Interlude: Two Rooms
AN: Alexeij here. Apologies for the delay and if this chapter is a bit of a letdown, but LF and Writer's Block got in the way. Also I got kind of sucked in into another project you'll see on this platform shortly, though it'll likely remain a one-shot for a loooong time, so worry not. It's just every time I see my girlfriend (which is once a month) I get at least a new raging idea for a new story, and I have to write something done. Missing in Action was born the same way.
Anyway, I've been sitting on this for too long. This is what happens when your amazing outline doesn't reflect so good into words. Three rewrites later, I've swapped things around a bit and given Boone a little more screen time pre-One for My Baby, which will be next chapter along with a tricky-to-write Cass-John scene(which I'm not sure many actually like, since Chapter 4 has the lowest views count so far).
On the other hand, chapter 6 was a raging success in both views and reviews. Very articulate ones, too, which is always a blast. Thanks everyone for the support. I hope this one lives up to the wait. I'll try to write something for Chapter 7 in the next few days, but I'm due to the Gamescon in a week, and there's no way I'll finish Chapter 7 before the 17th. Sorry.
As a side note, this chapter doesn't develop in chronological order. The last piece actually happens between the first and second scene. Also, warning: first OC and a cameo from the Storyteller Lore series on YT ahead. Let me know what you think, as OCs are always a tricky thing.
0 = MIA = 0
The pale sun had been up for a few hours already, but the air in the motel room remained slightly chilly, puckering her neck and back into tiny goosebumps. Or maybe it was just the wet hair clinging to her scalp, still heavy from a shower long overdue. It was uncomfortable, but she repressed the urge to throw her clothes off and drown herself into another. It wasn't like water could wash away more than the dirt and grime from her skin.
Cass wrung her hands and looked up at the ticking clock just above the double-bed. Nine-forty. Still an hour and an half to go and her ass was already tired of being stranded on the rickety chair, her back seizing in protest against the backrest. The caravaneer – well, former caravaneer technically, but that was only a scrap of paper – rose gingerly to her feet, her bare feet slapping against the not so pristine floor as she reached for the dingy curtains and inched them away, minding the doctor's instructions. Too much light might stir him before time. And she'd prescribed plenty of rest, for both of them.
The memory of warm water made the yawn creeping up her throat impossible to stifle, but she forced her eyelids to remain open. She wouldn't sleep. Couldn't. Not yet, at least. A coldness that had nothing to do with the temperature settled in her bones at the very thought.
"Come on Cass, acting up like a snotty kid now?" The only other person in the room snorted. Not that he could have possibly heard her.
Outside, Novac was busy tending to the influx of refugees from the Legion's pens, but the motel courtyard saw little of it. A cluster of military types stood gathered at the feet of the scaly plastic monstrosity, ganging up on Cliff Briscoe's bald head. More supplies, she guessed from the couple of crates lugged down the steps. Not likely that Briscoe would see a cap for any of it any time soon but what the hell, the kiddos, Ranger Stella and the rest of the wounded would need it plenty.
She let the curtain flap close and returned to the chair. A few worn pre-war magazines were piled on the round table propped against the wall, courtesy of the smarmy lady owner. Cass pursed her lips in distaste remembering the woman, Jean-May or whatever. Fat people were simply wrong in her book. She figured it had to do with the tune the Wasteland danced to: you couldn't carry around that much flesh without ripping it off someone else. And true to character, she didn't hesitate to charge a fee for her rooms anyway, never mind the procession of affliction rolling into Novac or, you know, human decency.
'And that's why you never hit it big in the dog-eat-dog business, Cass. But hey, that's no longer an issue, right?'
A gentle rapping of knuckles came from the door, putting a lid on her thoughts. A tall-man rapping, she judged. "Miss Cassidy? NCR Rangers." The voice was gravelly, on the raspy side, with a slight wheeze. A western accent, heavily distorted from what was likely one of those creepy helmets.
