edited 8/5/14

Courier Six remained very quiet for the better part of forty-five minutes. As time moved forward she concentrated on her breathing, slowing it to a steady pace that would not raise suspicion. That alone should have been suspicious as she had spent the better part of three days violently vacillating between consciousness and hyper-consciousness. Her brain was turning against her, rejecting its unwilling host.

Her initial plan was to escape the confines of the Old Mormon Fort during her second night of illness. As the hour approached, she was wracked with a series of convulsions that left her a drooling, shaking mess. Her death would not be particularly flattering; she would not be a beautiful corpse. This was something she had already come to terms with in the fever of her illness.

On the third night, she was well. It had been six hours since her last fit, best she could trust her calculations. Courier Six did not particularly trust anymore.

The controlled breathing paid off and Veronica left the courier for the night, heading off to an adjacent tent, no doubt furiously scribbling down today's observations. She was more convinced than ever that Veronica was observing her, recording her progress or lack there of for later analysis.

The packed dust was hard against the balls of her feet as she ran. There had been no shoes left behind in the tent, no supplies of any kind. It was just her, a thin cotton tank and boxer shorts. It was if they knew she would try and run. No, not "they," her, Veronica. The Followers had not invested so much in her care.

The Followers doctors didn't give a shit about her or her recovery. To them she was a body occupying a bed that could be assigned to a run of the mill junkie that they had long ago grown fond of. No one was fond of her, except maybe Arcade. Arcade who didn't like her too much and kept his own secrets.

She didn't have any secrets to keep. She had half-imagined histories and a splattering of recent events.

Just short of the gate to Freeside, she doubled over. Luckily, her vision held steady as she wretched a thin, murky liquid up from her stomach. Not a seizure then, maybe simple nerves?

The two Kings on the corner didn't pay her any mind. Such a sight was far from unusual be it daylight or murky darkness, it was all the same to them.

She retched and retched until tears streamed down her face, until the clearish fluid turned pink with blood. The muck dribbled and spread until it came in contact with her hands that she used to steady herself against the busted concrete sidewalk.

Once her stomach was empty (even more so than it had been before) she pushed herself back into a sitting position.

Where the fuck was she going? She had no armor, no weapon, no fucking shoes. Probably could scav the first two, but shoes seemed to be in short supply. They hadn't come across many suitable pairs in the first place.

The courier sat with her back pressed against a crumbling, unoccupied building. It was a similar scene to the one days ago, when the seizures started. She glanced at her wrist, forgetting, again, that she didn't have the Pip-boy. It had been removed at some point during her illness, but it had been fried beyond use before that, coinciding with her first attack.

Without shoes, the lack of the device seemed really fucking trivial. Her arm felt too light without it. Strange, she only had it on for a few weeks, but she relied on it as if she had always had it.

Maybe she did, she thought bitterly.

Stomach settled, she managed to stand. The ground would get hot during the day and syringes, vomit and excrement were always just a few steps away, at least until the animals got to it. She needed shoes.

As much as she hated backtracking, she retreated to the King's School of Impersonation. It didn't take a genius (mental patient) to recognize that the King's boys wore a uniform. No doubt they were stacked in some auxiliary room. Some unprotected, auxiliary room. Besides, who the fuck would steal threadbare blue jeans and dingy t-shirts.

This girl would, she thought.

The front door was open, as always. Locks in the Wasteland were pathetic. A thin, ragged looking member was asleep in a chair in the corner, a half-finished cigarette between his lips. It had already burned itself out with the lack of puffing.

She didn't bother to sneak. Sneaking was suspicious and she sucked at it anyway. Instead she marched to the stairwell, down the hall, and started opening doors like she belonged there.

First door: Sleeping Kings on naked mattresses. One stirred, gave her a sleepy acknowledgment and then landed face first back in the mattress.

Door number two: Basically empty, baseball bat in the corner. She would come back for that. Weapon problem solved, but so not worth it without any shoes. Before objective one could be accomplished, she didn't want to look like a threat. The bat would make her appear hostile.

Door number three: Jackpot. Piles of clothes littered a large center table with several more stacks on the floor. She set to work opening cabinets and found one with shoes. Glorious, glorious shoes. Most were far too large for her and they were all men's pairs.

