Way Back Home: Troubles By the Score

"Wake up, asshole." The angry voice was accompanied by a boot connecting - and not gently - with his foot. John groaned and tried to bury his face further under his blanket, but there was another kick, against his shin this time. Ok, that one hurt. He sat up, covering his eyes from the bright morning sun with one hand.

"What the fuck d'you want?" His voice was hoarse, more a grunt that anything else.

Blackbird stood over him, arms crossed. He blinked a few times, trying to make out the expression on her face. Behind her, Jack's bulk was menacing. When he scrubbed his eyes with the back of one hand, he was able to see what he'd suspected - they both looked pissed. He tried to think back to the night before, to figure out what he might have done to inspire this wake-up call, but everything came up blank.

Nicole. He blinked stupidly up at Blackbird and her brother as things started returning to him. She'd come to him in the night, wanting, her hands down his pants, her lips drunkenly caressing his throat. And again, he hadn't wanted any part of that - he'd just taken a big hit of Med-X and wanted to watch the stars dance, not tumble with a confused little girl. He'd told her to leave him alone and in the darkness he'd seen something flit through her eyes, something resolute and cold.

"What's going on?" He tried again, tried to sound more concerned this time as he crawled out of his makeshift bed.

"The girl."

"Nicole," Jack clarified.

"That's right," Blackbird waved a hand at her brother. "Nicole. She's gone."

No real surprise there. John didn't know how long a waif like that would survive out in the unforgiving desert, but he thought again of the expression she'd given him when he shooed her away, and found that he'd expected this for a while.

"Didn't think you'd care," he drawled, searching his pockets for his cigarettes. When he found them, he pulled one out and lit it, then maneuvered to standing, trying to ignore the pops in his dodgy hip. Not even forty and already - oh well. He might still be shorter than Blackbird and her enormous brother, but at least it made him feel less powerless to be standing level with them.

"I don't," the caravan leader said dryly. "What I do care about is that she helped herself to one of my brahmin and loaded it with two cases of UltraJet and a box of grenades."

John choked on his cigarette smoke and coughed. Behind the caravaneers, he could see Bruiser and Honey sitting by the campfire, their backs to him, sharing a can of Cram and a bottle of something. He wondered if he was about to be shot. He wondered if he'd be left alive for the desert to take him, or if they'd finish the job.

"That's unfortunate," he said finally, meeting the woman's dark eyes. "You sure she wasn't taken by raiders or something?"

"There was a note." Jack held out a tattered piece of paper. Scrawled on it were just two lines:

I hate you all. Thanks for the Jet.

Nicole

John took another puff of his cigarette, tried to think of what to say. Tried to maintain his composure.

"How do I know you two weren't in on this together?" Blackbird's hand strayed to the pistol at her hip. It was a massive .44, weathered but still deadly. He'd traveled far enough with her to know her aim was true and she wouldn't hesitate.

"Maybe you meet her somewhere down the road. Split the profits," Jack rumbled from behind her. John could see the sledge in the big man's hands, and for the first time he felt really, truly nervous.

"Try to do a good thing and get fucked anyway," he muttered, looking down as he dropped the cigarette onto the ground and crushed it under one boot. He raised his head again, met Blackbird's eye. "Look, I may not be the most... trustworthy guy you've ever hired, but I'm telling you I had nothing to do with this."

Blackbird's lips were a thin pink line. John knew the look in her eyes - she was trying to figure out whether she believed him or not. Behind her, behind Jack, he saw Honey had turned; she still sat on the big pink rock, but now one hand held a small knife. She was clearly watching their exchange with interest, but something about that made him feel more comfortable, not less. Interesting.

"Fine. Job stops here then," the tall woman stopped, turning on her heel, and marched away from him. Jack followed a little slower, his face stiff as he pounded the sledge in his hands once as if to prove a point.

Here. Job stopped here? Where the fuck even was here, and when would he get paid?

John caught himself on a boulder and charged after them, his feet moving faster than his brain.

"Now just wait a minute -" He shouldered past Jack and put one hand on Blackbird's shoulder, guiding her into a spin to meet his eyes. She arched one eyebrow and this time the threat of her gun wasn't subtle; she had it out and aimed right for his gut. Well, fuck her. He was still owed something.