Cass eyed her jacket, dripping Abraxo into the washtub, then herself and the patched-up tee and jeans the Follower doctor left on the couch after she set up the IV for John. She'd managed to salvage Da's necklace and the hat without a single new hole to adorn it, but the rest was beyond scrubbing or stitching after the Legion's tender care. Damn, that duster's pockets were just the perfect fit for a couple of bottles. Shame.
'At least I won't have to face the outside in my undies, striped black and blue.'
The rapping again. The white noise of the active town on the other side of the window disappeared under the grumble of revving engines. Cass shook her head, chuckling despite herself. Ah, what she wouldn't give for a bike of her own. Or even another ride to enjoy without dreading what the next bend in the road might reveal, like last night, or biting down the pain at every bump in the road. The militaries always had first pick on the best toys, and everyone else had to make to with carts and brahmins.
"Comin', comin'." She reached for John's ammo belt hanging from the back of the chair and grabbed the custom N99. The weight was unfamiliar in her hand and she had to adjust her grip. Satisfied, she pulled back the receiver, feeding a bullet into the chamber, then peeked through the window. Yep, tall as they make them, and then some. Never let it be said she was an ungrateful hillbilly redneck from the Rockies, and she pretty much owed the man and his squad her life. Still, that was a lot of hardware…
She unfastened the bolt with a crack that made her flinch and quickly put a few steps between herself and the door, her finger playing close to the trigger. The door didn't slam or shoot open, however, and the Black stepped inside in no rush, bowing to avoid the frame and inviting himself in. And yet, the combat boots barely made a sound against the creaky floor for all his bulk. Red lenses scanned the room, then fixed on her.
"Ah, Miss Cassidy. Doctor Alvarez told me you were back on your feet. How you doing today?"
"Better, thanks," she lied. "And, huh, thanks for picking our nuts from the fire last night and kicking those Legion fucks in the balls. I heard one of yours bought it."
The helmet bobbed in assent, but the lenses travelled back to John after a quick stop at the N99, not disapprovingly, even if it was hard to tell with the full mask and all. Right, 10mm caliber. Not enough to punch through riot gear and she didn't suppose John packed piercing ammo.
Cass emptied the chamber and returned the pistol to its holster, then waved the Ranger to take a seat. Hell, with how much the fat cow asked for the room, she might as well play the good host and stop embarrassing herself further. She itched for a stiff drink anyway.
"Damien. Good lad, trained him myself. An awful business, the Legion this far west. At least we brought everyone out without further losses."
Cass' hand stopped on the mini-fridge's handle. She craned her head over her shoulder, engendering another chorus of complaints from her muscles, brows hiking high on her forehead in surprise. "You mean Stella made it?"
The Ranger lowered himself on another chair tentatively. The old wood and metal protested loudly, but seemed to hold for the moment and he leant back into it. He looked almost comically small in it. "She's a strong woman, and we got her to the Followers just in the nick of time. Doctor Luria says she's out of the woods for now. I'm inclined to agree, even if the situation is still dire. They're keeping her under 'till it's safe to wake her. Still, it's my turn to thank you. I heard you were the one who stopped her from bleeding out in that pen."
Cass shrugged, turning back to the fridge to hide her discomfort. She hadn't done much. "It was only a shirt. I'm glad she didn't bite the bullet. Pulled a mean one on that bull wanker." That she did, already beaten purple and caged longer than anyone else. And what had she done? Cass pressed her lips into a thin line. Nothing. Fucking nothing.
"'m afraid house offers only Sarsaparilla. Not even a damn coke." Or whiskey, for that matter. Greedy bitch.
"Sarsaparilla is fine," the Ranger replied flatly. A hand reached the nape of his neck and fiddled with something there. "At my age, sleep is mostly an optional anyway." There was a loud hiss as the helmet's safeties unlocked and the Black removed it, lowering it on the rickety table.
Cass stumbled to a halt, her breath catching in her throat and plummeting down into her stomach with the momentum of a charging yao-guai, but she held fast on the two bottles and the opener. 'Damn, I've seen my share of ghouls. But this one… god damn you're ugly. What the fuck did you go through?'
