Little late this week, it was a long one for me, absolutely hectic work schedule which unfortunately made me slip behind a little. But like I said when I started this, I try to stay ahead to make sure nobody reading has to notice it, so I'll try and make sure I'm still three or four chapters ahead. For now enjoy a considerably wider divergence in Honest Hearts' storyline. Hope you guys enjoy it this week, I had a lot of fun writing this one.
Raze it, Raze it Even to the Foundation
They'd followed somebody to the Sorrows' home. It didn't matter who anymore, whether it was all planned so that they could tail Follows-Chalk and the Courier, whether Joshua had been careless, or whether Pale Omen had betrayed them all, or that a Sorrow had simply been captured and interrogated.
All that mattered now was that they were there, in the Narrows, pushing hard.
Amidst the confusion the lonely Wanderer had no time to spend considering his sudden dismissal of Zion in favour of homesickness.
His guns were in his hands, the heirloom of the man who gave him life, and the trophy taken from the man who gave him death, and he was running through the camp towards Daniel's waterfall cavern. He didn't know why exactly, but the man would know what to do in such a situation better than he. Defend the Narrows? Find a place to retreat to? The Courier could assist with either, but not without knowing which avenues to defend and where to push.
"White Legs! White Legs!" a woman screamed, bolting through the waters and unconsciously switching to tribal dialect. Courier Six could not understand it, but the woman was screaming for her children, that she could take them from harm's way. Like too many others she would end the day crying over a corpse.
He fled through a crossroads, a spray of bullets ripping up the shallow water as he burst across the path of a small group of the attackers, one of whom began hooting and snarling at having missed.
He flattened himself against the rocks and took a deep breath. The rain was making it difficult to see, impairing sight that was already damaged, but he could make these shots if he needed to, if only he knew what exactly to expect when he rounded the corner. If he moved from cover and found a three-man party, one of which was already aiming down a scope at him, a quick death would be the very best scenario.
Fight or flight was a choice made for him though when something soared through the air and splashed into the river three steps in front of him.
The instinct to run would have killed him, the explosion would have torn his back to shreds no matter how fast he could run, and from there he'd have either drowned in the shallow waters, unable to command his spine to hold him upright, or have had the White Legs upon him.
Fight was the only option.
He seized the grenade and hurled it down the corridor the White Legs were advancing through and grinned savagely as the mocking snarls and hoots were cut off in a moment of horrified realisation just before the miniature bomb detonated, taking the foes with it.
"Utman!" came a familiar savage tone. A White Leg the Courier did not immediately try to kill. "Joshua sends!"
"Joshua sent you?" he wondered, peering into the rain around the corner and confirming that there were no survivors amongst the gore.
"Yes. Help you fight. He and Daniel… fight escape," the tribal attempted, clumsily relaying his message.
The Courier thought about it for a moment. "They're retreating," he said. "And they want us to fight them off?"
Pale Omen nodded. "Kill many. Make attention."
"We're a fucking distraction."
"Fucking," Pale Omen repeated. The term was used a lot by 'civilised' people.
"Dunno what he expects us to do. All this rain, I can't see anything," the Vagabond growled, looking around. "We're not gonna kill anything we can't see."
"Kill!" Pale Omen shouted suddenly, dashing through the alley the White Legs were previously advancing through.
"Omen! Wait!" he yelled, once again using a civilised man's favourite word and racing after him.
Aside from the great mantis leg on his forearm the tribal had been raiding the fallen foes he came across. On his back, previously unnoticed by the Courier in the rain, the converted White Leg carried a storm drum, the powerful automatic weapon that his tribe was so fond of.
While 'storm drums' were often accompanied by drum clips, the great cylinders filled with deadly bullets, their name merely came from the violent bursts of sound they sprayed into the air with each press of the trigger. That they could be fitted with magazines that doubled or even tripled the amount of carnage they could inflict was merely an even greater bonus.
Pale Omen wasted no time in finding a use for it. A White Leg dropped towards him armed with the mantis foreleg in an archaic assassination attempt, aiming to use her body weight to drive the weapon deep in his skin.