"I thought I was clear."

"No you fucking weren't. It's not my fault that girl stole and ran off -"

"It's your fault she was here in the first place." If there had been a drop of water about, the boss's voice could have chilled it to ice.

"That might be true, but I've been with you since the Commonwealth. You owe me, lady."

The laugh she gave him was infectious; it spread from her to Jack, whose chuckle was like a roll of thunder, deep and threatening. Bruiser had appeared over Blackbird's shoulder as well, and he joined in, chuckling darkly as he picked at his nails with an enormous combat knife.

"You'll take your hand off me, you little junky, or I'll owe you a bullet in the face," Blackbird told him, her voice a blade wrapped in silk. "I've fed your sorry ass - not to mention that useless girl you insisted come too - and because of you I'll be out caps for this trip. You're lucky I don't stake you to the ground for the cazadors."

John's hand went limp and slipped from Blackbird's shoulder; he certainly didn't mean to drop it. He wasn't scared of a little pain. But he was so shocked by the venom in her tone that he found his entire body loosening.

It was over. He was stuck in the desert, over two thousand miles from home with no caps and no idea where to go, or how to get there. He turned and walked back to his things as the others began to pack up. Another fucking failure; another squandered chance. He trudged back to his bedroll and dropped onto it. In his bag was a can of water and some -

No. No, no, that little bitch.

His bag was almost completely empty. A carton of dirty water, a half-drunk bottle of scotch, a spare pair of skivvies, and an almost-empty inhaler of Jet. Everything else - his clean clothes, cans of pure water, the Fancy Lad Snack Cakes he'd been hording, the good whiskey he'd been hanging on to for a special occasion, all his fucking chems - they were all gone. The bag was barren as the goddamn desert around him.

He wanted to let out a wail of frustration and disgust that he'd saved that girl from slavery and she'd fuckin' stole from him -

"Looks like you're in a spot of trouble," Honey's voice came over his shoulder, her tone calm and a little amused.

"Sure looks like it." Yes, it fucking does, John.

"Need a smoke?" She settled on the bedroll next to him, looking out over the horizon. He took a cigarette from the pack she offered him, and she lit it for him with a faint smile. They smoked quietly for a moment, John's brain spinning as he tried to think what he was going to do next. Where he would go. How he would find it by himself. How he'd pay for things when he got...wherever.

Fuck. He'd really been counting on those caps.

"Got any ideas on what you'll do next?"

John laughed; the sound was bitter. He didn't miss the small smile that Honey gave him, as if she found all this funny.

"No fuckin' idea, babe. Wait - didn't they just leave without you?"

This time she smiled for real. It was a pretty smile; her teeth were all there and white against her tan skin and her full pink lips. He couldn't help but see the sharpness behind it, too.

"Fuck 'em," she said, stretching her legs out and looking down the valley. "Don't need 'em and I'm not headed to Vegas anyway. I was just putting off what I have to do going back to the Strip."

"And what's that?"

She turned to face him again, her eyes running over him slowly from the top of his head down to the toes of his boots; when she flicked her eyes back up to meet his, he had the uncomfortable feeling of having been laid bare, stripped down to his core and judged.

"I told you. I'm running an errand for my dad."

"That story again." He took a puff of the stale cigarette and blew the smoke back out. It drifted away to the pink and orange rocks below.

"It's the truth," she said quietly. "In its own way."

Maybe he'd misjudged her.

"Why don't you come with me?" She didn't look at him as she said this; she kept her eyes on the valley, and he could see why; the rocks glowed in the morning sun, and he fancied he could see waves of heat rising off them.

"I dunno," he teased. "You know I've got so many fine offers. What's the pay?"

"Two hundred caps if you help me get in and out of where I need to be in one piece." Damn. Less than what Blackbird's going rate had been. Still, beggars can't choose and all.

"Is it going to be dangerous?"

She turned to look him in the eye and her smile was dazzling, and wicked.

"By Mojave standards, or where you come from?"

"Either. Both, I guess."

