It wasn't too rare a sight for one in his function. A sad teenage girl in a wheelchair, accompanied by a crying parent, her father this time, roll in his office. Ever the professional, Conrad smiles slightly but doesn't try to be too overt about it. What they both need is reassurance from a professional, and while he doesn't intend to sugarcoat things, that doesn't mean that he'll be dour about it. People in these cases come to potentially discover some unpleasant things after all, so there's no need to also act rudely on top of that. "Hello, Gwen! Mr. Lexer, could you please close the door?" The man did as asked, and sat down to a chair in front of the office.
Gwen was a freckled girl of a younger age than Conrad, with red hair tied into a ponytail. She looked down at the wooden material, looking forlorn. As anticipated, this meant that her father was handling the dialogue between patient and doctor. "My poor baby girl… It's my fault as a father that she ended up wandering off. She was just celebrating her sixteenth birthday and… and… well the bighorns were spooked by the noises…" He threw a glance at her. "We visited a doctor already, but he told us that the best supplies are to be found in Shady Sands. And we can't make the trip to the Boneyard. There still be raiders, you understand?"
"I perfectly understand, sir, do not worry," If she was indeed crippled, then he was right not to make such long trips. The wastes are already not too kind to people in much better condition. "… What was the diagnostic?"
"Well, my girl was lucky enough to only get grazed, but… I think it's been damaged. Not totally shattered or anything he said though!"
"I see. Gwen, can you still feel your legs?" She nodded quietly at him as if to say yes. "That's good. The damage isn't complete," Conrad put on his round glasses. He didn't particularly need them, but he'd been made aware that the glasses somehow made people trust him more easily. Why he couldn't know. That particular field of medicine wasn't really his forte anyway. He was more of a man who determined physical injuries, not mental ones. "… Luckily, we have the means to mend such injuries and help your daughter quickly recovers." He studied the father and daughter's reaction and was unsurprised to see surprise and fear instead of relief. They were quick to gather themselves though.
"Huh… The doctor said that the spine heals naturally!" Said the father. "Wouldn't it be safer to just let it play out?"
"It's complicated. The central nervous system, which the spine is a part of, is unable to self-repair or regenerate, because of its inherent complexity." Said Conrad. "Healing your daughter will require an outside intervention from our behalf, but thanks to the efforts of the Fo … BSI, it will be possible for her to walk again soon. We will need to operate on the spine itself and remove portions of the vertebrae that had broken off during the attack though. That or support the rest with metal plates and the likes. All are at our disposal, of course. Such operations are handled by expert doctors with training and clean, efficient tools, using medical technology from the Old World." The daughter was now looking up, with her eyes wide, and turned to her father.
"That… that does seem wonderful. Erm… But she'd need time to walk again, right? "
"Yes. There are some functions that she will need to learn again, but depending on the time it took until the surgery, I don't think it'll be too long," Conrad leaned in and looked over at the man, looking about as serious as he could. "… Could I ask you a question?" He nodded, sweat almost dripping off him.
"How many of her siblings are in the Mojave at the current moment?"
"Three," He said, somewhat losing his earlier hesitation. "And that's three too many."
"… I see." Conrad leaned back into his chair and pondered on what to do next. However, he knew there wasn't much time to do that when two pairs of very impatient eyes were set on him. "I will send a note to your doctor. It will be said that I've decided that he alone has the skills to operate the surgery since I lack an experienced hand. You live close to…"
"North of Shady Sands. In a little town called Dougsville."
"… Hm, that seems to be a pretty nice place to live in. Well, I can't help you, but you seem to be on good terms with your doctor friend and he'll operate a surgery in due time. I will meanwhile confirm that Gwen is, as of now, unfit to be in the New Californian Army owing to her current condition. And should stay that way for more than a month, since she'll need to learn how to walk again." They sighed in relief, and that sight alone made that dirty little lie worth it for Conrad. A tiny part of him admittedly felt that it was wrong to lie to his superiors, but that was squashed out when he remembered that said superiors were all too happy to cart 16 years old to go fight their war in the vicious Mojave, with barely any training to help her keep up with the various depraved individuals that could be found there."