The face underneath the mask was still kind of humanoid, at least in shape, but where she would expect the blotchy, rotting flesh of any other ghoul, all the Black sported was a thin film of bright red, dried up, exposed muscles. His cheekbones and jaw jutted out, parched red flesh stretching on the bone with every movement, making an otherwise large, squared face appear sharp and gaunt, like an old-world skeleton mask painted red. He was completely bald, not even the odd tuff of hair like many ghouls treasured dearly – and costly. The eyes were two dark beads surrounded by sickly yellow sclera, deeply set under a prominent brow. Old eyes, she realized. Older than any she'd ever seen.
The Black offered her a rueful, lipless smile that made his naked face flex and dance. "Don't worry, I get that often. If you don't mind?"
Cass blinked. "Huh?" He pointed at one of the bottles. Right. She drew up to the table in two jerky steps and her hand shot out. "Ah. Sorry. Keep the cap."
The ghoul uncapped the bottle with a flick of his thumb, pocketed the cap and took a swill. Cass tore her eyes away to avoid staring. She uncapped her own bottle and slipped the cap into a pocket, then took a swig and grimaced as her stomach rumbled in protest. Ugh, cold Sarsaparilla tasted wrong. She cradled the cold glass in her hands a few moments more, relishing the soothing coolness against her scraped palms, then the Ranger's empty bottle clinked on the table.
There it goes.
"Garrett Lewin." Cass blinked again, then shook the gloved paw stretched across the table after a moment's hesitation. Against prediction, he didn't crush her hand in some ill-advised show of machismo. The shake was brief and firm, but surprisingly gentle.
"Cassidy," she offered. It sounded redundant, but she wasn't about to spread her name further than necessary. Now if the ghoul would only take the message and leave it at that -
"Very well, Miss Cassidy." Thank God. "I have a few question for you I hope you won't mind answering."
"'Bout what? The Legion kept me confined with the others. And it's not like they wasted breath with a woman." 'Beyond explaining my fate with plenty of detail. Assholes.'
"No, they usually don't. And yet a few of the soldiers from Nipton recognized the Legion strike leader. The man with the skinned coyote as a headwear. Does the name Vulpes Inculta ring any bell?"
Her heart jumped into her throat for one, painful beat that almost had her gasp for air. Cass clenched her fingers around the bottle in an effort to suppress the trembling that took them over. "I heard of him." 'He spoke to me. Oh God.' "Some Legion heavyweight, right?" And after a moment, "Did you get him?"
The gravel in Garrett's voice turned into a rumble, the corners of his mouth lowering at a sour angle. "I wish we did, but he'd already made himself scarce. Caesar's left-hand man, the head of his Frumentarii and the most elusive man this or that side of the Colorado." He stressed every title with a raised finger." An extremely dangerous man, even by Legion's standards. And I was told he took an interest in you and your friend here."
'No, not in me. I was just a prize. Just a fucking prize.' "Hardly. Spewed some bullshit to the cowboy. I think he was frustrated his men got one hell of a beating to subdue a single 'profligate'." She forced a mocking grin on her face, but her muscles ached from the effort. She could still smell Nipton in the stale air of the motel room without closing her eyes, and Sarsaparilla did little to improve the taste of bile.
"I'm sure. Still, doctor Alvarez is perplexed, and so am I. You don't survive a machete in the liver, miss Cassidy. Not without an Autodoc on hand. And even then, assuming one survives the shock and the blood loss, the infections would likely kick you in the grave."
Cass turned her head to the bed, not daring to voice her agreement. They'd placed John on the double-post bed by the time the hostess robbed her blind for a room. By then, the doctor had peeled away the rangy tunic and the leather pants crusted with blood to treat him, leaving him now only in his boxers under the covers. The clothes, she'd dumped in the bin with her old ones beyond saving. Fresh Band-Aids wrapped his chest and belly tightly and they'd hooked him up to an IV for another emergency transfusion she had been told to monitor.
When he'd collapsed back at the Legion camp, Cass would have sworn he was done for. Then again, she'd thought the same when the Legion fell on him like he was some overgrown voodoo doll. Yet he lived and was apparently fine besides a sickly, sweating pallor and some fitful rest, though he was probably in for a hell of a wake-up.