But that Pale Omen was one of their own seemed to cause her a moment's confusion, and the woman falling through the air screaming threats in a tongue her adversary could understand was suddenly incapable of ever reaching a decision over how to land.
Bullets ripped into the front of her body, tearing holes in the weak flesh of a human and leaving her assassination attempt nothing but a pitiful fall with a disappointed splash as Pale Omen returned to his charge, leaving her to land in the space between the two unlikely allies.
"Moerte aan los heretico!" the man roared, cackling with sadistic delight. "Moerte aan miei nemici!"
The Courier dashed after him, still unsure what plan of action he was truly taking. Joshua was using he and Pale Omen as a distraction while he and Daniel escaped with the Sorrows. It didn't seem a fair plan given Joshua's penchant for battle, but perhaps that was part of the reason he stayed with the Sorrows – to restrain himself, and to use those dangerous skills to defend his charges.
Regardless of why exactly he'd made that decision, the Courier was now trailing the bloodthirsty warrior, finding himself having flashbacks of a time he did something similar with his old tribe, the Great Khans.
His mind seemed to sharpen because of it, and the two were quickly making their way into the battle.
The narrow alley opened up into a wide corridor, one of the primary valleys within the Narrows, with the ledges rising up the walls on top of which perched a number of the Sorrows, armed with bows or rifles. Bridges crossed between the higher points, a network built into the stones over the years, wood holding tight to the rock.
The tribals ducked into cover as another party of White Legs charged, screaming their bloodthirst at the top of their lungs and firing indiscriminately.
It was easy to see where their tactics were flawed as the Sorrows moved to counterattack, massacring the assembled attack party as they stood with no cover in the waters. Pale Omen was among the first to return fire, and struck the first blow.
Making his way past the White Leg, Courier Six made towards one of the slopes leading up to the higher levels of the Narrows, where he could see the only Sorrow he recognised keeping watch with her scope.
"Where's Joshua?" he asked, running up the incline and dropping to his knee beside her, taking a breath and keeping his eyes on the choke point.
"I do not know. He and Daniel are securing the way out of the Narrows. We, the hunters, are holding back the tide until the way is safe," she replied without looking away, her determination clear and strong.
Admirable traits. I always respected her, though it was too long before I finally admitted that, I fear.
"You guys seem to have this place held alright," the Courier said, his guns never more than a moment from where his eyes stared.
"This is an easy place to hold. There are more ways into the Narrows, ones harder to defend," she said. "I would be there, but when the assault began I could reach nowhere but here. We have enough keeping watch, some of us could go to harsher places, but I fear what might happen if we are careless."
Suddenly there was a blast of static from Pale Omen, and he jumped. "Pale Omen, have you found the Courier?" came Joshua's voice.
The tribal reached into a pouch made from animal skin dangling at his side and produced one of the walkie talkies. "El esqui," Pale Omen replied, handing the device to the Wanderer.
"Draze, lehrendiz," Joshua said, before returning to English. "Courier, are you alright?"
He took the device, trying to keep it out of the rain, though not meeting with much luck. "I'm alive, Joshua. Am I to assume you're using Omen and I as a way to draw fire while you get the Sorrows to greener pastures?"
"Daniel wants to make the evacuation from Zion now, but there is too much chaos now. We cannot coordinate the effort, but we can move ourselves to a place the White Legs have yet to break," Joshua explained. "I do not mean to use you as a distraction, merely to ask that you assist the Sorrows in defending the Narrows for as long as possible. The more of their kin we can get out the better. Daniel and I are working to clear the path, but the White Legs are already here. Push them back and keep them off our backs, or the White Legs will crush the Sorrows."
"Where are the Dead Horses?"
"Coming, but not quickly enough. In the best scenario they will strike a blow to the White Legs' rear, but it will ease your suffering, not ours. If they can route them, though, the ones upon us will be forced back. We may even hold the Narrows another night, but not unless we can keep them from succeeding in a frontal assault."
"Joshua Graham, the northern choke is well held, but I fear for the other ways," the woman spoke up, looking at the device in the Courier's hand and relaying a message through it.
The next voice to speak was Daniel's. "Waking Cloud, be careful. One of our scouts reported that Salt-Upon-Wounds has been a part of the assault. He's been moving towards the Braid, it's the weakest point."