"Thank you! We will advise on what to do next." As Conrad got up, so did the father, intent on shaking his hand. The young doctor accepted the handshake and then turned left: Miss Gwen had just shot up from her seat to hold her hand out, standing tall on her two legs. In immediate answer, the young man looked down at his desk and let his glasses slip from his nose, into a pile of paper that thankfully cushioned it.
"… Oh dear. I should probably consult a doctor myself," Smirked Conrad, moving to awkwardly grab the item. "It seems that I'm quite blind without these glasses!"
…
It was a very nice day out in Shady Sands. The sun was once again blaring, but it wasn't too hot for Californians who knew where to find a shade to cower beneath. Many of them, well used to the harsher heat of the desert outside, even basked in its light, laying down on patches of green grass within parks. Groups of teenagers were walking out of schools named after presidents, heading out to grab a ticket to go to the cinema. They were often accompanied by older gentlemen and ladies, who had never experienced the wonder of seeing pictures on a big screen before. All of them were careful to look before crossing the street, to not accidentally disrupt the few cars that were driving down the road.
Conrad quietly drank from his bottle of purified water as he walked away from the hospital, with a whole bunch of files and paperwork to complete in his case. No time for a cinema night, unfortunately: The rest of the day, he'd have to spend it finishing up his work before moving on to make dinner and care for his dad. Only after that would he sit down and watch some television. He'd tune up to the "Californian arts and education" channel since it was relatively free of the garbage propaganda found elsewhere. "Relatively" being a keyword. He'd stumbled upon president Kimball on tv yesterday, in the middle of reviewing drawings of various NCR battles. Like the sacking of Navarro, the defense of Santa Barbara, or the conquest of the Mutant-infested city of "Sa Ego". They'd put forth those art pieces, and Kimball would explain why it was a critical battle and an important victory for Democracy. A few of those were understandable, such as the conquest of Navarro to put an end to the sinister Enclave, but Conrad was disgusted to see the "pacification of the Mojave", where Kimbal was depicted as a steel-eyed hunk, sternly staring down nearly-naked savages. What had started as righteous retaliation for the murder of innocent citizens turned out to be a blatant imperialistic attempt at controlling territory and ripping it away from its inhabitants, and Kimball's leadership of the operation, while he was still an army grunt, ensured his political rise.
Conrad grimaced in disbelief. He knew that it took tough people to lead in these times, but the old world was destroyed precisely because of Warhawks like him, and his election was met with dismays by his old friends at the Followers.
"Hey, Conrad!" The young doctor looked up to see Matthew. Or at least he thought it was Matthew? He didn't interact much with his sister's friends. The youth was walking up the street, his path naturally crossing with the doctor. "How are you doing, man? It's been a little while, hasn't it yeah been a long while ever since we met I think it was a birthday or something I go to a lot of parties so I forget and the chems don't really help but hey I know you're a doctor and let me tell ya, man, I'm not chemed up too much I take care and anyhow it's about you, not about me thank you so how are you doing haha sorry I converge or diverge" He was of average stature and thin build, dressed in fine clothes. Not that inhabitants of developed cities like Shady Sands were in rags, but the young man and his family walked in cumbersome vests and pants that would be uncomfortable even without the shining sun. To his degree, Matthew was taking it in well. Or not: He had crazy eyes and his usually sleek hair looked like an incredibly wild bush.
"Sadly, it has! I see that you're still doing pretty well." The young man smiled and shook his head at nearly supersonic speed.
