm not sure, really. There's a bit of business to wrap up in Primm, then I may head back up to Goodsprings. I haven't given it much thought."
Hayes gave a nod of understanding and let the matter drop. I took that as my sign to leave, and left the Lieutenant to his woes. I made my way back through Primm, and once again marveled at how quickly people could clean things up. All of the bodies were disposed of, and the bloodstain from the Mojave Express courier was gone from the front of Johnson Nash's store too. Decided to hold off on dealing with Mr. Nash until the next morning. Without anywhere else to sleep, I decided to go back into the hotel and crashed on one of the lobby's white couches. They looked shockingly similar to the couch in Doc Mitchell's house, which made me wonder if he had actually gotten his from the Bison Steve. No, there was no way, he'd have been killed on the road, or it would have gotten damaged during the trip. I closed my eyes and tried to settle in to sleep.
My dreams that night were twisted and disturbed. I relived every last kill I had made in the wasteland, counting a total of twenty-two. Every time a kill would repeat, things slowly began to change. Sounds and images distorted, bodies fell in different places, different positions. Just before I woke up, I saw all twenty-two men I'd killed staring at me with dead, soulless eyes. Then, I saw myself lying on the couch in the Bison Steve, with all twenty-two men crowded around my helpless form. I snapped to awake with a surge of adrenaline. I rolled out of bed and fumbled for my pistol and knife. Once I had both weapons in my hands I felt safer, but something was definitely still wrong. Something had changed since I went to sleep.
There. Something was on the grayish wood of the elevator shaft's doors. I couldn't make it out clearly, since I'd shut off all of the lobby's lights before I went to bed. I turned on my Pip-Boy's screen and aimed its light at the door. There, written in something dark red and still wet, was a number.
"Twenty-two," I whispered into the silence of the dead hotel. Every lamp in the lobby turned on at once, flooding the room with light and blinding me for a few seconds. I was not ashamed to say that I fled. The hotel was now haunted with the ghosts of men that I had killed. Being allowed to wake up at all was a blessing. I resolved not to go back into the hotel alone. Once I was safely outside in the morning sun did I relax and put my weapons away.
"Now what's got you spooked?" Mr. Nash asked, walking up to me from his store.
"Not something you want to get involved in," I breathed, trying to calm my racing heart. "If anyone needs to enter the Bison Steve, warn them to take someone with them, and keep a light on hand."
Nash frowned, but quickly gave a firm nod. It was good that he accepted my judgement, since I doubted the wasteland had anyone who could perform an exorcism.
"I know you've already done a lot for the town, but Beagle isn't cut out for being the Sheriff. We need to get the rule of law back here in Primm, a new sheriff," Nash cut into my thoughts a moment later. I just chuckled and rested my head against the concrete that made up the Bison Steve's outer walls.
"No rest for the wicked."
"Wouldn't ask this of you if I didn't think you had the means to help."
Again he had that apologetic tone in his voice. It was enough to make me feel guilty about complaining.
"Well, do you have any suggestions for who would make a good sheriff?" I asked, looking up at the old man.
"Your guess is good as mine. You might luck upon someone who's a natural-born sheriff. I heard of one fella what got himself locked in that NCR jailhouse up I-15. Maybe that ain't the best credential, but a sheriff's a sheriff. I imagine the NCR would be able to bring some law to the town, too. But from what I seen they barely got the firepower to protect themselves," Nash counted off each of the options on his fingers, then shook his head and shot me a smile, "Just keep an ear out, and you're sure to find someone."
"The one in the prison is definitely out of the question. I'd have to go right into Powder Ganger territory, and they probably know to look for me by now," I sighed. "The NCR's the only real option I can see, and once the Powder Gangers are taken care of on a more permanent basis they'll probably help you get the town back to its former glory."
"If that's the route you want to go, I won't object. Seeing Primm back in top shape is on my bucket list. Anywho, you wanted to do some trading?"
For the condition of all I sold to Mr. Nash he cut me a decent deal. Three hundred caps joined the same amount in my backpack, and Nash was out to sell me enough to earn his money back. During that time I found myself continually distracted by the broken robot on his counter. The little guy had clearly seen some action during its time, from the Illinois license plate bolted to the left side of its round chassis, to the Roosevelt Academy honor student bumper sticker pasted on his right. There were countless dings and scratches in the metal, and almost all of the antennae projecting off of the frame were bent out of shape. I pondered the uses of a flying robot buddy. It could scout out dangerous areas for me, run messages and light packages around the wasteland... If that projection below the grate on the front of its frame was a weapon, I would a partner watching my back in combat.