"What! Daniel, why didn't you tell me!" Joshua demanded.
"Because I knew you would try to attack him, and in doing so you'd lead the Sorrows to their death," Daniel replied, seeming surprisingly calm, though just below the surface his true disgust of Joshua's tactics was just recognisable.
"I could have ended this war," Joshua said furiously.
"Yes, but at what cost, Joshua?" Daniel demanded with equal conviction. "It's not worth victory if there is nobody left to celebrate!"
Courier Six weighed in, or rather stepped between them, metaphorically speaking. "Both of you can argue about this when all's said and done. Joshua, you're helping the retreat now, and it's only going to make things worse if you abandon them. Pale Omen and I will go after Salt-Upon-Wounds and try to take him out. Where is 'the Braid'?"
"I know it. I will take you," Waking Cloud, the female Sorrow, said. "We are well defended here, one of us will not be missed."
"You're going to take Pale Omen?" Daniel said, sounding unconvinced. "Salt-Upon-Wounds is his father, are you sure that's… wise?"
"Non sprechi di mi vomo sir esqui," Pale Omen said viciously. "Vuotare cuttquier nemici anma de mi."
"As he says, Daniel," Joshua said firmly. "What needs to be done will be done. Andate va a affracer frevostro padre. Non del maneso quisiamo voluto, pero dobete usurparlio."
"Si, Joshua," Pale Omen agreed.
The tribal exchanged a look with the Courier. One of cold determination.
"Pale Omen will do what needs to be done," Joshua repeated. "Courier, can I count on your aid?"
"I'm already in the middle of this, and I said I'd defend Zion," the Courier said, summoning up his skill and courage.
"Another debt for me to repay," the Burned Man's dry voice commented. "But one I am glad to owe. Waking Cloud will show you the way to the Braid. We will meet again when the battle is done."
"Godspeed," Daniel said, before the static quieted and the connection was severed.
Courier Six looked up at his two allies, tribals from opposite sides of a war. "Ready?" he asked.
"Go," Pale Omen breathed, a word he knew.
He jumped over the edge, landing in the water below and waiting as the Courier and Waking Cloud moved down the ridge a ways before doing the same. All three dashed back the way Courier Six and Pale Omen had entered the northern choke point, turning in time to watch a horde of White Legs charging in. It was their biggest push, and as the Sorrows opened fire and the White Legs pushed, the small party could only offer a few rounds each as they retreated.
The last thing he saw as he disappeared down the corridor was the tribals pulling the corpses of their fallen allies up and using them as cover against the Sorrows' assault.
"What is the Braid?" the Courier asked as they ran.
"The southeastern entrance to the Narrows. A river that widens out as it leaves them, with small islands sitting over it. The waters twist and turn like they're braided, and that is where the name comes from," Waking Cloud explained, gesturing left at a fork and making for a slope that rose above a lagoon and crossed a rope bridge to its far side.
"These little islands make for good cover?" he continued, stepping onto the bridge and willing himself not to choke on his own breath as he felt how unsteady it was.
"Yes. The White Legs could fight their way through and into the Narrows the easiest from there, and the formation of the land there means they'd be able to reach far in," Waking Cloud continued, slowing as she reached the middle of the bridge.
The rain was beginning to ease, going from a steady, strong downpour into a thick mist, obscuring vision even further, but reducing the need for the Courier to wipe the water from his eyes.
The gunfire told them where they needed to go better than Waking Cloud could as they closed in on their destination a short time later, the rain fading into mist and Pale Omen's speed increasing, ignoring Waking Cloud's directions and choosing the correct paths regardless.
There was a strange look in his eyes as he ran. Determination, yes, but alongside it there was something more difficult to define. It has been a long time since such emotions passed through such eyes. I believe it was a challenge, radiating from the White Legs' very being.
He was a young man challenging his father and his ideals. It doesn't matter if the reason was usurping his seat of power, proving the student had surpassed his teacher, or settling a grudge. It might have been all three. All that mattered was the result of these reasons, the challenge.
