Sometimes I don't know where this dirty road is taking me
Sometimes I don't even know the reason why
But I guess I keep gambling
Lots of booze and lots of rambling
Well it's easier than just waiting around to die

- "Waiting Around to Die", by Townes Van Zandt

It's easy to see humanity as a lost cause in an age where there isn't an inexhaustible supply of it. Paradoxically, the violent and aggressive urges are just as potent in a world where there are less as when there are plenty. If this is true, then isn't the state of human aggression inevitable? A state incapable of being truly repressed without a secretive compartment for even filthier, more deviant urges.

For as long as she can remember, which admittedly isn't that long, she's attempted to compare current societies to the past, wondering how much they've changed, and the unifying similarities between both. It's a laborious task, working with past societies that are caricatured in books that can't possibly speak the whole truth. But, she supposes, the whole truth is unnecessary because humans, including her, will just cherry pick the details they like the most. In her case, she is like anyone else in this – she picks details that seem fair enough, and because a complete and full picture is next to impossible, she has no choice but to use that as a comparison to now.

Not having the full picture is disabling on its own, not because she's intellectually honest (the greatest joke she could ever tell herself, really), but because she's forced to use the same details as everyone else. That search for novelty exists even now, begging to be acknowledged after having been neglected for two months, pushing on three. In fact, it feels much longer than that, but a moment of delight is but a breath in time compared to torment, the latter of which stretches on, and on. She's always wondered why that's the case, why time is perceived as taking longer to pass when its passing is not enjoyable. Perhaps to some, that's a simple question. Then again, she's missing the full picture.

If she could do anything else, she would, but she can't, in this makeshift hospital bed. Why the NCR would treat her well isn't beyond her – she'd helped rescue one of their commanding officers, after all, and it'd minimally surprised her when she was rushed immediately to the medical center at Hoover Dam, for wounds she hadn't known she'd acquired from that treacherous swim, that apparently no one had ever made. That, or it was incredibly rare. Maybe if she wasn't so out of it, she'd be proud of such a feat, but as it is, she rarely feels true, genuine pride for anything.

It's morning when she finally comes to – not that she'd know that by the peek of sunlight in this windowless place, but by the military clocks that dot the room she found herself in. What a rest that had been, and yet she still felt tired beyond words, an expected turn of events considering she just made an Olympic-tier swim without realizing how long it had actually been. In that moment of, what House might have called, 'primate triumph', wounds were disregarded and time itself had seemed distorted, a truly mystical thing that bygone sages hadn't spoken enough about. Perhaps that's because moments cocked and loaded with adrenaline and primy determination reminded them that they hadn't completely discarded creature whims.

The creature whims didn't bother her, however. Oddly enough, it reminds her that she was human after all, capable of being injured and capable of surviving despite all the hard-earned deficits of her character, for which there were many. Guilt follows shortly after when she considers just what she was willing to do, to get her way. Guilt, because murder appears to be the first and foremost solution to most of her problems, in stark contrast to her desire to solve issues diplomatically.

Maybe it truly is as simple as most issues can't be solved diplomatically, much to her chagrin. That line of thought sends her into a conflict about Messiah complexes, though, and she's far from being a good person just because she wants to speak first and then shoot later.

A squeak of the door manages to distract her momentarily from her race of thoughts, speeding past her for lack of anything better to do. Even if she wanted to do something, she doubted she'd make it very far without the NCR hovering over her, trying to tend to her wounds. Furthermore, she wasn't ignorant to the likelihood that they wanted her on their side. They'd made no secret of that before, though she often wondered why they'd want her, when there were a thousand more soldierly types out there, grizzled and built of a distinctly more self-sacrificing character, a trait so coveted by any authority.

She absentmindedly twiddles with her nails, making a show of watching them instead of the medical doctor that's approaching her. She doesn't know his name, and she hopes she doesn't stay long enough to know it either – Eris wants to go home, far, far away from this river.

"See something you like?" She asks, a corner of her mouth turning up in a cheeky facade that turned out to look more tired than anything.

"I'm a doctor, miss. Nothing about the state of you is something I like to see in my field of work."

So, he was one of those types? Gravitas without snark was like an earth without a moon – incomplete, and unsatisfactory. Although she supposed it would be unwise to poke at him, he might have saved her from death, and that was certainly worth some small measure of gratitude.

He was a short man, with mutton chops that looked awfully comical from where she's laying. Like any doctor who's hoping to fit the bill, he wore glasses that sat uncomfortably on the bridge of his nose, a fashion choice that might've compensated for an innate lack of smarts, since it was so good for making anyone look the part of an egghead.