Hadn't she seen it all while sober, she knew she would never believe her own senses.
"He's not human. How could he be?"
Fear coiled like a snake into her chest, sinking its fangs deep within her. A wave of guilt washed over her and knocked it over a moment later.
'You're an ungrateful bitch Cass, and a hypocrite. The ghoul here probably takes a dip in plutonium pits to freshen up, and that doesn't bother you all that much, right girl?'
The ghoul in question waited in silence, but from outside the roar of the engines grew louder. Would he leave if she just kept silent? About what, anyway? Why was she even hesitating? It wasn't like she knew much more than he did.
'If I ignore the arm that can squeeze my head like a melon, that is.'
"Miss Cassidy, I assure you I have nothing against either of you." 'What a curious way to phrase that.' "Anyone who kills Legion is fine by my book. But the circumstances are odd, to say the least. I need something, at least a name, or next time it won't be me at the door. The OSI isn't as considerate as I am, and right now his… condition falls under their jurisdiction."
"Look, I'm as much in the dark as you are, alright?" she snapped, turning stiffly in her seat, then quickly averting her gaze. The parched red face was a stark contrast with the jaundiced-like eyes, a combination that only a dinette away made her stomach churn and revolt.
"And probably as much as he is. He told me he got shot in the head all the way up in Goodsprings and lost most of his memories, his name included. Goes by John Doe now, if you can believe it." Did she? What did she know about the man in the bed, beyond that he was deadly set on not dancing with the reaper any time soon? But even there, who went alone up against a score of Legionaries but someone with a death-wish the size of a Vault?
"Anyone can confirm this?" Garrett asked matter-of-factly.
"The doctor who patched him up. Michelle, Mittel, something like that. I think he lives in Primm now with the rest of Goodsprings."
"He told you that?"
She nodded. "We talked a bit, and he's the talky-mopey kind of drunk. I hired him two nights ago at the Mojave Outpost after –" She had to stop and push down the bile and the first words that rose to her lips. " – after he went apeshit on the gangers that were messing up the region from that prison of yours, the correctional facility or whatever."
Under the heavy brow, the ghoul's unsettling eyes widened a fraction in recognition. He looked back at John, pinching his non-existent lips with two fingers in thought. A minute later, he nodded. "Ah. So he'd be the infamous Butcher. And now we've how many legionaries to add to his tally, ten? Twelve? Busy kid. Busy kid indeed."
She shrugged, not even surprised at how fast word traveled on the NCR wavelengths. Those comm officers were unrepentant chatterboxes as soon as the boss turned the other way, every one of them. Professional bias, she supposed. "Yeah, I figured he'd be one hell of a bodyguard on the road. Some Vipers-wannabees would agree with me if they could. But I didn't account for the Legion to cut through the Mojave like cheese."
"A situation we'll rectify sooner rather than later, trust me. Oh well." He sighed and climbed slowly to his feet. The chair creaked in relief. The ghoul cleared his throat, then bent slightly forward and coughed into his balled fist, two sharp, wet barks that seemed to shake his whole body under the heavy armor. Cass didn't attempt to move or pick up the interrogation, cheating the passing seconds with a swill of her terrible Sarsaparilla.
He did, voice strained and muffled through his hand. "Where are you heading from here, Miss Cassidy? I don't mean it to come through as a threat, but it would be in your best interest to answer truthfully."
"North," she replied curtly. An hairless brow rose, a silent request for clarification, and Cass found herself looking back at John's sleeping form, trying to restore order to her thoughts. "As soon as he's fit for walking I guess. I've some loose ends to tie up from my previous business, and he's hell bent on finding the asshole who ripped him a new one in the head. Vegas would be my bet, but I've hired him only 'till a little further north." Her eyes widened all of a sudden and a hand ghosted to her belt. She glowered at the ground, a tirade of foul, vile curses evaporating under an building wave of shame and frustration. "Oh shit…"
Before the Ranger could manage a further inquiry, sharp rapping on the door stole their attention. Shorter one, Cass guessed absentmindedly. Then again, this one was on a scale shared only by Super Mutants anyway.