The unmistakable blast of the anti-materiel rifle cracked through the air, and someone screamed in agony as they rounded the corner and found themselves facing the Braid.
True to its name and description, the Braid was a crisscrossing river current that passed over itself numerous times, punctuated by tiny dunes that rose above water level, sporting boulder formations that made for perfect cover.
No paths wound up to give a height advantage here, forcing the Sorrows defending it to take shelter behind the boulders in the same manner as the approaching White Legs.
A quick count as they made for the nearest stone cover totalled roughly eleven boulders.
Plenty of cover for both the advancing and defending forces, but it would be far less certain than the northern choke.
"Alright, we're here, but we're going to need to be very careful about this. That sniper is going to slaughter us if he gets a clear shot," the Courier stated, slipping his handguns back into their holsters and opting instead for his hunting rifle.
"That won't make the shot," Waking Cloud warned.
"Neither will yours. But we just need to keep him back. This smog is going to be our advantage over the sniper, but they'll use it to their advantage too," the Courier replied.
One of the Sorrows yelled, exchanging fire with a White Leg. The victor was unclear.
Pale Omen looked over his weapon, anxious to use it once again.
"Omen, aim for the sniper," the Courier instructed, bringing his rifle up and preparing to round the boulder and take aim.
Pale Omen understood, taking a deep breath before peering around just far enough to pull the trigger in the direction of the sniper, a ledge overlooking the far end of the Braid, where it became another river of Zion.
It seemed to work well enough, though through the fog it was difficult to tell. Courier Six slipped around, bringing the hunting rifle down so that he could look down the sights, and immediately pulled the trigger as a tribal who had been slowly advancing was suddenly standing in front of him, assault rifle in one hand and a large chipped knife in the other.
His snarl stayed on his face as his throat exploded in gore, the Courier's reflex shot putting the bullet considerably higher than his heart but still having the same effect.
Suddenly another burst of adrenaline surged through him and he was behind the boulder panting, blood on his face. "They're moving up," he warned.
"Kill!" Pale Omen roared, the bullets spraying across another White Leg who had attempted to move between cover. He dragged himself back with one leg completely limp, but he was still alive, and he'd continue to try and fight them.
Waking Cloud shifted to Courier Six's side, her rifle in hand, ready to take a shot the next time he did.
"Ready?"
"Yes."
Both spun around, scanning amongst the boulders for shots for no more than a second before pulling themselves back behind the stone.
A piece of it exploded as the anti-materiel rifle boomed.
"He's only got one round to a clip, go while he's reloading!" the Courier shouted, dashing for the nearest stone in front of him.
Two White Legs emerged further down the Braid, the first one toting a storm drum, the second a high calibre rifle. Waking Cloud paused and knelt in the water, looking down the sight and firing a bullet straight through the nose of the rifle wielder as he tried to do the same.
The storm drummer opened fire, but the Courier had already grabbed the Sorrow and yanked her behind cover, however unceremoniously. Off-balance, she fell forwards into the sand and dirt.
She muttered something under her breath that the Courier didn't hear.
"Better than taking a bullet," the Wanderer pointed out. She didn't argue.
Pale Omen had slipped elsewhere in the fray, separating the three into two groups, Courier Six and Waking Cloud in one, and Pale Omen elsewhere, on his own.
"How many snipers like that do the White Legs have?" the Courier questioned. "Just so I know if I should expect another one to show up."
"I do not know. The White Legs have uncovered caches of weaponry from the Time Before, high-powered like that one, and full enough to fit an army. They will have more," she said, considering the weight of what that meant.
"We need to get our hands on them. Anti-materiel rifles punch through just about anything you can wear. Heard it said they even go through power armour if you aim right," the Courier said, recalling one of the dreams that slowly told him his own story.
"I do not know what power armour is, but I know how powerful these rifles are. Even wielding them requires great physical strength. Many of us would find it difficult," she pointed out.
"Good point, but the more we have the less they have. That in itself is good. I'm sure we could find people to use them. Defending Zion would be much easie-" he began, but was cut off by a blast from the rifle again, this one felling a Sorrow who had emerged to attack a charging White Leg.