" A courier dropped it off a couple months back. I got it working for a little while, but the darn thing pooped out," Nash said as though sensing my question. I had asked him to hunt around in his ammunition stores for any more .22lr rounds to replace those I'd shot in the Bison Steve.
"Any idea what's wrong with it?" I asked, gently tapping on the robot's frame.
"Hell if I know. I don't think its serious, but my tinkering days are long gone. Doesn't look like I have any .22's in stock. Sorry about that," Nash popped his head back over the counter and leaned on it, staring at the old robot. I doubted he'd let me take it, but I had to ask.
"Do you mind if I give a shot at fixing it?"
"You're welcome to try. Its yours if you can get it working," Nash smiled at me again, "I'd have dumped the old thing at the scrapyard near Novac by now, but someone has to watch the outpost."
"I'll take a closer look at it, but... uh... would you mind spotting me while I work on the safe in the hotel?" My grin was a little sheepish, and Nash just chuckled. He led the way back to the Bison Steve, making small jabs at me over my fear. That turned right around when I showed him the '22' on the elevator door, now the dark brown of dried blood. I don't think he took a hand off his revolver the whole time we were in there. The spirits of the men I'd killed were definitely not happy that I'd returned. We heard more than a few unexplained noises, including a whole lot of banging from the floors above us, and a few screams of primal rage. All they did was motivate me to work faster.
Two tense hours passed, until I put in the code '7429'. Instead of the negative beep, the safe unsealed with a whoosh of air, its door opening. Nash and I both let out shouts of triumph, and I began to transfer the spoils to my backpack. There were a lot of old US $20 bills, cleanly preserved by the safe's vacuum seal. A few bottles of vodka were stashed in there as well, and given their year... I had no doubt that no living human would be able to down more than a shot without getting knocked on their ass. The real treasures came from under a book named Loveless. I gasped as my hands touched the ivory handle of a beautifully crafted Colt Single Action Army. The barrel, frame and cylinder were made of a matte black metal, covered in ornate gold etching. The grips were inlaid with the symbol of clubs from a deck of cards, and on the ejector tube was a small silver plate. It was from this plate that I learned the revolver's name. Lucky. From what I could see it was a .357 just like Joe Cobb's revolver. As much as I wanted to switch out the revolver I had holstered, using Lucky would have been a waste of a beautiful peace. Lucky was a high-class weapon, not made for killing people.
The other pistol resting in the safe was made for grim work. I pulled the 9mm pistol out and began checking it over. Unlike the other models I'd seen in the wastes, this pistol had smooth wooden grips and a stainless steel finish, breaking the norm of a matte black finish and checkered grips. Other than the finish and grips, I couldn't see any real difference between it and the normal model. It had the same three-dot sight system, same thumb safety and ring hammer. Much to my annoyance, it didn't have a threaded barrel either, meaning it was another 'loud' gun. Still, it was in pristine condition, likely never fired. With the reliability of the Hi-Power, this stainless model would last me a long time. I felt a pang of guilt at the thought giving up my old Hi-Power, but it wasn't like I really forged a connection with that gun. Besides, someone else had used that gun to kill innocent people, as far as I could tell. Maybe cutting ties with it would allow me to shrug off a few of the ghosts.
"Some damn fine guns. Looks like your instincts about that safe were right," Nash smiled, then jumped when another ghost screamed at us. "If it's all the same to you, I'd like to get the hell out of here."
We exited the building at a pace just slightly slower than a run. That wasn't fast enough to avoid getting hit in the arse by the door handle when it slammed shut of its own accord.
"Does this sort of thing happen a lot around you? It'd be mighty nice to know now," Nash deadpanned. I just gave him another sheepish grin and scratched the back of my head. Damn I need a good shower... and a change of clothes that doesn't have half of the Mojave's collective dirt caked on it.
"Well, I actually got this old Winchester from the Sheriff's ghost," I admitted, "blasted me halfway across the room in the process."
The sound of Johnson's facepalm seemed to echo in the quiet streets of Primm, making a few of the residents turn to look in our direction.
"Damn, son. Just... damn," Nash unleashed an exasperated sigh, "I'm far too old to be messing with spirits."