"Garrett? It's Tanner. You in there?" A woman's voice, hard and clipped. And that same wheezing quality distorting her words just so much.
The ghoul coughed again in his palm and grimaced, wiping his paw-like palm on the inside of his duster. "Come on in. And mind the door."
Another Black stalked inside, indeed more than a head shorter. The more slender lines of her armor revealed her gender where her helmeted head did not. She scanned the room, pausing on Cass and John both for several seconds, then pushed the door shut behind her with a loud clack. She stopped there, loosely at attention, hands clasped behind her back.
"Can we talk here?" Cass let out an annoyed grunt, but kept her lips serrated.
Garrett shrugged, palming his helmet. "Depends on what's new."
The red lenses of the woman's helmet rested on Cass for a long moment and she felt them raking her over, but she was simply too tired to care. Her head was starting to pulse in time with the heartbeat, informing her that her time indulging in the world of the waking was drawing to an end and with every breath, her belly and back flared with pain. She really wished she'd taken that dose of Med-x when she had offered it, but a part of her knew it was something she would later regret.
"The camp's mostly set up. The Dam sent down a platoon, all green as the pastures, but I know the Lieutenant in charge. Monroe is made of firmer stuff. A bit stiff, but capable. Added to Ranger Andy and those two former First Recon, this place should be tight enough." Cass would swear she could hear the grimace in the woman's voice. "At least until someone comes to take the children to Aerotech."
Garrett did grimace, hefting his helmet in contemplation. "Can't hope for anything more. So why didn't you update me by radio, eh?"
Tanner hesitated, then dug an hand into one of the many pockets of her duster and fished out an envelope. Cass goggled, surprise chasing away sleep for a moment. That was paper. Real heavy paper, not the scraped parchment from old world books you always saw all over the west coast, or the faded plastic stuff of old world magazines. Prime class luxury. She almost missed the two-headed bear wax sigil on the front.
"Came with a runner from Hoover, not ten minutes ago. Brought the new radio frequencies as well, the others are already tuned. We're still waiting on Echo and Bravo."
"Figures. They're at the rat ass of nowhere." Garrett scratched where the bridge of his nose once was, then opened the envelope. Cass kept her eyes firmly elsewhere. No reason to get shot for some high-end military babble. It was none of her business. She stole a glance at John who groaned feebly in his sleep, kept firmly under by the meds. Not like she could sweat the bullets off either, like he did.
"Bloody waste of good paper. Does the Chief know about this?"
"Aye. I quote 'Your unit, Black 002. It's up to you.'"
A chuckle bounced off the walls, not unlike two stones grating together. "Which means 'stick a thumb into Wait-and-See's eye and keep on course'. I swear, those two behave like children sometimes. Alright, get the lads ready to leave in fifteen. We're already far behind schedule, and you can bet Inculta didn't pick his men like HQ does. It's going to be one damn hard nut to crack."
"They're already hot and locked, Black 002."
"Run along, brat. I'll be there in a moment." The female Ranger marched out without sparing a glance to the rest of the room. Cass rubbed her eyes with the heel of her palm, painfully aware of every muscle in her body complaining and resisting the motion, urging her to just shut down and leave it at it.
The familiar, clipped jingle of caps enraptured her waning attention however. The ghoul was stacking up small, orderly piles of caps on the table, fishing them out one after the other form a pocket ensconced within his chest plates.
"It's no charity, believe me," he said, waving his finger as he counted the caps already piled up and producing two more stocks from his armour. "But dead legionaries are always worth a small reward in my book, albeit meager. The Rangers usually ask for the heads as proof, even if I've heard some folks down at Forlorn Hope make do with ears." He buckled the pocket shut and straightened to his impressive height once more, even if Cass's eyes were still glued to the caps.
'A hundred and twenty. I think it's more than we actually took down but still, not nearly enough. At least we'll eat for a while. Might have to punch the cow to lower her tariffs though.'
"Be safe on the road, Miss Cassidy." Cass nodded numbly after him, but the moment the door closed behind the Ranger she had barely the time to act on well-honed reflexes and store the caps in the small safe before she collapsed on the couch and finally gave up her struggle for wakefulness.