Pale Omen appeared, roaring and charging into the chalk-bodied foe, goring him on the mantis gauntlet he wore, the sharp point digging in between the other's ribs. The White Leg tried to raise the storm drum he held, but Pale Omen headbutted him and forced him back into a boulder.
The blow knocked the wind out of him, giving Joshua Graham's convert time to grab the storm drum of the White Leg, yanking it from his hands and kicking him back into the wall before levelling the first storm drum of the two he now held and emptying its remaining rounds into his torso before tossing it aside.
Courier Six took the opportunity to spring from cover and aim towards the sniper. The figure was visible through the fog, an indistinct blotch rising unevenly from the top of the ridge, but the shot he fired was nowhere near striking home, so he redirected his second to a party of approaching White Legs wading across the river's shallowest point to join the battle for the Narrows.
He fired two more shots, with Waking Cloud taking careful aim and being the only round to reach a target amongst the volley before they opened fire upon them.
Pale Omen took the opportunity to blast their flank, moving through another stream to reach another dry haven while he fired upon them, injuring two and killing a third. He was making his way forward quickly.
"So where's Salt-Upon-Wounds?" the Courier wondered, forsaking the last bullet of his current magazine and reloading.
He spoke louder than he intended to, and was overheard by Pale Omen, who wondered the same thing. "Padre!" he roared. "He venudo desafidarle!"
The sniper fired again, the bullet slamming deep into the boulder Pale Omen was behind. A second round crashed into the water near the Courier and Waking Cloud.
"Great, now there are two."
"Non siecht degno!" came a deep, thick voice, from atop the ridge.
One of the snipers was Salt-Upon-Wounds.
Pale Omen was quick to respond by spraying a volley of bullets towards the ridge and yelling.
"Answers that question," the Courier said, peering around his cover and firing upon one of the two shapes through the mist. They were more distinct now, one larger than the other, but in the hurried motions of reloading their massive rifles. They could have tried to bait them into running out of ammunition, but that was always a gamble, and they were fighting a veritable army who had the supply line and stock to keep themselves loaded for a long time. If Salt-Upon-Wounds had come prepared, he'd be able to siege them long after they were unable to fight back.
Two of the White Legs emerged from a stone to their south, taking the opportunity to strike at Pale Omen. The Courier's rifle swung around, shooting through the arm of one, leaving him unable to fire on the Courier's pale ally. The other grinned savagely, screaming something nobody heard. As his finger reached the trigger, though, he suddenly sprouted arrow bolts in his shoulder, turning his savage and triumphant cry into one of surprised anguish.
Omen sprinted through the water, abandoning his cover in order to continue firing at his father from his vantage on the ridge, barely noticing the two former comrades who had just attempted to slay him, only to be thwarted by his new friends. Because, while he would never have admitted it, they were the closest he had to such things, and while the conditions under which he had come to them were not of his choosing, he found himself following the road now of his own design.
Everyone retreated to cover as the first anti-materiel rifle was reloaded and fired down upon them. The sound of wood splintering was all that signified the death of a Sorrows archer, but the other sniper did not fire. Salt-Upon-Wounds had identified the two out-of-place elements, and had elected them to be his primary targets: Courier Six and his own son, Pale Omen.
Neither side was tempted to make it easy for the other. Tense moments passed as all three allies waited for an opportunity that only drew further away as the first sniper inevitably reloaded and prepared to strike at the first person foolish enough to step out of cover.
Pressing their advantage, more White Legs began to slip between the stones, their howls and comments passed between them carrying the distinct tones of victory. They were sure that they were going to win the Narrows, it was only a matter of time until their foes finally fell, unable to stop the enormous army of tribals.
With their entire society being warriors, the army of the White Legs was no smaller than their total population, including women and children, whereas the Sorrows, until recently, had never even had a role such as 'soldier' or 'warrior' amongst their society, having only hunters trained at tracking and killing game. With Joshua and Daniel leading the majority of them from the Narrows, the defenders were facing an uphill battle.
Whether anyone was prepared to admit it, they were losing slowly but surely.
"Here come another wave. Two around your side," the Courier warned, hearing the sounds of more advancing troops coming through the water. He dropped his rifle, letting it lean against the stone, and produced a pair of pistols.