"Yeah! Couldn't be doing better! We're doing very well with our finances so I decided to throw a wild party in New Reno ya know, the city of sin! It's not as exciting as Vegas but my dad said "no" and I get him because I'd get shanked by Biggus Dickus or whatever hehe you know their silly names anyway yes I was partying and I realize wow with these jobs I could totally hire my friends well actually that and I was told to find people so like hey why not them right because we grew up together and I know their strengths and weaknesses so soon as I get back I head to our friends home and well andrew is not here but I wanted him as a janitor because he kinda fuck things up haha ya know but I like him and oh getting distracted so I remember Max that cool girl Max and I head home but I find no one until her father open up and when I ask him where she is he tells me to look up my ass but haha she cant fit in here so I left and wow here you are heading back from work wow you're a doctor at this age you're a rare genius but you know I remember her telling us a lot about you like not all because it's creepy but you know"
"… She's, erm…" Should he tell him? Matthew was a weird guy, but knowing that Max was out there in the Mojave could bring him to do something regrettable. Very briefly, the young doctor thought of asking Matthew to find a way to pull his sister out of the desert and back home but that'd mean handling what should've been his duty to another. As a brother, he had failed Max by not convincing her to back off from going to that accursed desert: It wasn't up to someone else to fix his mistakes. It was a stupid bit of irrationality that he couldn't erase from his mind. He had that Doleetle pride, where he'd knew he was in deep troubles yet refused to simply take an easy way out while he could. Scrambling for more rational excuses, Conrad then thought that Matthew would probably forget about the conversation anyhow. "… Off to Modoc, you know? She'd like to see those fruits up close and wander about. Huh, she says hi!"
"Ohhh that's nice! Yeah, she always had that look on her face when she wants to see more of the world well I hope she has fun because the world is kind of boring right now its just sand and heat well the world outside of big cities because new reno ohhhh boy I had more chems in me than a desert has grain of sands haha oh that isnt the wisest thing to tell a doctor haha anyhow gonna look for more childhood friends tell her I kiss her a lot but not on the lips see ya haha!" And with that, he went off. Conrad observed him briefly before leaving, in case he'd collapse, and walked down the streets back home. Getting home, he punched the code in and opened the door by pressing through using his shoulder. Then, it was simply a matter of going up the stairs, and hearing his dad screams down at his neighbor and vice-versa.
"CUCK! YOU'RE A CUCK! CUCK! I HEAR YOUR WIFE MOAN ANOTHER MAN'S NAME AT NIGHT WHEN YOU'RE OFF TO WORK! CUCK!"
"Y-Y-YEAH I'M ACTUALLY OFF FUCKING YOUR WIFE OLD MAN!"
"GOOD ON YOU BECAUSE A DEAD CORPSE IS STILL SMARTER THAN THAT WHORE WIFE YOU CARRY AROUND! CUCK!" Incensed, the neighbor took two steps on the stairs leading him to the Doleetle's apartment.
"I'm going to kill you, old man! You'll be glad your doctor son is still around for you because I'm going to beat the fuck out of-" Stepping in swiftly, Conrad ascended to reach their neighbor's level. None of the neighbors around were intent on stopping them, instead, each laughed slightly or commented on the matter to one another. The few that saw the doctor coming at least had the courtesy of stopping, and none of them tried to prevent him from reaching the angry mustachioed man who was in the middle of a heated argument with his father. Touching his shoulder, as a means of getting his attention, Conrad did a disarming smile.
"Hello. Is my father being troublesome again?" He asked, glancing upwards and waving at his old man.
"Yes! Some rich jackass passed by and he opened the door and immediately started throwing insults when he was asked where his daughter is or something. The guy left, didn't seem like he cared, but he kept shouting. So I asked him to calm down and he started to insult me and you know, I'm not a cuckold at all, so I fought back." Conrad nodded in understanding.