0 * MIA * 0
Thud-thud-thud.
The rapping jostled him awake for his light sleep. His body didn't appreciate it.
Stiff. Aches all over. Those log nights spent doing little more than standing were softening him up.
Thud-thud-thud.
"Hey Craig! You in there?"
Manny. Must be around midday then, on his way to relieve 's eyes remained glued shut. His tongue felt dry and pasty, good enough only for mumbling. One hand reached out to the side and patted the sheets. He puzzled at the empty air, feeling around for lingering heat that wasn't there.
'The baby. Another rough night, poor dear. And she didn't wake me up, again.'
Silence. No bare feet padding for the door, complaining. No water running from the bathroom, or the sizzling of lunch on the stove. Boone stirred and rolled on his side, clawing blindly at the nightstand for his shades. His fingers connected with something that was never there. There should be nothing else on the nightstand, only his shades and beret. Carla would never…
Glass shattered on the floor and the reek hit him. Vodka. Puke. And blood. The acrid, pungent copper of congealed blood.
"Craig, come on! I know you're in there!"
"Carla?"
He forked the shades on the second try and opened his eyes to the world. The room swam around him for long seconds, the settled and Boone wished he had never woken up.
The motel room was the scene of an old battlefield, of chaos and impotence. His rifle was propped against the dining table rather that at the foot of the bed in easy reach. On the same table, his pistol rested beside an empty bottle of whiskey.
The cupboard's shutters were caved inwards, shards of glass from the long inner mirror scattered everywhere and caked with blood. One chair was tossed on the other side of the room, two of the metal legs bent where Carla hit something with them.
Something.
Someone.
Legion.
'She put up one hell of a fight. And I heard none of it.'
"Craig! Stop hiding in there and talk with me. Come on man!"
His body climbed out of bed on autopilot and ambled for the door, each step marked by glass cracking to pieces under the soles of his combat boots. His head pulsed in rhythm with each heartbeat, a drum someone was playing right behind his eyes.
Everything felt wrong. The room. The smell. The emptiness of it all. Manny waiting outside, butting in like any other day. The knob turning smoothly and the soft click of the lock.
Even with his shades on, he had to narrow his eyes against the light of the world outside. Manny stood against it, his face scrunched up, brows set low. Worry? Anger?
"Hey Craig, I heard… Jesus fuck mate, what happened to you? Was it the Legion?"
The Legion was dead. He had killed them with every bullet he had. Not enough. Fast, skilled. Not enough. Boone didn't spare a glance at himself. "What do you want?"
Manny shuffled, casting a glance over Boone's shoulder. "I heard you met up with the Rangers last night and led them to the bastards who did Charlie in. What were you doing out there? You've been missing a week. We had to split your shifts between the Doc's flunkies."
What had he done really? 'Oh God, what have I done?' Boone tamped down on that thought, but he had to ball his hands into fists to stop the shaking. His head kept pounding. From the alcohol. Form exhaustion. From trying to rationalize every-fucking-thing when all there was to it was him, a scope, and a shot he had to take. He had to. There was no other way around it. No other solution.
He saw Manny's frown ease. From a distance, his own voice spoke.
"Carla. Looking for her."
"She's not coming back then?" Manny sighed, and Boone felt a hand on his shoulder. "Damn it Craig. I'm sorry. But maybe it's better this way. People like us, we're not meant to mingle with people like her."
And then he saw it. Relief. On his best friend's face.
Boone lashed out and blood sprayed on his face, flecking his shades. Manny's head whipped back, nose gushing red, but Boone was dead on his feet on a hangover and Manny was 1st Recon too, a past not distant enough to forget.
He backed away from Boone's haymaker and tackled him under his next punch, grunting when Boone's knee glanced him in the ribs.
The floor came up to stop them and Manny's weight squeezed the breath out of his lungs in one harsh exhale. Boone's knuckles scraped against Manny's temple as the other leaned away from the glancing hit and massaged Boone's chin with an elbow. Boone's head rattled and stars exploded in his vision but before he could retaliate Manny was already inside his guard and nailed Boone's arms to the floor.
