Chapter 4: Skin Deep
I do not own Fallout: New Vegas, that belongs to Obsidian and Bethesda
The inside of the garage had held up surprisingly well, given that it had been abandoned for who knows how long. A thick layer of dust covered everything and most of the food had gone bad, but there were still a few medical supplies and even some Sunset Sarsaparilla to tide the group over. A skeleton laid in the corner of the building, an ancient blood splatter behind its head and a rusted 9mm pistol in hand. It was obvious what had happened here, so there was no need for the quartet to talk about it.
But it was the object in the middle of the garage was what caught the group's eyes. An old Highwayman, covered in graffiti and scratches, rested comfortably in the middle of the garage. It didn't look as run down as most of the other vehicles here; it looked surprisingly intact. A desk was nearby, with a computer terminal on top of it. Lyra was currently going through the many files on the terminal, fascinated by the lore there.
"Found anything interesting?" Dean Domino inquired. "A safe stashed somewhere containing some loot, possibly?"
"…I've found something very interesting." Lyra admitted. "This car, this Highwayman, is apparently a very very special car."
"How so?" God asked. "From where I stand, this machine looks to be the same as all the other vehicles in this graveyard."
"Well, according to this terminal, this Highwayman used to belong to the Chosen One." Lyra stated slowly, a tinge of awe to her voice. "At least, before it got stolen by this group of scavengers."
The mood in the garage shifted somewhat at the Courier's statement. Christine had whipped her scarred head up, her eyes widening slightly, while God and Dean just stood there unfazed.
"The Chosen One?" Dean asked, a mocking tone to his voice. "Someone thought highly of themselves, didn't they? Might as well have called themselves Emperor…"
"The Chosen One was a hero to the people of New California," Christine explained. "Stopped the Enclave dead in their tracks, and became a legend of the NCR."
"Hmmm, that makes sense," God muttered. "Dog and I had heard stories about this Chosen One. Only whispers; murmurs about this so called hero who crushed the Enclave. So this vehicle belonged to him?"
"It belonged to her, yes," Lyra corrected. "But these scavengers apparently hijacked it, planning to sell it to some group called the Ciphers, led by some guy called Ratchet. And the last terminal update was... Holy crap, nearly four years ago!"
"Four years ago?" Christine muttered. "They must be dead, no doubt. No other explanation for why this Highwayman is still here."
"Probably got on the wrong side of one of those Deathclaw things out there," Dean mused. "Well, whatever does remain of this scavenger group, I highly doubt they're in enough pieces to care if we nick this 'Chosen One' memorabilia."
"...you mean, steal the car?" Lyra inquired.
"Why not?" Dean fired back. "It might be 200 years since I've driven one of these, but I do, in fact, know how to drive a car. Just chuck my loot in the trunk - preferably along with our violent mutant friend - and myself behind the wheel, and we should reach Vegas in no time flat."
"It's been four years since this vehicle has been used, Domino," Christine stated. "You really think it'll still work?"
At that comment, a wide grin appeared on Dean's irradiated face as he walked towards the Highwayman. The ghoul singer placed a hand on the hood of the car while Christine and the others stood back in confusion.
"Luckily for us, we do have an ace up our sleeves," Dean stated, turning around to face Christine. "My father was a car enthusiast. Spent most of his weekends dissembling and reassembling the family Buick's engine... before a stroke took him. My father forced me to sit with him and listen to him prattle on and on about Highwaymans and Buicks and Corvegas and such. And luckily for us, these memories are well ingrained into my brain. I could more than likely fix this jalopy up." He grinned. "With your help of course."
"Me?" Christine asked.
"I saw you make those counterfeit chips that managed to fool Sinclair's Vending Machines," Dean explained. "You have a knack for mechanics and tools; a real blue-collar worker. I'm sure you'd be able to figure out how this car works. Now, come on! Chop-chop! Time is money, and I'd like to be in Vegas by yesterday, thank you."
"Who put you in charge, singer?" God growled, spitting the title like it tasted foul in his mouth.
"The minute we found this little piece of treasure and found our shortcut home," Dean responded simply. "Now, you can walk all the way to Vegas... Or you can listen to me for once. Your choice."
A week had passed since Project Highwayman had begun.
It was what Dean had called it - and expected everyone else to call it - saying that the mission deserves a proper title. "Something catchy."
To no one's surprise, the Highwayman was in a sad state of disrepair and in desperate need of replacement parts. Luckily for everyone involved, however, there was an entire yard filled with replacement parts they could need and more.
Everyone had worked together, assembling and dissembling and connecting all the parts together to form one workable car. While God was ripping the ancient vehicles outside apart, salvaging any part worth saving, the Courier kept an eye out on things; making sure no Yao Guai or Deathclaw got close, and responsible for making food for everyone. Christine and Dean worked in tandem. The Brotherhood scribe and the ghoul may have growled and argued with one another constantly, but at least they managed to continue working together with relative speed.
After the week had passed, Dean had announced the car was finished. Assembling everyone into the garage, he put the car key into the ignition and turned it. The car roared to life, the sound deafening. God and Christine scowled at the noise, while Lyra quickly covered her ears and closed her eyes.
A wide grin was plastered on Domino's face as a loud laugh escaped his lips. "It worked!" he announced proudly. "I did it, I saved everyone! You may thank me all later."
"Careful there, singer," God growled. "Or your ego will grow so large, you won't be able to exit this garage."
