The Addicted Merc

***

James

***

"We'll have our guns so far up their asshole, they'll spit bullets," Paul shouted and clapped his hands together enthusiastically.

"Yes! Spit bullets!" The old man added eagerly. He seemed very pleased by the notion.

James glanced back at the ghoul. His ugly, irradiated face appeared concerned as he stared at Tenpenny, but he seemed to sense James' eyes on him because he turned his head to meet the look. James felt the anger rise up through his chest like a fire; just looking at the ghoul made him want to leap across the table and bury his dagger in the monsters face. You can keep staring for now ghoul, but if three of us head out tomorrow and only two of us survive... you'll know why.

His anger was making his head feel heavy, and he suddenly craved for the sweet relief of some mentats or some buffout or some psycho or some anything. He had chems in his vest pocket, but he didn't want the old man that was hiring them to think one of them was a junky. At least not until they were paid. Paul was hovering over him and giving him that 'I know what you're thinking.' look that James absolutely despised. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, but relaxed a bit when he saw the ghoul turn and head back inside.

"I hope working with my ghoul-dog won't pose too much of a problem," Mr. Tenpenny began. "If I'd known you had such... strong feelings towards ghouls, believe me, I wouldn't have chosen him. I can still get you another man to replace your fallen comrade, of course, but know that while Winston may be a ghoul, he is one of the best combatants we have."

"You wouldn't have to worry about the ghoul-dog," Mister Burke added. There was something about the man James didn't like. "He does as he's told."

Paul looked down at him, eyes searching for any protest. When James showed none, his merc partner turned to Tenpenny and extended his hand for a shake. "Seems like we have a deal Mr. Tenpenny," he said. "Of course, with all the chaos in the wastelands lately, a down payment would sure go a long way in sealing said deal, if you catch my drift."

"Of course. Half now. Half upon your return with my plant." The old man was rolling his tongue around inside his mouth queerly. "I suppose that concludes are business today. You'll find your room on the fourth floor. Of course, your both welcome to go where you please. We have a number of shops on the lobby level, and our bar has more booze than any in the wastes. I can guarantee that." Paul and James exchanged an agreeing look. "And once again," Tenpenny began as he stood and stretched his old back out, "I do apologize for your loss."

James peered off the balcony into the vast wastes. They had set out from Fort Bannister with three men, but had arrived at Tenpenny Tower with only each other. The Talon Mercs were notorious for rolling in packs of threes, and this journey had been no different. Himself, Paul, and their recently deceased partner Jeffott had ran into a pack of raiders on their travels though, and Jeffott had been the unlucky one to catch a slug in the belly. He'd been a good merc... and a good friend.

With the meeting finished, he and Paul took the elevator down to the fourth floor, debated going to sleep for the long days work tomorrow, but decided against it at the last moment and headed to the lobby--more specifically, the bar--below to wind down and discuss things. They cut their way through the rather glorious lobby, painted in the glow of its chandelier, and made their way into the bar.

Tenpenny's tower had been full of people in the daytime when they'd arrived, and it seemed that a large portion of them had the same idea as they did: the bar was overflowing. Walls had been knocked down to accommodate for its flourishing business, stretching the bar from the front of the Tower to the very back in a long rectangle of booze and drunkards. James past a man barely standing on his own two feet, a smoldering cigarette burned down to its stub was threatening his fingers with its cherry. A tall woman with dark skin brushed past him and nearly spilt her drink on his chest. He cursed her and pushed on to the end of the bar, where seemingly the only two seats available were waiting lonely. Paul took one, he took the other. They ordered two beers from the bartender: a cute girl with a boyish haircut.

"So what do you make of 'em Jamesy?" Paul asked, opening the bottle of beer and taking a swig.

"The ancient man or his partner?"

"Either. Both."

James thought about it. He pulled a mentat from the inner-sewn pocket of his vest, pushed it between his lips, and washed it down with some beer. That would help the thinking. It always does. "Not sure," he admitted. Yet..

Paul sighed and drank more beer. "A plant out in the wastelands... can it be true? And what the hell does it mean?"

James shrugged. "Could mean a lot of things. Could mean nothing."

"Suppose you're right," Paul stated with a hearty laugh. "Assuming it does mean something, though.... this planet might actually be ready to start healing itself up. Wouldn't that be something?"

Mentats worked fast, and alcohol pushing it into the bloodstream helped even more. James felt the itch in his forehead; the tightness in his eyes; the shortening of his breath. He was coming alive under the drugs control. "Planet healing itself?" He questioned, turning to his merc partner. "Why would it go and do a thing like that? Look around us, Paul. If this planet needs to do anything, it needs to hurt itself. Get rid of the virus that's grown all over it."

Paul frowned at him. His friend knew about James' addiction, and he damn-sure knew when the drugs were kicking in. "You're talking about us? People? Human beings?"

"Mutants and fucking ghouls too," James added, swigging his beer. He really didn't like ghouls; even saying the word ghoul lit that familiar fire in his chest. "What the wastelands needs is a reboot, not a second chance."