"The fuck is wrong with you!?" Manny yelled in his face, eyes wild. A shower of blood and spittle wetted Boone's face. "She's gone! Fucking gone! Back to those fancy lights she couldn't live without! Back to the life we weren't good enough to give her!"
Boone jerked and headbutted him in the nose. Manny howled in pain, cupping his face and the crushed cartilage. Then Boone levered both feet against the other sniper's chest and sent him sailing through the open door.
Manny crashed into the ground and rolled to a stop in a cloud of dirt as Boone propped himself up on a knee, painting lightly. There were people coming over now, attracted by the noise of fighting. NCR soldiers too. Not the Ranger though, they must have left already.
Manny was on his elbows now, spitting blood and sand. His 1st Recon beret was a way off, caked in Mojave dirt. He glared up at Boone.
"Look at what she did to you. Look at what she did to us! I'm your best friend since fucking ever, and even after she dumped she has us fighting like Bull and Bear. Fuck her, Boone."
The door rattled in its lodging as Boone shoved it shut. The knob turned and he locked himself inside.
He could hear them, outside. Feel the weight of their whispering and disapproval barge past the walls and glare a hole in the back of his head. Nobody would believe the Legion had gotten past the snipers and into the motel without anyone noticing. The room, he could have wrecked himself in a drunken rampage. Probably had, too. He couldn't remember shit of the previous night, and the week before that –
Flashes. Flashes and the cackle of guns.
Boone squeezed his eyes shut against the void in his chest. They were gone. Carla and his baby girl. Gone.
The dim overhead light of the room slipped past the crack of his eyelids and his gaze rested on the dining table. His joints creaked like wood as he covered the three-steps distance and freed the Sig Sauer from its holster. He stared at the shaking length of it, the motto of 1st Recon etched on the barrel.
The Last Thing You Never See. A drop of blood splashed on the Never and he removed his shades, lowering them on the table.
Seconds turned into minutes, then Boone walked to the door and bolted it shut, turning the key into the hole until the lock was buried into the wall and would go no further. Then he sat on the bed, folded his beret beside him and fished a picture out of his pocket. The texture was still smooth under his thumb.
'I never deserved you.'
He tucked the picture away, safe from harm and random splatter. Beside the beret went an envelope, half-open and folded so many times along the center a single line had been eaten away in the poor-quality paper.
His teeth clicked against the barrel, sending a cold jolt up his gums and into his brain. Then more, as his hands trembled around the grip. He shouldn't have drunk so much. He shouldn't have done many things. Click-click-click. Teeth against the metal. Was this his body rebelling, self-preservation instinct rearing up its ugly head one last time?
Click.
Thud.
Boone's eyes widened and he darted for the door as the pistol landed on the floor. He kneeled before the lock, chest heaving with a bated breath he didn't realize he had been holding, and sharp eyes followed his fingers as he tested the lock again.
Click. Click.
Not an itch or a budge. Not a jerk. The mechanism was untouched.
Carla always locked the door behind him when he went out on his shift. She never felt at home in Novac. Never felt safe. He teased her his paranoia was rubbing off her. If only. She'd have fastened the bolt as well then, and he would have heard. Someone would have.
How could have he been so blind before? The Legion knew where to come from, how to elude the sniper on the perch. They had the key to their room, a key only four copies of existed. One was his. One Carla's.
Boone straightened up and gathered the things laid out on the sheets, then reached for his rifle and slung it across his lap as he retook his place on the bed. The Sauer he cleaned on his leg, leaving only the faintest smear on the polished metal, then he secured it on his hip. He'd worry about blood rust later. Lastly, he tucked the beret on his head and forked his shades again, relaxing his narrowed eyes a fraction.
He stank of sweat, booze and puke, but sleep or a shower were the furthest things from his mind now. His mind tried to sway him, projecting the vivid taste of metal and the ghost pressure of the barrel in his mouth, but he bit down hard on those memories until they wilted away and retreated to leave ground to the here and now.