"Let's just say there's a good chance we'll both be crucified by the end of next week," she told him. John couldn't tell if that was a joke or not, especially with the little laugh she gave. Either way, the thought of a real fight sent a small thrill down his spine. He heard a voice in his head that said: at last.

It felt like his whole life had been building to this moment.

"I'm in."

It took a whole four hours before Honey started to regret asking him along. It might have been better just to swing by Novac and pick up Boone - they'd have to go through there anyway - and then at least she wouldn't have to deal with the way this guy was looking at her. She had to keep reminding herself that Boone wouldn't have blended in, that his rage against the Legion ran too hot and he'd likely run straight into Caesar's tent and get himself shot before she could figure out what was going on. It was this guy or hire some pendejo out of the Atomic Wrangler who didn't know which end of his gun was the dangerous one. At least John looked like he knew how to use the shotgun he carried, even if he spent half the time they were walking staring at her ass.

The trip to the Grab 'n' Gulp had taken all the daylight they had; she'd briefly considered pushing on into the night, but it would be several more hours walk to the 188 and that seemed like pushing it. If she'd been alone, maybe -

But no, she's promised to bring back-up, and so she was. If this guy could be considered back-up; he might be able to use his shotgun, but he was shaky and sweating after their hike through the desert and guzzling water as fast as Lupe could get it to him. Honey had made the campfire and bought them each a gecko kabob from Fitz. John had taken two bites and started retching and when she saw the red around his eyes it was as if a light went on for her.

She didn't have any memories of seeing chem-users go into withdrawal, but somehow she knew what it was just the same.

When John came back to the fire after vomiting in the dirt by the overpass, she raised her eyebrows and watching him settle back by the fire. Shivers, shaking, sweats, red eyes, vomiting - her guess was Med-X or maybe Jet. Definitely not a Psycho or Slasher user, she'd bet, at least not habitually. Just her luck, hiring a junkie who couldn't even maintain enough of a stash to be functional.

Though she watched him huddle in his blanket against the quickly-dropping desert temperatures, Honey found her mind drift to the syringes of Med-X in the bottom of her pack. She thought of the number of doses she'd taken since the bullet scrambled her up and she felt a wave of - guilt? annoyance? - when she thought of how quickly she'd dismissed him.

Well. There was an easy way to deal with this. She might not have any Jet, but she had enough Med-X to get the two of them through the next week - I hope I do, anyway, she thought - and after they were done at Caesar's camp maybe they'd take a breather and visit the Followers. Maybe by then Arcade would've worked out something to do about her headaches and she could get treated, take a dose of Fixer, and just sleep until she felt normal again.

A girl could dream, right?

Before she could change her mind, she reached deep into her bag and pulled out a couple syringes of Med-X and pressed them into John's hand. His eyes didn't seem to register what she was doing at first, then she watched as they focused on the slim vials in his hands, on the long silvery needles glinting inside their protective plastic sleeves. His eyes, when they met hers, flashed a series of emotions so quickly she couldn't catch them all - gratitude, surprise, something that hinted at embarrassment. She busied herself with finishing her gecko kabob and finding the outhouse. Best to leave him alone to do what needed to be done.

When she came back to the campfire the syringes were gone, packed away somewhere, and her new companion was glassy-eyed, his hands steady again. Her head was beginning to ache, but she could wait until he nodded off to take her own hit; something in her didn't want him to know her own weaknesses. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

John couldn't get over how different the countryside was out here; the roads were almost completely bare of old cars, and without the comparative greenery of the Commonwealth, he felt like he could see for miles. Probably he could.

He hadn't said anything to her about the Med-X donation. He would've preferred some Jet, but going through withdrawal, he couldn't be too picky. At least the opiate smoothed all the edges; walking down the highway felt more like floating. He was feeling so good, in fact, that he thought somehow he'd begun to hallucinate when he saw the giant creature standing by the road. It was enormous, bigger than anything he'd seen since he got to this godforsaken desert, taller than the overpass they'd slept near the night before.

Maybe it was the heat. He gave Honey a sidelong glance to see if she noticed it, but between her sunglasses and hat, he couldn't tell her expression. She didn't look like she'd seen a giant gecko or whatever the fuck that thing was, though, so it had to be an hallucination. Right?