Two men in the corner of the bar had been arguing since they sat down, and now their voices had grown loud and hostile. James glanced over and saw them stand, each man staring the other down in a match of bravery. And stupidity. The smaller one took a sudden swing at the taller one, but he ducked it, picked up a bottle, and crashed it over his foes head. They wrestled for a bit more before stopping, looking at each other, and began to laugh their asses off. These men don't deserve a second chance at anything, James thought and took a swig of beer.

"Maybe you're right," Paul said thoughtfully as he pulled his gaze from the fighting men. "Doesn't matter though, we ain't the ones to decide such things. Tomorrow we need to find that plant before some shit-eating mutant does... or god-forbid this 'Wasteland King' and his raiders. I wouldn't trust a man who calls himself king. Nope. Wouldn't trust him one bit."

"Well this is a lively conversation over here," the bartender girl began as she appeared from beneath the bar cleaning out a glass. "Kings and plants... much more interesting than the usual talk you hear floating around a place like this."

James shifted uncomfortably in his seat, but Paul only widened his smile and pushed the empty beer bottle in her direction. If it had been a few days earlier, they'd both be shot for talking about such things freely--let alone in a bar--, but now the entire wastes were buzzing with talks of plants and kings and bullshit and more bullshit. James didn't buy in to much any of it. He was just looking to be paid. "What concern is it of yours?" He asked the girl. Her short hair was an odd shade of red, almost like fire, but her eyes were in stark contrast: soft and blue.

"I'm the bartender," she replied with a grin. "And you're speaking at my bar. That about makes it my concern, don't you agree?"

He opened his mouth to retort, but Paul cut in. "Fair enough," he cooly diffused the situation. "Now, in all fairness, a bartender should share gossip. So I ask... what have you heard, ma'am?"

"Abby," she corrected. "Abby Mayflower."

"Paul the Merc," he introduced himself with a grin and nodded in James' direction. "My partner: James the Merc!"

"Well Paul the Merc and James the Merc, nice to meet you. Same last name; you two brothers?" She joked.

Paul laughed and slapped his thigh. James felt sick. Between the two of them, Paul had always been the outgoing, loud, talkative one that everyone seemed to like. He joked often and made friends easy, and that was just Paul. James was his best friend, but they couldn't be more different. He kept to himself mostly, avoiding people when possible and always more interested in the business of his Talon Merc Company than its pleasure. He noticed her eyes on his own, the mentats running thickly through him now, and shoved his empty beer in her direction. "We're not brothers," he answered her. "And I'm empty."

Her lip twisted. "Not much of a sense of humor on this one, huh?" She questioned as she fetched two fresh beers from beneath the bar.

"He's a vault dweller, what can you expect?" Paul answered, and James shot him an annoyed look. He was always giving out information like it was going out of style.

"Really?" Abby Mayflower said, sounding genuinely interested. "You came from a vault?"

James would have knocked Paul on his ass for that, but the mentats were on him strong then, and he figured Paul must have known. "A long time ago."

"Been a wastelander like the rest of us for... what? Ten years now?" Paul asked, downing a large gulp of beer.

"Something like that," James answered, eager to move the conversation anywhere else. He faced the bartender. "Are you going to share anything yourself, or do you just get off on hearing other people's stories?"

Abby grinned. "You speak of plants and king and vaults. I don't know anything about any of that. Although... I hear this Wasteland King is a charming person. Raised an army of raiders, is that the tale?"

"Them's the tales," Paul agreed. "King, hah! Why would any man want to rule these wastes? I heard a saying once that went: 'You can rule all the shit in the world, but at the end of the day, you'd still only be the king of shit!'." He laughed loudly at that. "I say, let 'em have it."

"I say the Talon Company should set their sites on him next," James said. The mentats and booze had loosened his tongue, or else he'd never had spoke so freely in front of a stranger. "It doesn't matter if he's crazy or genius. A man with an army is a dangerous man regardless."

"Drink to that," Paul agreed and raised his bottle. Abby the bartender seemed to enjoy listening to them.

"What if this raider king means to make things better?" She asked. "What if this king could change the wastes for good? Does the king deserve to die then?"

"You call him a king as if he's already got a throne," James replied. "And no man wants power for the good of others. They want it to wield it, and make things better for them self." Why am I telling her so much? Paul's influence. And mentat influence. "Anyway... it's getting late. We have work to do tomorrow." He glanced at Paul.

"That we do," Paul agreed and pushed some caps onto the bar. "Good meeting you Abby Mayflower."

"Same to you, Paul." She turned her look from one merc to another. "Goodnight James."

He gave a small nod, not caring for the way her eyes laid so casually on his own, and stood to leave with his partner. The booze and drugs made him float, and before he knew it, he was crashing in the bed Tenpenny had promised on the fourth floor. Sleep came easy, and in his dreams he saw a man with a crown on his head: laughing as laid claim to all the wastes.

***

He awoke the next day sharp and sudden; the mentats would do that to you. Paul was already showering in the bathroom, and he found himself longing to change from the stale-smelling clothes and armor he wore to take a shower of his own. Tenpenny had promised his water was the least-radiated in the wastes, but James doubted that. So far, Tenpenny's shit stank just as bad as anyone else's.