Two keys. Who had lent himself to the slavers? Who had any reason to? Boone's jaw pulsed in pain in response, and he ground his teeth as he sat alone.
0 * MIA * 0
"Memory loss? That stretches my suspension of disbelief something fierce. I hope you aren't buying any of it?"
"Actually? I do. Or rather, I believe she does. And the name is so ludicrous it might just be the truth. Plus, some damage doesn't sound so far-fetched. After what we went through in Baja, you think one of them would have trouble with what, a couple handfuls of Legionaries? You insult our dead."
"Me? We've finally got one of them, and you're walking us away from a treasure trove of information 'cause he's a little rusty and shows a sliver of emotion? Pretend ring any bells, or has the Rot diminished your vocabulary?"
"Stop being a cheeky brat, Tanner. You're not too old for me to bend you over a knee and knock some sense into you."
"I'm serious, for fuck's sake."
"You're being impatient and short-sighted, that's what. We won't get shit out of him in the usual ways. I thought I taught you better. Here."
"What's this?"
"Your ticket to McCarran. Don't show it to anyone else, don't speak of it. If you manage, swallow it and then shit it out. Ride straight to Hildern and tell his guys to monitor this John Doe's movements like hawks. I want to know where he goes, when, how long he stays there. Might as well put one of those satellites to good use."
"You placed a bug on him? Like that would ever work. You sure you don't need to see Gunderson again?"
"Your trust and respect warms my irradiated heart. Think, smartass. This town's a fucking hospital. And he was so cut up he was ready for the Gourmand."
"I'll be… Into him?!"
"Hear ye hear ye."
"Now how did you pull that off?"
"Doctor Alvarez was reasonable enough, and Contreras will scrounge up something for you to bring to Old Mormont Fort. The boy's regenerative factor will do the rest well enough, so there's no need to worry about infections and that shit."
"Right. Figures those backstabbers would forsake their vows quickly enough for a bag of jingles."
"More like a trunkload of food and some medical supplies. Mind the suspensions. It will hardly make a difference for Freeside, but still, every little bit counts."
"Whatever. Let's just agree to disagree, old man. More importantly –"
"No. Not him. Not yet."
"Come on Garrett. You want to play cat and mouse with an Infiltrator, you need the Iron General. He knows how they think. He knew we'd find them in Baja."
"Too bad he forgot to mention it before he sent us blind into the grinder! I won't hear more this. I'm not about to allow his little feud to blow everything in our faces. Not again."
"You forget the OSI is Intelligence's bitch. Hildern's gonna lap at his feet the moment I hand him this transmitter-thing."
"Ah, I wouldn't bet on that. I know his kind. Hildern is a careerist with a lust for a plush chair on top. Mark my word: he won't let this chance slip through his fingers. Not to heap more glory and prestige on Mount Chosen One."
"Yeah yeah. Then why would he share anything with the Rangers?"
"He won't. But that's not gonna be an issue, right?"
"… Fuck. At least I'll sleep in a decent bed for a change. Well, a bed at least."
"Remember, this remains between us. I'll bring the Chief and maybe the Ambassador in when the time's right, but until this business with the Legion is over, you're on your own. I'm afraid it might take a while. Nipton won't be a walk in the park, and after Oliver chews me up the Chief will have us ride up and down the whole Colorado until we're pushing the bikes. If something critical comes up though, radio me in. In the meantime, I foresee a lot of Forlon Hope in our future."
"Better you than me. Safe travels, old man."
"Hm. Wouldn't count on it."
0 = MIA = 0
To PaladinBaley: Erhm, that's not a likely scenario. I'm considering Van Buren's Brotherhood-NCR extended war canon in this fic and that war is a key event to define both a few characters and the Divide itself further on. The consequences of that conflict – and trust me, it was brutal - have a long reach, and it marginally touches Veronica and the Mojave BoS as well, both in deed and behavior. I plan to introduce her in Chapter 9 and I've tinkered a bit with her quest. Won't say anything more about her, but a NCR-BoS alliance against the Legion would be far, FAR more difficult to hammer than in canon!NV. Hope that won't turn you away from the fic though.