"Fair enough!" She snickered, channeling all the energy she had into making this interaction as interesting as possible.

Talking to someone whose will was intact is… strange. He's the first person she'd spoken with in months who wasn't Caesar or a slave, even Inculta had technically been a slave also, and it's refreshing to be able to say whatever is on her mind again – within reason. It is almost euphoric, this newly-acquired freedom to say and do as she likes, though she predicts it will be surreal for days, weeks, maybe months, to come. There's no way of knowing, and it hurts her head to spend an excess amount of brain power thinking about her hard-earned natural rights.

"How long was I out, doctor-sir?" She wanted to ask a landslide of questions, but in the meantime, she'd settle with that one. It was nice and boring.

Eris didn't remember getting fished out of the Colorado River, and she supposes that will remain a mystery. For some indescribable reason, she doesn't much like the idea of other people risking their lives to save her own, even considering it would be folly to be so self-loathing while her feelings run contradictory to that – it was good to be alive, even if memories of enslavement would follow her around for the rest of her days.

"Seven hours, if even that."

She is uncomfortably reminded of that doctor in Goodsprings, whose name eluded her, but she was sure started with an 'M'.Mitchell. An unladylike snort left her nose at the spotty memory of the older doctor tending to her head and dressings, and giving her the first cigarette she ever remembered. Her train of thought leads her to comparing that doctor to this one, or some other abstract pattern recognition.

"My superiors want me to document your case. It's an unusual one, no offense to you."

"You'll have to try harder than that to offend me." She cut in, chuckling to herself, though her voice was hoarse from swallowing all that river water. "After I spent a rather sizable portion of my young life entrenched in third world living conditions and forced labor, anything you say will be a veritable mercy, believe me. Or don't. It's all up to you, you did save my life so I imagine I'm now obligated to be whatever you need me to be. For a short time, of course."

"Charming." He comments, doing that solemn doctor nod every single one of them has been trained to do.

"Forgive me, doctor. I've not been around good company in months. Please try and stifle any disgust at my unrefined manners." She fixed him with a woozy smile, which he returned, only it looked far more cognizant than her own.

"Everyone assumes that you escaped Legion captivity. Now, I'm a doctor, I try not to make assumptions like some of my fellow Californians. Though I can say with confidence, that you're the first person to ever wash up in the dam. That is – alive, no less. As a doctor, I have to ask, what the hell were you thinking, going that near to the dam's electrical units? You could've died a horrible death like that!"

Her fingers, calloused and dirty still with the filth of the Fort, tapped on the warm, mostly intact blanket they'd given her, the first blanket she's seen in months that wasn't spun from agave fibers and riddled with holes. By no means was it a luxurious piece of fabric, though it had the added benefit of not smelling like it's been used by thousands of people before her, so she plays with it, rolling it between her fingers like she may have with a cigarette before.

That reminds her…

"First things first, you got a cigarette I can bum?" She asked absentmindedly, fixing him with a more or less serious stare, a rarely used emotion in her repertoire.

"I hardly think that now's the time for smoking. You nearly died, and your lungs have sustained some trauma. Nothing serious, but enough for me to give you my professional advice."

"How do you figure my lungs 'sustained some trauma'? Did you do an x-ray?" She asked, dripping with curiosity.

He scoffed at that, as if unused to having his professional opinion questioned. He mustn't have known that she took her responsibility of challenging professional opinions very seriously.

"Hoarse voice, shallow breathing, losing consciousness. It's all evidence that you've inhaled a small amount of water into your lungs, something that should go away on its own, but I'd recommend exercising caution, and that includes absolutely no smoking. Maybe for a week or more."

Eris was tempted to roll her eyes at that, knowing that as soon as she got back to Vegas, she'd probably forget every word of advice that the doctor is giving her now. That's usually her modus operandi, that uninteresting information goes in one ear and leaves swiftly the other.

"Noted." She said, adding, "Your colleagues are right, I hate to break it to you. Wish I could say that I've been anywhere else besides Fortification Hill, but what can be done? I managed to pick the lock on my explosive collar, and as soon as the deed was done, I swam all the way out here. That should speak volumes about the charity of the NCR, right? They were the first ones I looked to, if you ignore the factoid that they're the only ones I could look to on this river."

This earned her a neutral nod of the head, which she totally expected from the stoic man, who, unfortunately for her boredom and fortunately for her health, took his job very seriously. In all actuality, she had nothing against the NCR personally, but he didn't seem to mind the snark she assumed when speaking of them.