"Jamesy," Paul called, walking out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel. "You're up, and by the smell of ya - you better hurry." He laughed at his own joke.

The water wasn't any cleaner than any he'd bathed in before, but it was hot, and sometimes hot water could go a long way. He stood beneath the shower head letting the water and steam blanket him as he opened his palm and shoveled the two tablets of jet he had into his mouth. He dry swallowed, tilted his head back, and let streams of water rush down his face as the drug began to set in. Jet was always good for a morning snack. It made you forget about being hungry; firing off all the circuits in your central nervous system and waking up the entire body in a rush of energy. Mentats were a good follow-up, and if you were sore from the day before, nothing killed the pain like a couple of Med-X.

An amount of time passed that James couldn't be sure of before Paul was banging at the door. "Are you getting stoned in there? Hurry your ass up James! The ghoul is already downstairs!"

The ghoul. James grimaced, a spark of anger burning in the pit of his stomach, but then he popped a mentat, dressed in his Talon combat armor, and headed out into the hall to meet his partner anyway.

Tenpenny Tower was late to bed, late to rise. It was a much more quiet, subdued atmosphere as they took the elevator to the ground floor and strolled through the lobby. A spattering of people were grouped around the big, double doors that served as the entrance, but for the most part it was quiet. They slid past the group and pushed through the doors. At the main gate, the ghoul was waiting in his grey suit and dark fedora. James wondered if he dressed like the Burke fellow on purpose, or if that was one of the dog's commands. The ghoul's gun--the one that had been pointed at James' forehead not twelve hours earlier--was exposed on the creatures hip. Fool. Only an amateur would go toting his gun around so carelessly, James thought. All I would have to do is stick his right arm with a well-placed stab of my dagger and his gun becomes useless beneath his left arm. The mentats coursed through him.

Another guy was standing beside the ghoul. The man who'd greeted them when they had arrived the day before. He called himself Chief of Security, though James didn't understand what exactly he was 'securing'.

"Morning," the Chief named Gustavo called, "Good luck on your travels today."

"Who needs luck when you've got big fucking guns strapped to your back?" Paul joked and slapped the Chief on the arm. The man didn't seem to find it funny.

"You're transportation is quite clever. Impressive too," The ghoul called Winston said. James hated the sound of a ghoul-voice. It was so gravelly and unpleasant on the ears. "Chief Gustavo was kind enough to get it all ready for us, so if you two are prepared to leave..."

James didn't like the idea of strangers putting hands on their transportation, but it was too late to fume now. He and Paul followed the ghoul and chief out the front gates and to the side of the Tower.

The Yao Guai were snapping at each other and low, guttural growls filled the air. James hated the stink of Yao Guai almost as much at the sound of a ghoul, but the beasts were strong and--after much training at Fort Bannister--obedient.

There was six of them in total; each of their necks fitted with a heavy steel collar that attached one to the other, forming a tight pack that could not be separated. It was Jabsco's brain-child, and it worked well: if just one of the bear-beasts tried lashing out or running, the other five would be pulled and forced to use their strength to reel it back in. Behind them, the front half of a Nuka-Cola semi-trailer towered up fifteen feet in the air; the trucks cabin and air dam were shimmering steel beneath the Sun's light. A trailer would have been too much for the Yao Guai, so the back half was nothing more than an empty square of metal and bolts. Thick chains attached the pack of bear-beasts to the truck - a relic of the old world when vehicles still cut across the land and hideous mutants and ghouls were nowhere to be seen. James wondered what that world was like, and if he'd ever get a chance to see it.

"You're sure this is safe?" The ghoul questioned, stepping wide to put distance between himself and the Yao Guai. "How well are the beasts trained?"

"Safest, easiest, and quickest transportation in the wastelands, my friend," Paul exclaimed as he jumped up to the drivers seat, pulled the door opened with a squeak, and waved his hand.

Chief Gustavo wished them luck again before heading back inside, and then they were left alone with Winston. James opted to ride outside on the tail of the semi, not exactly eager to be cooped up in the cab with the ghoul, and Paul agreed. He gave Winston a quick rundown of how to 'pull'. The steering was a two-man process: a thick chain ran to each window and coiled there around the inside of the door. Pulling on the chain tugged the lead Yao Guai in the corresponding direction, effectively steering the whole rig where it needed to go. All Jabsco's invention. James admired the Merc leader; always so smart and fearless.

"Ready back there Jamesy?" Paul shouted.

"Yes," he answered.

Then the rig was moving; slowly at first, but when the Yao Guai began to spill down the gentle slope of the hill, they were cruising. The morning air pushed into James' face as he gripped a steel rod beneath his legs. When they emerged from the shadow of Tenpenny Tower, James glanced up at it. Undoubtedly, it would be the last time he ever saw it. What they were planning to do to old man Tenpenny would--to say the least--upset him. James allowed a slight grin to crawl over his face. And when we find that plant... your time is up as well ghoul. If anyone was going to rule the wastes, it would be Jabsco. It would be the Talon Company Mercenaries.

James popped some jet as their truck rolled on into the wastelands.

He felt good.

***