"I thought I was done with it as well, but the Mojave seems to disagree," I grumbled, "Let's get this back to the Outpost."
We passed a team of Primm's residents trying to right a fallen street lamp with middling success. I hoped they wouldn't end up getting electrocuted... I shook my head to clear that train of thought and followed Nash into his home. I unloaded the stacks of dollar bills and all of the vodka(except for one bottle in case I really needed to get drunk). Still feeling some regret, I pulled my old 9mm from its holster on my hip, dropped the magazine, and set it with the growing pile. Nash began counting caps, but I just placed my hand over his.
"Don't. It's all stuff I don't need, and you risked a lot to cover me in that hotel," I said, unloading the bullets from the old magazine to transfer them to the new. "That pistol was the first I ever shot in this wasteland. Keep it safe for me, aye?"
"Darn it, sonny, now you're making me feel guilty," Nash sighed.
"You're giving me a robot! Why should you feel guilty?" I laughed and slipped my stainless Hi-Power into its new home on my right hip. Nash just rolled his eyes and started packing his gifts away. The old man vanished for a few seconds, then returned with a pair of nails and a hammer. Over the course of a minute, he had my old gun on display in a place of honor right above his mail sorter with a number of framed newspaper clippings and an ad poster for Poseidon Energy. I was touched by the gesture, and speechless. Why were old people in the wasteland so awesome? First Doc Mitchell, and now Nash. I quickly wiped my eyes and moved over to examine the little robot as a distraction. I didn't need to have an emotional breakdown. Especially not in front of Nash.
A lot of effort and improvised mechanics went into getting the robot's frame open, but I managed it without causing any permanent damage. From what I could see of the mess of compact electronics, circuitry, and inactive gyroscopes, it had been built with redundant systems just for this type of shutdown. The problem was some asshole had put a high-caliber bullet through it, piercing both of the hefty blue batteries that powered its systems. Some of the components were a bit charred as well, namely what looked like a stick of RAM. Johnson Nash was observing from a safe distance and sorting his shop's inventory to make sure the convicts hadn't taken anything when they passed through.
"Good old fission batteries," Nash laughed when I waved him over. "Weigh a ton, but if robots are still running on 'em so long after the war, they must be reliable."
"You have any in stock?"
As it turned out, Nash did have a fission battery in stock. That still left the matter of replacing the second battery and RAM stick. The idea to scavenge from the terminal at the Bison Steve Hotel's front desk popped into my head, but was instantly rejected. Then I remembered the terminal at the Sheriff's office. It wasn't working, but the RAM might still be in decent condition. I left the Mojave Express outpost at a jog and entered the Sheriff's office. Someone had retrieved the bodies, but I spoke out of courtesy.
"Mind if I loot your computer? I need some parts from it to fix a robot."
There was no response. Not even the tingle of spiritual presence. After a shrug, I picked up the battered unit and carried it back to the outpost. The standard terminal model in 2281 was a single piece, with a built-in keyboard but no mouse. The screen size was rather small compared to what I was used to, and nobody had heard of a 16:9 resolution. Once I was back in the outpost, the real work began. I'd gone to college for two years for an Associate's Degree in Information Technology, dismantling a computer was nearly second nature to me. Even the unfamiliar model had some basis in the old technologies from 2014. Heck, the only real difference I could spot was in the power supply. Instead of having an AC adapter, the power supply was a small casing that contained yet another fission battery. So long as I was careful, I could fix the robot with all of the parts available to me.
Over the course of another three hours, I managed to get the Robot back into decent shape. I replaced the parts and bypassed the parts of the main systems that had been destroyed. Turns out I was still pretty good with a soldering iron. I cleaned and polished the chassis as well, gently tapping out as many dents as I could with a hammer. The antennae and parabolic dish received the same treatment, but I had to be very careful not to cause more damage to those. In the end, the little robot wasn't quite bright and shining, but it was at the same standard I held to all the weapons I'd fixed up. The bumper sticker and License plate were left on to honor the robot's history, and in turn gave me a name for it. Most of the plate's text was damaged or scratched off, but three letters and a symbol remained undamaged.