"And yes, I am the courier. I'm sure you saw my injury, and since you seem smart, I probably don't need to explain to you just how I winded up being their prisoner." She's going off supposition now, entirely unsure if news had spread about all that she'd been up to in the better part of a year. Assuming that she's still a known quantity in the Mojave is dangerous, because she knows how short the attention span of people really is – she lives it everyday. "To my knowledge, I'm kind of a big deal, but I'll leave that up to you to discern just which dazzling quality of mine makes me so."

It was unbelievably liberating to be able to speak like this again, to not have to walk on proverbial eggshells every time she wanted to speak up. A streak of pity runs through her for the man, who gets the short end of the stick in this moment. The joke is that the stick is her, and he's the first person she's had a full conversation with, so he gets the short end.

Shockingly, he laughed at this, which prompted her to laugh.

"Never would have guessed if it wasn't for the wound behind your hairline." He said genially, shoving all nefarious intentions to the back of her mind, somewhat.

If words could express how tired she was of scheming, she'd be teaching linguistics with the Followers in no time. Truthfully, all she wants to do is go back to the Strip, and rest her body far away from the reach of the Legion. She'll never be free of them, even if she goes her entire without being in chains again. The centurion is never far from her thoughts, no matter how hard she tries to think of insignificant things to shake him away.

"Am I expected to stay here for awhile, or am I free to go?" She asks, and this time, it's sincere.

"No one can hold you here in good conscience. By now, everyone here knows what you did for Officer Erasmus." He said, then continued on to add, "Though you'll forgive a doctor for asking about any pain you feel that might warrant another examination."

She scoffed at what he'd said before, about Erasmus. If only he knew she'd done that mostly because she could, and not for any personal interest in said officer. Although, if one thought about it long and hard, did intentions really matter in that kind of circumstance?

"I'm thinking I'll be in pain for a good while, disregarding any injury from that… legendary swim. The brutality I witnessed at the hands of the Legion? That's a different matter entirely." Her tone became more grave at the last part, something she utilized on extremely rare occasions.

"I don't believe anyone would behave any differently. To answer your question more precisely, you're free to leave."

"Far be it from me to ask for more than that which is generously given, but do you have anything inconspicuous I can wear back to where I'm going?" She left out where she was going, because if she said it aloud, then she wouldn't be able to enact plausible deniability. The doctor tending her wasn't born yesterday, though. He likely knew exactly where she was going. "A cover for my hair, or some such thing. I've been told it's an uncommon color."

His lips pursed, and his eyes narrowed in thought, before he began to nod to himself, working out some kind of issue internally. The visual was almost comical, as he looked like he was sucking on some kind of citrus fruit.

"That can be arranged. If you'll let me check your vitals one more time."

Doctors. They got so lost in the sauce of medicine that they couldn't contain themselves, though this is a quality she tends to share with them, so she doesn't fault him, and most surprisingly, she doesn't get the urge to metaphorically smack him across the face using clever puns and wordplay.

"Hmm… I suppose that can be arranged.." She parrots back.

The sun is not nearly so hard on her skin when she doesn't have someone constantly on the ready to scar it for minor inconveniences. Not only does the sun seem more empathetic to her situation, but the desert, too. It's inviting, because it's filled only with the sound of animals, of lizard scurrying from one cactus to the next, and the caws of buzzards.

It also helps that she has a shirt that covers most of her back, and not just parts of it. Long, light-colored sleeves keep her skin from burning even more than it has already, and the hood she wears hides her vibrant and uncommon shade of blonde, something that could be used to readily identify her for any passing, disguised frumentarius. She already knew what many of them looked like anyhow, and she wondered just what she would do if she stumbled across Inculta on the way back.

Maybe, if he's feeling charitable, he'd let her go. He might be the type to think that someone deserved their freedom if they worked as hard to achieve it as she had. More than likely, his devotion would cloud any kind of personal judgment he would've doled out otherwise, and so she keeps to areas that are populous, where being assaulted in broad daylight would earn them a loud reprimand.

Nothing compares to seeing people again – people who aren't salivating to punish her for being five minutes late, or for not using the adequate terms of respect, like dominus and master. She'll be happy if she never has to say the word 'dominus' ever again, or better yet, hear it. Latin scriptures are most definitely not on her list of reading material for the unclear future she's set herself up to have.

She resists the urge to take a detour to find a motel, knowing that New Vegas is only a few miles up ahead. Besides, a motel outside of Vegas would be a prime opportunity to be captured by any lurking frumentarii. If she did that, she might as well paint 'hello, I am an escaped slave from the Fort, come and get me'.