"Oh, please, save your witty statements when we're in Vegas celebrating over a bottle of champagne and caviar," Domino fired back. "Or in your case, my mutated friend, tap water and cram. Now come on, let's all pile in!" Without even bothering to look back, Domino opened the driver door of the Highwayman and sat behind the wheel, smugness radiating off of him in waves.
God gave the broken down vehicle a distrustful glare before sitting in the backseat, his massive frame taking up most of the space. Lyra and Christine offered each other a look, silently debating over who got the passenger seat, before the Courier gave Royce a small smile and went to sit next to God. Letting out a relived sigh, Christine made her way to the passenger seat, resting her Holorifle on her lap. The sack filled with Domino's gold rested in the trunk of the Highwayman, the bag carefully tied up.
"It's one-hundred and six miles to Vegas," Dean stated to himself. "We have a full tank of gas, half a pack of cigarettes, it's dark out, and only one of us is wearing decent clothing."
"Hit it!" Lyra responded, a wry grin on her face.
The sun was slowly breaking over the horizon, and the only sound being made was of the Highwayman making its way across the dusty desert. The car had been left relatively unscathed by the local wildlife, outside of a Radscorpion that had tried to test its luck against the car before it found itself disintegrated by Christine's Holorifle.
The quartet had fallen silent since leaving the abandoned garage behind, unsure of what exactly to say. Now that all four of them actually had a moment of peace to themselves, they found that they were also unsure of what exactly to do.
Lyra looked at her three companions and bit her lower lip before she decided to break the silence. "You know, I've heard lots of stories about cars..." Lyra stated out loud. "Is it true that these things have built-in radios?"
"Not all cars," Dean answered. "But more often than not, they did have radios. And, luckily for us, this vehicle does indeed have a radio."
"...could we turn it on for a bit?" the Courier inquired hesitantly.
The singer didn't respond, instead silently reaching over to turning on the radio in the Highwayman. Static filled the cabin, causing Lyra to wince, before the ancient radio managed to pick up a signal. The sound of Vera Keye's voice, tinged with sorrow, as the first few beats of Begin Again began to play.
Almost immediately, Christine and Dean's hands both reached for the radio and wrenched it off, returning the car to its tense silence.
Domino stared straight ahead at the dusty road, an unreadable expression on his irradiated face before he spoke up. "Anyone interested in telling some stories, perhaps?" Dean inquired. "Maybe a funny anecdote or something to pass the time maybe?"
"Don't have many fun stories," Christine shrugged. "And the stories I do have aren't ones I enjoy repeating."
"My stories wouldn't interest you, unless you enjoy blood and violence," God quipped. "Maybe our little liar has some stories she would like to share?"
"God, stop badgering Lyra!" Christine stated tersely. "She can tell her stories when she's ready to, and not when you demand them!"
"No no, it's alright Christine," the Courier responded. "I... I think I should be telling my stories and stop keeping them locked away. Might help me sleep better at night, at least."
"Well then, proceed," God stated, crossing his arms.
"…Do you wanna know why I hated my bomb collar so much, why I always picked and scratched at it?" Lyra asked. "Because it reminded me too much of my youth."
Almost immediately, the air inside of the Highwayman seemed to turn cold. A shocked look flashed across Dean's face before it quickly morphed into an unreadable expression. God looked somewhat intrigued, but Christine had pure fury in her eyes.
"You mean, you were...?" Christine started, leaving the last word hanging in the air.
"Not a slave, no! Or, at least, not me personally," the Courier explained. "I grew up in a tribe, up in the Carlsbad Caverns. We called ourselves the Moon Sifters, and we were a proud tribe... until slavers came. My tribe fought long and hard, killing as many of those slaver bastards as possible, but... We lost. Our men were slaughtered, our women and children enslaved, and our history destroyed."
As she spoke, tears welled up in Lyra's eyes as painful memories flooded her brain. She remembered all the blood and corpses, the children screaming as collars were strapped around their necks and the women... the women being violated by those slaver bastards. Lyra might have forgotten plenty of memories because of those two bullets to her head, but those memories... Those were burned into her brain and would never leave her.
"How did you survive?" God inquired.
"I ran. Simple as that," Lyra explained, a hollow tone to her voice. "I was only fifteen. I thought I could take anything on. But when I saw those band of slavers, with their cattle prods and slave collars, I was scared. I was beyond petrified. I knew what happened to female slaves, and I didn't want that happening to me. I told everyone they needed to flee, to get out of there! But... that was considered the coward's way out. We were expected to stand our ground and fight for our land. But I didn't do that. I grabbed a duffle bag and fucking fled, telling myself I'd come back and maybe save some people. When I did come back... all I saw was horror and death."
An awkward silence fell inside of the Highwayman as the three other companions struggled to say something. What could one say to a story like that besides hollow apologies? The Courier then turned to God, an empty look in her eyes.
"That's my story, God," Lyra stated flatly. "That's my beginnings; the events that made me into who I am today. A coward who keeps on running, fearing my past."
"Why tell us now, when before you were so hesitant?"
"Because it's time I stopped being a coward," the Courier said, more resolute. "It's time I stopped running from my past. Time to face it head on. The story of the Moon Sifters needs to be told, so that future generations spread our stories before we get swallowed up by history. I'm the last of my tribe, and it is my duty to tell what happened. I've been negligent... Afraid. But no longer... I need to start acting like Lyra of the Moon Sifters.
"I need to embrace my past."
And Chapter 4 of New Beginnings is done and dusted. I would like to thank my good friend Psychomentats for proofreading this Chapter; she is an absolute angel for everything she has done. I hope to see you guys at the next Chapter!
Love,
The Desert Dancer