It's a wonder you can stand, all that height and those tiny little feet. It's a wonder you don't topple over.

The voice spoke to her from a place more distant than a memory. She was reminded of that photograph, Benny and Swank and tiny little Mint with her bright blue eyes.

She almost started retching again. Tiny little Mint with her bright eyes and someone who loved her. Choking down the sensation, she rifled through more pairs of shoes until she finally found a beaten pair small enough that they could be padded out with thick socks.

Next, she attacked the clothes. Finding jeans and a mostly clean shirt was a much easier task than acquiring shoes. She didn't bother with the too-distinctive jacket. Even though she didn't yet have a chance to wash her mouth and hands, just being out of her old clothes made her feel like she reeked less of sickness and seizures and...death.

She wasn't ignorant or stupid. She was dying. That was okay.

Freshly dressed, she looked for a bathroom next. Two empty rooms, one with a safe that she considered cracking, if she found the right tools. Then the bathroom. She scrubbed her hands and then her face until both turned pinkish. She rinsed her mouth four times before choking down some water.

She sort of resembled a human being. Her darker skin kept her pallor from being entirely obvious. She should tell though, familiar with her body, if nothing else. After making sure her ponytail was properly in place, she exited the bathroom and headed back for the bat.

There were a few other drawers in the room that she scoured. A couple of lockpicks, but no screwdriver, so the safe was off the table, a lighter, that she pocketed, and cigarettes, that she didn't, were the only notable items.

She swirled the baseball bat around like a twirling baton, like those fresh-faced girls in the holotape, before exiting the room.

In the lobby, the scrawny guard was still asleep. She prodded him gently, with her hand, not the bat, to wake him.

He woke with a start, the cigarette dropping from between his lips and into his lap. The courier offered him a light with her freshly stolen lighter. He accepted, fishing the cigarette out from between his legs.

Callie muttered, "no problem," before heading out the door.

Luckily, dawn was still a long way off. This time, Callie made it through the Freeside gates with confidence, twirling her bat the whole way. There was still no plan, really other than get to Goodsprings and the good doctor. Everyone else could wait until she was good and ready to deal with their bullshit. Besides, Benny had been pretty adamant that her help was not needed with the whole Chip situation. He had it under control.

There was a tight feeling in her chest. Not the nausea from earlier, this was higher up towards her ribcage. Sweet, beautiful, tiny, loved Mint who could talk to animals, make them tear your throat clean out, but couldn't handle a rifle. Her mother thought was too good for it, too.

Callie wasn't Mint, only she had a few too many of the girl's memories clanking about in her skull. She was a girl, wasn't she? Mint never really lived into adulthood like Callie was fast approaching, had already approached.

A violent, insane thought occurred to Callie. There was a shack up ahead, one she was fairly sure she and Veronica hadn't hit on their way into New Vegas. The door was unlocked (doors always were unlocked, and the locks were shit). Callie found half a dozen e-cells but someone had already lifted the pistol, if there had ever been on one.

She proceeded to turn the place upside down for anything of value. Maybe she should have taken the cigarettes earlier. Her rewards amounted to 52 caps, a busted 10mm, two dozen rounds for it, and a few of those magazines Wastelanders were so fond of.

Eve though it would require her to backtrack, yet again, Callie reversed directions and took up a light jog. Only took her thirty or so minutes to reach Gun Runners. She traded in the 10mm, rounds, and magazines. Together with the loose caps she purchased a shitty laser pistol and another ten rounds. Twelve caps left over, too.

She didn't both thanking the bot. Robots had no fucks to give.

Taking up the road again, she looked out for an opportunity to present itself. The shack was passed before the perfect scenario materialized.

A number of birds stood on the road, clucking together over some abandoned provisions. Callie had picked up a smooth, attractive stone sometime earlier. Pulling it from her back pocket with her right hand, she gripped the laser pistol in her left. She tossed the stone toward the clutch of birds, sending them into the air out of self-preservation.

Taking aim, busted pinky and all, Callie shot one of them clear out of the sky, its wing disintegrating mid-flight. It probably broke its neck on the way down.

"Oh fuck me." Callie held her head, even though it didn't hurt.