Pale Omen turned, aiming his storm drum at the two approaching the Courier's side as they came into view. The Wanderer spared a glimpse across at his companion, and grit his teeth. "Omen! Behind you!" he called as the White Leg behind Pale Omen grabbed him and began to strangle him with a gauntlet stolen by the Sorrows, one of the enormous bear's claws, the nails biting into his skin.
His storm drum clattered uselessly to the ground, and before the Courier could even think of making an impossible shot to save him the White Legs had rounded the boulder, the first charging with a rusty makeshift sword, a blade fused into an ancient vehicle handle in a crude but effective manner, the second pointing another storm drum at him.
Waking Cloud found herself facing a man with one of the mantis gauntlets, though one less grandiose than Pale Omen's, while the second of her opponents wielded a blade of more militaristic nature, a brutal combat knife found amongst the weapons the White Legs had uncovered prior to their campaign against Zion.
Her rifle made short work of the first man, reflexively pulling the trigger and forcing him to a knee as a bullet tore into his guts, stunning him and blinding him with pain, but the second was quick to swipe the weapon from her hand, his blade knocking the barrel aside and his physical strength removing it from her hands entirely.
Courier Six pulled both triggers of his weapons and seemed to lose himself briefly, shock at the assault dictating that his fingers twitch until both pistols were merely clicking uselessly.
The barrage succeeded in slaying the White Leg with the sword, causing him to stumble backwards and collapse into the water, empty eyes staring into the misty skies, but the second one pulled the trigger as Maria, Benny's former weapon, succeeded in taking a life where it had previously failed.
The exchange left both worse. The White Leg collapsed back, tripping in the river and losing his footing as the entire clip of bullets were planted in him. Courier Six was numb, his mind bubbling with images. He'd taken a bullet to the right leg, and two more in the abdomen, just above his hip. The pain slowly became apparent to him, but in the moment of shock and pain he was not Courier Six anymore.
He dropped Maria, flicking open the chamber of his father's weapon, a gun that had never been named, and slipping five rounds into the chamber, flicking it back into place and ignoring the pain, however difficult.
Pale Omen in the meantime pushed himself backwards, slamming the back of his head into the nose of his attacker. Both stumbled backwards, and one of the snipers, unable to tell if he was targeting a White Leg or the traitor through the mist, pulled the trigger, sending a bullet smashing through the shoulder of Pale Omen's assailant. The force of the impact threw the son of Salt-Upon-Wounds forward, slamming him into the ground and leaving him disorientated, his back aching.
The man who looked like Courier Six turned his attention further up the Braid, to the ridge. Swinging his right side around the boulder, he first fired an additional bullet into the White Leg who had shot him, making sure he was dead, and then brought his arm up and aimed for the ridge, sending the remaining four rounds towards the shapes up there. Whichever sniper had yet to fire did not manage to pull the trigger before the bullets whizzed by him, forcing both to take cover.
In those brief moments a Courier slipped around the boulder, forcing himself through the water as he bled, grunting with effort, and threw himself against another stone, his blood smearing it as he pressed his wounded side against it to try and slow the loss of blood.
He reloaded, ignoring Waking Cloud's calls that she could try and perform first aid there on the battlefield to help him.
Pale Omen noticed the man's newfound determination, and decided he would not be outmatched, snatching his rifle from the sand, attempting to pull the trigger only to find the weapon had jammed.
Growling, he threw it in the water, further ensuring it would not work, and ran from behind his cover, standing out in the open. "Esiete utal vigliarde lo utal me primataria che percluso lavead?" he yelled, his teeth bared.
Whether or not the un-Courier knew what Pale Omen was doing, the result was the same. He looked from cover to see one of the sniper's forms taking aim at Pale Omen. The other reached to say something. Perhaps 'fire', perhaps 'stop'. Whatever it was remained unsaid as bullets sprayed across both. One of the snipers toppled backwards, either struck or diving for cover. The other pulled the trigger on reflex as two bullets struck him. His weapon dropped over the ledge before him, and he followed soon after.
His last round blasted into the stone Pale Omen had previously taken shelter behind, causing the man to flinch, chunks of stone flicking across his back and cutting it.