"I apologize. My father is a bit… stressed out with Max's departure to the Mojave and what-not. I-"
"Well shit, I'm worried too! My nephew's stuck in that desert as well! But you don't see me yelling it out, alright?!" It was now Conrad's turn to get yelled at, as the irate neighbor angrily jammed a thumb at his chest, in an attempt at intimidation. The doctor could hold his ground though: He was young, healthy, and practiced exercises to keep in shape. But he decided to tactically give way. Standing his ground would be seen as defiant and result in another shouting match. And while some of his neighbors would never tire of them, he was worried that the rest would begin to file complaints. That, and he disliked swearing or even yelling in general. So he backed off slightly and raised his hands.
"I understand, sir, but-"
"ARE YOU THREATENING MY SON?!" Conrad's eye twitched in frustration. "I'LL GET DOWN THERE AND KICK YOUR ASS! I MAY BE WEAKER THAN BEFORE BUT EVEN ON MY DEATHBED I'LL BE SPRIER THAN YOU!" The doctor pushed past the neighbor, quickly ascended to his floor, and then took a hold of his father before entering the apartment, closing the door on the process with his foot. "Conrad! Are you going to let that guy humiliate you like this? If I had your age and was called out like this, I would have thrown him down the stairs!"
"I'm a doctor, dad. I heal injuries but I don't dish them out," The young man took off his white coat and neatly put it down on a wooden chair next to the entrance. His father watched him and huffed angrily. Then, Conrad proceeded to put a hand on his back as they both walked over to the living room: It looked like his father was watching a documentary before his shouting match began. ".. But you know, dad, you stood up for a pretty long time like that! It's pretty good for your health."
"Then why are you following me around like I'm going to collapse at any moment?! You're… paddling around like a wingless bird, it looks pathetic!" His father looked forward to his couch and, at his discretion, Conrad let him go. But still surveyed his old man's short journey to a comfy couch. Using the couch itself as support, the bald man sat down and smirked slightly, as if prideful. "… You know, in my younger days, I had to stand up straight for twelve hours!" Conrad kept listening on but headed for the end of the black table in front of the couch to kneel and lay down his bag. "… I was the new guy in a group, so I was off handling the bad tasks. One of those involved night-watching. Do you know how people have turns watching out at night in case of raiders attacking? Well, I had to do it. They told me it was my initiation ritual or something. We were exploring a big pre-war ruin, Burbank or something, and every night they slept at the same spot."
"So you stood up? All night?" Conrad pulled out the paperwork he needed to fill and settled it down the table. His dad watched it in distaste, but his story apparently took priority over that. On the TV screen, the reporters were arguing what was the best destination for vacations between San Francisco or The Hub.
"Yeap! It gave me a better look at things. I stood up all night like that. I eased them in, made them believe that I was a little backless goon… and then, the third night in, I stole all the stuff they had collected from old sites." A coy grin etched itself on his wrinkled face. "… I was too sleepy the day to get proper stuff, but I waited for them to collect it all and set out with their loot. Soon as they woke up they headed out to try to retrieve their stuff but… I used the two previous nights to find the little nooks and crannies that even they couldn't access. They gave up, eventually, but I knew they'd wait for me at the Boneyard since it was the closest city in sight, so soon as the coast was clear I crossed the damn desert on foot to get to New Reno. Wasn't easy, but I got rich and paid a bodyguard who massacred the damn lot of them."
Conrad grimaced at the end of the sentence, and his father rolled his eyes to the sky. "It's the wasteland, son. They tracked me down anyway, and I wasn't much of a smooth-talker. 'Sides, that money also funded you a roof and a clean bed. In all my life up to this point, I had to do with neither. It was me and the night sky," The older man looked away, glancing at the news. "… Still kinda miss it. Ya know how victorious I felt when I managed to beat back the horrors of the Wastes for the day? I outwitted thugs and scalped beasts and my reward was the clear night sky. You… don't see it too often, because of the lights polluting it all, but the nukes did squat to the stars up above," He pointed out of a nearby window with his thumb. "They're as pretty as in the old books. Only place we haven't contaminated with our madness. Never will hopefully."