With a soft whirr, the robot began to hover off of the counter, its antennae and parabola twitching around as scanned its surroundings. I'd examined its internal components and I still wasn't sure how it managed to float like that. My best guess was that it has something to do with the numerous short metal tubes sticking out of its underside. After a moment, the robot turned its grill towards me and let out a few chattering beeps. A surge of childlike joy burst through my being. I had my own R2-D2! Unable to restrain myself, I pounced on the robot and hugged it, holding the little guy to my chest. Johnson just raised an eyebrow, and I gave him a playful glare.
"Don't judge me. I have a robot."
"I wasn't gonna say a thing," Nash chuckled, returning to his inventory management.
I released my robot and watched it rise back to eye level automatically. Curious, I put one finger on top of the robot and push him downward, then let go. It rose back to eye level again, this time letting out an annoyed beep.
"Right, sorry," I laughed and grinned sheepishly at my new partner. "So, how does the name ED-E sound to you?"
The robot let out a series of beeps that definitely sounded happy. I fiddled around with my Pip-Boy for a moment, going into the 'Connect' option in the data section. It was meant to show any active terminals with wireless capability so the user could download files and issue basic commands. The only listed option was 'Eyebot Duraframe - E' It didn't take more than two sections to connect the dots. ED-E's model classification was an Eyebot, and it was the fifth version made. The connection was password protected, and it didn't feel right to hack into an AI.
"ED-E, do you mind letting me into your wireless connection?" I asked. ED-E let out a questioning beep, and I explained. "I want to have a few backups of your OS and hard drive in case of emergency. I'm also curious about your coding. I used to be a programmer, and I may be able to tweak a few settings to optimize you, enable new functions and so on."
The lock symbol vanished from next to ED-E's connection, and I entered. Two more options were presented to me, 'file access' and 'command menu'. I chose the second one, and was presented with a basic list of functions.
"Do these work with verbal commands as well?" I questioned. An affirmative beep. "Ah. In that case... Companion Protocol: Initiate."
ED-E hovered behind me, putting his antennae to use and playing Radio New Vegas over his speakers. Yes, I'm using masculine pronouns for ED-E. I was tempted to pronounce his name as 'Edi' in honor of another famous AI, but the little guy got a bit annoyed after the first few times I tried. Without anything else to do, ED-E and I were headed over to the NCR camp to talk with Hayes about getting Primm some proper protection. McMahon was thankfully nowhere in sight, and Jameson gave me a timid wave when I passed him. I returned his wave with one of my own and walked on. For once in the time I'd seen him, Lieutenant Hayes was actually outside of the tent, sitting in an old lawn chair. I just stood there with a small mental disconnect as I saw Hayes relaxing for once.
"Rain, always a pleasure seeing you," Hayes spoke up as I approached. He looked over my shoulder at ED-E, and I could almost hear the question.
"He's my new scout," I offered, "Mr. Nash had him in his shop, let me fix him up."
"Huh. You seem to be multi-talented," Hayes said, scratching his chin. "What do you need?"
"Not much. Primm needs to get some proper protection though. Nash put NCR protection forward as a possibility, and I'm willing to assist with whatever needs to be done to make that happen."
"We know Primm is a great strategic point, and we aren't blind to the needs of the town, but we're barely holding our own against the Powder Gangers," Hayes sighed, leaning forward. "We don't have the guns or the personnel needed to carry out our mission, much less take on defending this town as well. That's not to belittle the work you've already done."
"Just what is going on around here?" I questioned, "I've been taking out the Powder Gangers because they're criminals and murderers, but I don't know much more about the situation than that."
"A little while ago a bunch of convicts staged a coup at the NCRCF. That's NCR Correctional Facility. They killed the guards that couldn't escape, and have been ransacking the area ever since. The convicts call themselves 'Powder Gangers' because they've taken to using the explosives meant to clear boulders as weapons. They got organized faster than expected, except for the splinter group in Primm you killed off."
"With three of your Privates under par, it can't be easy to make much progress against them," I commented taking a seat in another lawn chair set up by Hayes.
"You have no idea. The convicts are better armed and organized than our intel suggested. I'm trying to get some reinforcements here, maybe some guns with some firepower, but... shit... things are just going slow."
"Wait... those AR15's you guys carry aren't fully automatic?" I wondered.
"AR15? We just call them Service Rifles," Hayes shrugged, "And no, they're only Semi-Automatic, but I've seen some veteran troopers pull the trigger fast enough that you couldn't tell the difference."
"Yep. I'm starting to understand your problem. Alright, I don't have anything better to do. Who do I need to talk to for you guys to get some support?"