This long walk of shame reminds her of the first time she ever made that walk to Vegas, and she can't fight the wave of nostalgia that slowly creeps up her spine. That walk had been for a much different purpose, except, there were similar conditions, weren't there? Everything looks the same, and several times she pauses in her walk to look down and see that her Pip-Boy is not there.

How strange the human memory worked. She hardly noticed it was missing in the Fort, but now that she's back in a familiar element, she can't help but notice that there is a weight missing from her forearm. There were some notes she left in the little device, nothing incriminating, but rare notes of recording her processes when she had little else to do. It's probably been searched and probed through a hundred times by now, and she can visualize the frustration behind such a fruitless investigation when nothing significant was found.

She passes by a rest stop on the way to Vegas, the lights of said city far, but finally visible. Remarkably, it made her nervous, like she wasn't fit for civilized life anymore, but that couldn't possibly be true, because she wasn't fit for uncivilized life either.

Vendors sell their wares to traveling merchants, who eye her like one might a street urchin. And truly, isn't she? She has little to no money to her name, and not even a Pip-Boy to parade around some kind of materialistic status over them. They don't even nod in her direction, and an alien feeling bubbles through her stomach, reminding her that she doesn't look like someone worth nodding at. Her social status with the people, and her usually approachable, amicable air is entirely ruined by some dark, invisible cloud floating over her head.

If she wasn't so displeased with herself, she might try and con one of the vendors into giving her a gulp of water for free, but as it is, she's tired, and she surprises even herself when she chooses to pass by them silently instead.

Ugh. If House hadn't found somebody else to do his bidding already, what was left of her for him to work with? Sure, she had done the seemingly impossible as she was known to do, and had broken out of the equivalent of a maximum security prison, but she felt like a shell of who she was. And further, she's not even sure if she's ever known who she was. It never bothered her until recently.

Maybe she's overreacting, maybe this is an entirely normal conflict for escaped prisoners. But if it's unique to her, what can be done?

"Nothing. Absolutely zilch. If anything, it's unsubstantial, really!" She laughs at herself, for she really is a fool.

Her acts would be better appreciated in a circus tent than on a political podium, but she just can't help but continuously stick her nose in things she tends to understand well.

A multitude of neon lights greet her in the distance, and she detects the scent of shit so characteristic of Freeside. She should be revolted, but instead, she feels more at peace than she has in months. Still, a flock of cazadors have taken up in her stomach, and though nervousness is a rare emotion on her ever shifting spectrum, she feels like she is about to give her first class presentation.

This adolescent brand of anxiety is new to her, unlike the several other adolescent issues she deals with as a daily occurrence. The gates of Freeside open to her with a nudge of her hand, as well as a little pressure from her arm. She's glad that Freeside at least is still holding up as well as it always had. That is, not well at all. It's still a pungent, sleazy shithole for the most part, and the only thing different about it this time is that she doesn't pretend like she is one of them.

If anything, her stint with slavery told her everything she needed to know about her place in the world. She's just not built for manual labor, and too soft to be exposed to that kind of life for longer than a minimum of ten minutes.

Orphaned children chase rodents with Bowie knives, and hookers line the sidewalks, advertising their wares to anyone willing to risk an infection for a few minutes of limp pleasure. That, at least, is the same. From the Kings' studio, loud, jazz music blares from a couple of speakers, but she for once, she doesn't stop and allow herself to get distracted.

The Mormon Fort, a place she endeavors to visit someday, is packed with addicts coming and going, making poor use of the Followers' naive, but well-meaning altruism. They don't even notice her going down the street, and it's then that she decides to take the hood off of her head, and let her dirty, blonde hair fall down her back and shoulders.

It occurs to her that she probably looks like a phantom, a ghost or some other such rare phenomenon. Securitrons guard the gate up ahead, and she swallows before she approaches them slowly, because how absurd would it be if she got shot by bots misidentifying her as a trespasser, after what she's gone through to get here?

"Passport or credit check, citizen." It barks at her, and she flinches at the militaristic tone it's programmed with.

"I have neither." This entire exchange is added to the mounting evidence that she's been forgotten. "Report to Mr. House, if you need to. Show him that it's Eris, the courier."

A spark of hope entered her chest and then bought a house and moved in, when static took the place of a soldier's features, a blink that only lasted five seconds, if even that. She knew what that meant, and talking to him again, even if it was by proxy of the bot, was a heretofore unknown balm to something deeply broken.

"You may enter, citizen. Enjoy your time in Vegas."