But the closer they got, the bigger it was. It almost occurred to him, almost as an afterthought, that the damn thing wasn't moving. It stood perfectly still, towering over the road, mouth agape, and finally John had to ask. He stood in the road, stock-still, and pointed.

"Tell me you're seeing this thing."

Honey turned, rocking back on her heel, and took off her hat. Ran a hand through her sleek hair, let it dance in the breeze. "This thing?" She pointed at the big beast which, he could see now, was a statue. John nodded.

"That's Dinky," she said, as if that explained everything.

Dinky, huh? The fuck?

"Oh, of course," his tone was laced with sarcasm and he thought he saw a smile quirk one side of her lips. "Dinky. How could I forget."

"He's a dinosaur. He's kind of...Novac's mascot."

"Novac."

She gestured at the sad collection of sun-bleached buildings behind the dinosaur.

"I see," he said.

"Hey, Honey, how's it going?" A voice called from above. When John looked up, he saw a man with a dark complexion and a red hat in the creature's mouth. He wondered how hot it might be in there, up in the mouth of a metal dinosaur in the sun.

"Good, Manny. You?" Honey looked up, shading her eyes with one hand. Her leather armor was silent as she moved. John wondered if she was in the habit of sneaking up on people; she moved as if she was. John's thoughts drifted as the two chatted for a few minutes, and then Honey pulled her hat back on and began walking back down the road.

They walked for hours, the sun blazing, and John began to understand why everyone wore long sleeves and pants, despite the heat and the smell of their unwashed sweat. The backs of his hands were glowing red with a vicious sunburn by the time the sun went down, and he was astonished by how much that tender skin hurt. Honey'd taken them off the main road some time ago, muttering something about "camp Searchlight," which sounded like nonsense to him, but he'd followed her like a good little dog. Now they bumbled through the low desert plants, around cacti and brush. In the distance he saw and honest to go tumbleweed, like he was in one of those old Western holotapes he saw at the library.

What the actual fuck had he been thinking, following this mad broad off into the desert? He was gonna die out here.

Caps, he reminded himself. Enough caps to get a place to stay for a night, maybe one with a real bed, maybe a dame with big tits to share it. Maybe some booze and some Jet and time to formulate a plan to get back home.

There wouldn't be any fun nights in Vegas if he didn't get paid, after all.

Honey had planned for them to sleep in the old sniper's nest overlooking the river that night. She'd wanted to rest, to take a hit of Med-X to push back the headache that threatened to split her head in two, and walk into Cottonwood Cove recharged and calm. But when she peered over the ridge to look down at the camp, the scope on her rifle revealed something she hadn't anticipated - slaves. New ones, from the look of it; they weren't in the uniform yet, all trapped in an exposed cage despite the chill of the evening, all wearing collars. Three of them, a woman, a teenage girl, and a young boy.

A family.

It was the girl that worried her the most. She had a good idea what was waiting for her. There was the memory of screaming, as a girl was taken away. A sister? She couldn't remember. All she could remember was the nail-biting fear, the sensation that when she saw her again, the older girl wouldn't be the same. She'd be changed, somehow, not who she was supposed to be.

For a moment Honey felt and overpowering rage - a red veil seemed to fall over her head, and the scars on her temple began to pulse fiercely. Her heart was erratic - she could feel it in her chest, battering against her ribs, frantic to get out - and no matter how many times she counted to ten, she couldn't seem to calm herself. It was a hand on her shoulder that jolted her out of herself, that made her look up and see the concern written across John's face. His dark brows furrowed, his lips slightly turned down - it was clear he knew something was up.

Well, of course he did; she was hyperventilating like a fucking crackpot. He probably thought she was going to die before she paid him.

Think, Honey, she told herself. Averiguarlo. You can do this.

She blinked a couple times, trying to clear her vision. John kept his eyes locked on hers the whole time and while she knew she should be frustrated at him - she could feel his cool hands around her own now - she found something about the contact soothing. Before she could think about it too hard, she realized her breathing had normalized. She was calming down.