The assault complete for the moment, and ground gained, the Courier pulled himself back behind the stone, sliding down to the ground as he leaned against it, and lost consciousness. As he drifted away from Zion, he managed to let loose a name from his past, a being he yearned to have back with him in that moment more than anything in the world.
It was not the name of a parent, nor that of a fallen or forgotten friend. It was not a woman he once knew.
"Cerberus..."
~ 26 November 2281 ~
The White Legs lead an assault upon the Narrows, home of the Sorrows, in an attempt to crush them. While met with staunch resistance, the offence is a complete success.
Date of Log: 29th November, 2281
Estimated Time of Memory: 9th November, 227#
I'd been on the run weeks already. Months, even. Two, at least, maybe three, with time still left to the journey and supplies dwindling.
Bastards were still following us, too. If they'd had that kind of respect for the girl then this entire tornado of shit would never have touched any of us.
But no, another of my mother's age-old wisdoms proved true once again.
Absolute power corrupts absolutely.
Seems to be how things go with the New California Republic, and nobody from Caesar's Legion but Caesar himself has any real power to speak of, as far as I can tell. They're all just dogs chained to bigger dogs. Caesar's the only one actually holding the chains.
I crept along behind the counter, being careful not to make any noise. I'd never made sneaking a habit, and it was starting to show with how slowly I was creeping through the office, wincing every time a floorboard creaked even marginally.
I paused in front of the cabinet, giving it a look over. Double-locked, it would have kept most junkies looking for a fix out, and anyone more organised than that was probably already paying them for shipments to keep the junkies off their faces on whichever poison they liked most.
Still, I was between those two categories, maybe I was the right kind of material for actually getting in. The top of an old, rusted coat hanger was in hand, slipping into the lock and twitching into place. I started to twist it, feeling my way towards the half-way point to what I sought.
Nope, not quite. Twitching and readjusting it, I attempted to twist it again, only to be met with less success. It wasn't going perfectly, and I needed to get into the cabinet. Patience was quickly disappearing.
Thankfully for me, the next attempt was a successful one, a click and the lock gave in, leaving only one more before I could get at the drugs on the other side.
Then, just for the novelty of the look on my face, I imagine, the unseen forces at work decided it would be better if the makeshift lockpick snapped on the way out of the lock.
I imagine it must have been a rather distraught look, because the next thing I did was kick the cabinet door in and hope I didn't smash anything I wanted to steal.
Glass smashed, pills rolled through the splintered wood, and as I ripped one of the boards that was still locked in place by the unpicked obstacle and tore it aside, I saw that yes, the vials were still alright. A few were bent, but I still managed to grab two handfuls and stuff them into my pockets.
We were close to the border, it would do for the journey, but I could not be sure about after we were away. I wanted to get back to the Mojave, but it would have been weeks before I found another good doctor. Best bet would be to go back and see my mother at Wolfhorn, hope she still had morphine.
That was too far away, and too long a shot to take though. I needed as much as I could get right there and then, and with the subtle approach gone, the less pleasant backup plan was kicked into full effect.
Gun in hand, other reaching for more syringes. I didn't like this, but when you're pushed to do something you don't have time to stop and retreat old ground.
The doctor thumped around, getting out of bed. A few more moments and he'd be there and definitely in a bad mood. But that still left me a brief window. Just a few more…
"Who's there! Get out of here, those are for customers!" he yelled, a growling voice getting closer. "I'm armed!"
"So am I! I need this, or my friend will die!" I yelled back. I didn't want to fight. I didn't feel any desire whatsoever to kill another man, especially one who really did nothing wrong to deserve it this time, but I wasn't going to let him die. I adamantly refused. I'd see him walk again, and we'd go travelling again.
"You pay for those!" the man yelled, kicking his door open as I bolted, the last syringe of morphine in my hand as I went.
"Sorry!" I yelled behind me, genuinely meaning it.
He took it as sarcasm, and fired the shotgun in his hand.
I didn't stop, throwing myself through the pharmacy's front window and into the streets. A town whose name I don't remember, a memory I willingly gave up long before my records were erased.