"Major Knight at the Mojave Outpost. I'll mark its location on your Pip-Boy," Major Knight leaned over and I helpfully flipped over to the 'world map' for him. He tagged a location more south than west, and I whistled at the distance.
"That's definitely a long trip," I said, switching to the status screen and standing. "I'll make it to the outpost tonight and hopefully return with your troop support in the morning."
"It feels wrong to rely on you for this, but I know better by now than to try and talk you out of it," Hayes sighed, standing and offering his hand. I didn't hesitate in taking it and giving a firm shake. With that finished, I departed, giving a final wave over my shoulder. I'd taken my backpack with me when I left Nash's store, so there was no need to stay in Primm any longer. I looped my way back to the main guard post at the makeshift bridge to Primm's west side, then followed the small ledge south, following the wall. At last, I crossed onto the broken road and began walking the gray path to parts unknown. Okay, maybe I was being a little dramatic. It's hard to make walking down a road after the apocalypse sound exciting. After Primm, all there really was to see was sand, sand, desert scrub, rocks, and more sand. Oh, hey! There was a billboard, advertising Rita's Cafe. Apparently their pies were out of this world. Of course they were out of this world. Rita's Cafe was likely wiped off the map when the bombs dropped, or the building was taken over by some random group that had an aching desire to consume the spleens of passing travelers.
"Good lord walking is boring," I grumbled aloud to ED-E. My robot buddy chose to ignore me, listening to his radio. I caught something dark moving on the horizon and came to a full stop, raising my binoculars to check it out. Remember what I just said about a random spleen-eating group? I think I invoked Murphy's Law with it. Two unsavory fellows were wandering around in front of what used to be a State Highway Patrol station. The scavenged wrecks of numerous police cars littered the front of the station, blocking my sight. I was at a far enough range that if nothing attacked me from the sides or behind, I could snipe those two and any extras that would show up without risking a bullet.
"ED-E, combat mode. Keep an eye on my sides and rear. We've got hostiles up ahead," I pulled my Varmint Rifle off of my back and toggled its night vision setting off, then went prone and looked through the scope. ED-E played a small burst of music that would have belonged in a Western and distanced himself from me by a meter or so. I followed my standard procedure, finding my target and mentally 'locking on' to them, then giving a three second countdown and pulling the trigger. This worked well for the first bandit. It went without a hitch. Then, much to my annoyance, the other one saw his fallen friend's body and ran around the side of the building.
"ED-E, drop to ground level. Enemy's been alerted and we don't want them to see us," I said, cycling my rifle's bolt. ED-E let out an affirmative beep, and the whirring from his systems decreased. Four more bandits came out from behind the building, slowly scanning the area around them and brandishing various guns. These ones were better equipped than the Powder Gangers had been, using Winchester rifles or bulky pistols I didn't recognize. One was even dressed in a suit of armor with metal plates covering the vitals. I assumed that one to be the leader, since she had the best gear of the bunch, and lined up my shot. Three... Two... One... I pulled the trigger and braced against the recoil, still sighting through the scope. Pow! Right in the kisser! The leader crumbled like a sack of potatoes, and her underlings scrambled for cover. ED-E let out a burst of music again, pulling my attention away from the battle ahead.
I caught a flash of diseased, rotting flesh, the stench of decay nearly making me vomit on the spot. Then, a loud 'Pew!' and the crackle of electrical discharge. Whatever had been approaching glowed a vicious red, then dissolved into a pile of foul-smelling ash. Unfortunately that little side-encounter gave the bandits enough time to regroup and start charging down the road at us, firing their weapons without any real accuracy. It made me wonder if criminals all went to the Stormtrooper Academy in their younger years. I rose from my crouch and slung my Varmint Rifle over my shoulder, then reached a little to the left and grabbed the stock of the Sheriff's Winchester. My other hand reached into the pouch carrying my .357 rounds, snatching up a handful. With the bullets whizzing around me like deadly wasps, I began running over to the side of the road, where I'd spotted a decent-sized rock I could use for cover.