"I know what you need," he said quietly, his voice pitched low enough that there was no way the guys below would hear it. He took his hands from hers and reached into his own bag, pulling out the half-empty bottle of cheap scotch, a syringe of Med-X, and a rubber strap. Part of her wanted to tell him no, that he'd gotten her all wrong, but another part of her was melting into a puddle at the thought of that needle in her vein. When he looked back up at her, asking permission with his eyes, she gave a nod, quickly before she could change her mind.

There's something alarmingly intimate about another person helping you shoot up. It was clear he'd done this before - but then again, she knew that. He wrapped the thin piece of rubber he used as a tourniquet around her bicep, just above the elbow, and splashed the grimy skin there with the scotch. After a little poking around, they could both see the blue of her veins showing under her skin, and he locked eyes with her one last time as he pulled the protective plastic cover off the syringe.

She nodded again, and there was the unpleasant prick of the large needle sliding into her skin, then the rush of ice down her arm as the chem made its way into her system. One nice thing about having another person there to help was that he untied the rubber, he pulled the needle from her arm, and helped her lean up against the support of the sniper's shack when her head began to loll.

The red veil dropped; the headache fled, by inches if not by miles. She knew she'd be useless for the next few minutes, but when she walked into that camp at least she'd be able to keep it together.

Time passed in dribs and drabs as she seemed to float above her body. Around her the desert was full of night sounds: bighorners snuffling about over a ridge, Legion soldiers chatting as they went about their duties, a yelp from a coyote somewhere over the ridge. Eventually she became aware that John was smoking a cigarette and watching her carefully. She opened her eyes wider and gestured vaguely at the hand that held the cigarette; after a moment he handed it to her, and she brought it lazily to her mouth.

The headache didn't like for her to smoke, but fuck it. She deserved this. She took a long, leisurely drag, allowing the smoke to fill her up from head to toe, and then exhaled for what felt like a year. Then again. Then a third time.

"So. I should probably tell you something about the Legion."

"Might be a good idea," John replied. He pulled a cigarette for himself out of the pack and lit it. For a moment she wondered if the flare of the lighter might attract any Legionaries, then figured they'd cross that bridge when it came to them. Or they came to it. Whatever.

"The Legion -" But then she didn't know what to say. Where to start. "They're at war. With the NCR."

"NCR?" What the fuck? Where was this asshole from, Mars?

"The New California Republic? Out west?" Still a blank on his face. "You're not from around here, are you?"

He laughed. "Not exactly. Came from back east." East. Legion territory.

"So you know about the Legion?"

Another laugh from him. "Farther east than that, I think. Probably farther from the north, too. You ever hear of the Commonwealth?" She shook her head, though it felt like boulders rolling inside her skull. He laughed.

"Ok, ok, cabrón, you made your point," she took another hit of the cigarette, then crushed it out in the dirt. "The Legion are the bad guys. The really bad guys, you understand? And they got something I need. Tengo problemas - I have big problems, entiendes?" The clouds in her head were making it difficult to focus on just one language and she shook it delicately, as if that might help. It didn't.

"Sounds like you pissed somebody off."

"Not yet - but I will have soon if I don't get down to that camp and meet their leader. He calls himself Caesar."

"You mean like Caesar?" He pronounced it the way the Legion did, and she felt her skin grow cold. For all his talk about being from farther east than the Legion, what did she really know about this guy? All she knew was that he knew how to use chems and needed the caps he'd earn by following a stranger off to die. Should she - No. She filed it away for future reference and began gathering her things. They'd wasted enough time here.

"The thing you need to know is - well, they might well kill us. But I see some people down there in a slave cage and I gotta help them. I won't blame you if you take off. Won't pay you, either, but you might live to see tomorrow and I can't guarantee that if you come with me."

John shrugged, clambering to his feet. For such a narrowly-built guy, he certainly projected a larger presence. She was amazed at how difficult it looked like it was for him to get his long limbs to cooperate.

"People need help, we help 'em," he said, slinging his shotgun over his shoulder, and it was at that moment that Honey decided to take a risk and trust this strange man she'd met in the desert. Because that had never come back to bite her in the ass before.