What I knew right then though was that the ante to my gamble was quickly rising, and I couldn't afford to wait for the whole hand to be dealt before I got out of the game.
"Hey!" a lawman patrolling a dark alley yelled as I raced past it, moving as fast as my legs would carry me.
He was going to step out of the alleyway and start taking shots at me. I was sure of it, and I didn't care if I was proven wrong, because I'd already turned and shot down a side-street, aiming to get away and lead them off my tail. The mail man on the run was still an easily recognisable figure, but at least without them hot on my heels I'd be able to ditch town quick.
They were just on the outskirts, taking shelter at an Old World stop on the roadside. He was injured, she was caring for him as best she could, but she didn't exactly have the knowledge or the supplies to keep him going forever, and if anyone were to arrive and try to shake them down her experience with a handgun was limited to three weeks, and he'd never fired a weapon in his life.
Never needed to, he was always good at getting in close and stopping them that way.
The buildings were scrap and stone, I remember now. One of those towns that the NCR was still in the process of 'converting'. Which meant they'd declared it was their territory, posted police there and installed an NCR-appointed politician to tax the populace, and the townspeople were just in the transition phase where they were ground down enough to accept it.
This proved to be an advantage though, as I bolted past a group of thuggish looking fellows. They made a half-hearted attempt at menacing me, but as soon as they saw the man in uniform following me the grins on their faces were ten times bigger, and they were between me and the lawman, and I was in the clear.
My lungs were empty, begging for a rest by the time I finally stopped sprinting and nearly tripped on my own momentum, appearing in the campground and stumbling. I opened my mouth to call out for them, but she'd heard my approach, and seeing it was me rose from behind the husk of an old car, waving.
"Quickly!" she said. "He needs help!"
I wasn't about to ignore it. I threw myself over the rusted skeleton, clambering over it without much coordination and dropping down behind it, disappearing from sight to anyone coming from the road.
"Hey, buddy, how're you doing?" I asked softly, tone immediately changing, keeping the screaming of my lungs from my mind and pushing it away while I comforted him.
Cerberus sniffed at the air as he realised I'd returned, and whined pitifully.
We'd managed to dig the bullets out on the second night in what was one of the biggest panic attacks I'd ever been stricken with. If she hadn't been there Cerberus might have died on that cold evening, but her hands were steadier than mine, and between the two of us that great shaggy mongrel was still kicking.
"Did you manage to get some?" she asked.
I emptied a pocket, and counted four syringes. I still had two in my hand, and three in the other pocket counted nine. It'd get us to the Divide, and that would be far enough. We'd figure things out once we were out of California.
Grabbed for one and pulled the cap off, taking a deep breath. "I know you don't like this, old boy, but it'll keep you feeling okay while we're on the move, okay?" I soothed.
Cerberus snorted, and then growled as a familiar routine was pressed upon him; she held him down, though he didn't resist, and I pushed the needle under the skin, injecting the drug to numb the pain.
Every single time I did it I worried I'd overdo it. How the fuck did I know how much morphine to give a dog? I don't even know if you're supposed to give morphine to a dog! Even now, just the memory of it – and it is a memory again, now – makes me panic. Hands getting twitchy… shit.
He growled every time, but that smart old thing knew what was going on. Could sense we meant no harm or something, maybe, so he just lay there grunting with discomfort when I jabbed him and then sighing when the effects finally started taking effect.
Hang on… am I crying?
I just dosed him the same amount as always. He was always fine. I remember, dammit. I remember picking that old mongrel up and walking down the road until my feet were covered in blisters and we finally reached the Divide. We walked for a week, and we still had morphine left when we did, because both of us were scared of what overdosing him would do. He was alive. I know because he started whining sometimes. He got snippy with discomfort. He tried to bite me one morning when the pain was especially bad! He lived through that, for fuck's sake! Why am I getting so shaken up by it then! He was alive! He was alive and kicking! We got there! I know we did because even though I could barely stand upright I still carried that dog into the Divide like some cheesy action hero carrying the heroine, and I found a doctor!
He lived! He lived, fuck it all, he lived!
Cerberus lived! M-my best friend survived!
So why am I having so much fucking trouble with this stupid memory!