ED-E was apparently fitted with a laser blaster, and was spewing red beams at the enemy with little success. His targeting code probably wasn't optimized for long-distance encounters, which was something I'd eventually have to correct. I slotted the cartridges into the loading gate on the side of the Winchester's receiver and worked its lever once to load a round to the chamber. I roughly aimed through my gun's peep sight and pulled the trigger. There was no time for fancy marksmanship here, and my general lack of practice with the Winchester caused the shot to go wide. A bullet grazed the leather on my left leg, tearing a small cut in my thigh. I gritted my teeth against the stinging pain and worked the lever again, aimed, and fired once more. Another missed shot. The bandits were closing in now, and I was getting more and more frustrated, more and more angry. I took more grazes on my left arm and cheek, but managed to drop one of the bandits in turn with a shot through his heart. On my next attempt to shoot, the Winchester just clicked. I had emptied its tube on almost all missed shots. I dropped the rifle in the dust and reached down to my hip, a feral snarl rising in my throat.
The two remaining bandits were shouting and cheering, asking me if I 'liked the sight of my own blood'. To be truthful, I did not. Not one bit. Something guided my hand away from my stainless Hi-Power and to Joe Cobb's revolver. I pulled it from the holster, slapping the hammer into full-cock with my free hand on the way out. I dodged and weaved forward, bringing the confrontation into point blank range. I saw my victim's eyes widen in fear just before I shoved the revolver under his chin and pulled the trigger. Blood and gore splattered all over, splashing my face and drenching the sand in red. I heard a strangled gasp and whirled on the last bandit, who seemed frozen in place, staring at me wide-eyed. The empty magazine of his pistol was on the ground, and he had no other weapons. He tried so desperately to run, leaving a thin stream of dampness in his wake. He wasn't fast enough. I burst into a full sprint and chased down the man, ripping my knife out of its sheath and plunging it into his spine. I rolled over him, releasing my knife, and cocked the hammer on Joe Cobb's revolver one more time.
One last gunshot rang out, and ED-E flew over to me, letting out a worried whistle. I just shook my head, sighed, and reached into my medical bag for a roll of bandages.
"I'll be alright ED-E. Do you mind grabbing the loot while I take care of this? Weapons ammo, and stimpaks are priority," I said, unslinging my backpack and hanging it on the barrel of ED-E's laser pistol. "Put them in there... I'll... I'll look them over later."
I was breathing heavily from the stress. The conflict itself hadn't taken too much out of me, but losing myself to my darker instincts caused a whole different kind of strain. I cleaned my cuts with a few dabs of alcohol, a hiss escaping my lips at the burning pain. I wrapped each area tightly with a length of cloth and duct taped them. I made a mini band-aid with duct tape and a small square of cloth and used that to cover the injury on my cheek. Let me tell you, pulling that off later would not be fun. With my injuries dressed and my medical bag packed once more, I rose to my feet, pausing only to retrieve my knife from the dead bandit. I flicked the blood off of the blade, promising myself that I would clean it more thoroughly when time allowed. My emotions were generally drained after that encounter, and I hadn't even gone into the Highway Patrol Station yet. Deciding that it was better to wait until I was at 100%, I rested until ED-E returned with my backpack, which had a second Winchester hanging off of it. I pulled the bag off of ED-E's frame and slung it back over my shoulder. My robot buddy gave another whistle of worry, but I faked a smile and started walking again. The crows and predators of the Mojave could sort out the bandits' remains. I didn't want to look at them. The very thought of the one I'd used Cobb's revolver on...
Feeling my bile rise, I dashed to the side of the road and vomited, emptying my stomach of everything until there was naught but acid. Wiping my mouth gave me an excellent view of the red smear on my hand, bringing about a whole new round of retching. I tried to continue down the road, but I only made it two steps before I fell on my hands and knees. Feeling a new surge of frustration, I slammed my fist down onto the asphalt, feeling tears begin to run down my cheeks unbidden. A new number seared its way into my mind, and I wrote it on the ground in a mixture of blood from my knuckles and the blood from my victims.
'27'.
ENDING NOTES: Whew, got a little emotional at the end there. Yeah, I'm just gonna end the chapter and try to calm myself down after writing it. When I write from first person, I really do get into character mentally as much as possible. That tends to have some nasty effects on my mind and heart when I wrap it up or take a break. Anyways, Lucky had been obtained early due to sheer force of stubbornness, and Rain got a nifty new 9mm out of the deal as well. It's pretty much compensation since Rain won't actually be using Lucky. Also, I'm sorry if I'm turning anyone off with the supernatural activity. I respect each of your personal beliefs on matters of faith and otherwise, but my earliest memory was of two ghosts standing over my crib glowing blue. On that note, I leave you.
Until next time, Everyone!