Conrad quietly listened to his father as he reached for the stars. "… I thought it was unfair. That these stars keep shining on and on while we dig through dirt and broken steel to find scraps to sell. So I set out to spite 'em. The day I ventured, but at night I settled down and stared back at the sky. To let these assholes know "hey, I'm alive and you're going to have to illuminate me, now." He shrugged. "It gave me a goal, what can I say? Most of the other prospectors… They want to find stuff, then find other stuff, and so on. Me? I had a drive!" Roger began to beat on his chest a little, and Conrad almost got up to check on him before realizing that he was being quite limp about it. "I had people to prove wrong! Enemies! I had those, humans or ghouls, but I could kill them. Did, quite a few times, and the drive's gone then."
"So that's why you picked out the stars as your… enemies? Because they'll be there no matter what?" Well, perhaps he did have an interest in psychology! Not that it was particularly useful in a world where wounds of more physical matters were much more urgent to treat. "… Isn't that a fight that you're bound to lose?"
"Yeah. But… I figure the stars and I, we recognize each other by that point, you get me? I can't reach them to kick their asses but neither can they. So we stare at each other until my eyes close for good. And as we do it, and as the years go by, they go… "Damn, he's not letting go", right?" He smiled very slightly before his more usual sour face took over again. "… 'Cept it's been a while since I saw them, those stars up in the sky. Up in the sky, though. I met one on Earth. Probably came down from the heavens to meet me more face to face." Conrad smiled sweetly but that was partly a façade: He knew nothing of the woman who brought him to this ruined world. She was gone before he could gain memories of her, leaving behind naught but old pictures.
"You don't bring up mom too often."
"It's a bit painful," Admitted Roger, the mirth in his tone already partly gone. Conrad frowned, realizing he might have prevented his father from opening up to him fully.
"I know…" Conrad looked down at his papers, tapped on the table with his pen, and glanced at his father. The older man glanced at the tv, likewise ending the conversation there, before looking down at the table, with a guilty expression on his face. He composed himself, and then looked back at his son with a softer facial expression than before.
"… Still, she gave me two stars of my own to cherish," Conrad looked up to his father. It wasn't the most dignified of expression, slack-jawed like that, but he composed himself quickly. His father going from his usual confrontational mood to sweet was not in his plans. "Huh, you look shocked at a compliment now? Where's Max anyway? I'm hungry." Still carrying that peaceful air about him, Roger glanced at the door, expecting it to open at any moment. The young man glanced at his paper during that time and saw that he'd barely managed to scribble out a bunch of distracted gibberish. Sighing, he packed it back in his bag, thinking he'd complete it all before going to bed, and stood up a bit straighter.
"She's…"
"And now, news from the Mojave desert! In a spectacular display of might, our brave boys at the army have once again managed to repel the menace of the "Great" Khans!" Jeered the male host on the news, seemingly finding the current news to be more exciting than whatever he was talking about previously if his sudden volume was any indication.
"Indeed, we'll need to find them a new moniker, because there's nothing "Great" about these guys! Defying the peace offering of the Republic once more, the infamous raiders kidnapped two of our brave soldiers and hunkered down in Boulder City!" The female host kept up with the volume rather admirably. "But you know how our boys and girls in uniform would not let them have their way! After gathering troops of their own at Boulder City, the Republic humbly asked for its soldiers to be given back… Only for the cruel Khans to coldly murder one of them before their very eyes!"
"Lieutenant Monroe, alas, understood that peace is not the language of those barbarians! Ever the fine linguist, he retaliated with a courageous assault that saw the rescue of a hostage and the total defeat of the Khans! Already, our spies speak of diminished morals amongst Legionaries and Fiends, who are dreading their inevitable turn! Hey, Caesar, use as many toadies as you'd like to fight your battles, we'll still have a lot of spare ammo to riddle your corpse with!"
"We have gallantly sought an interview with the heroes and heroines behind this!" The two men, who had largely been uninterested in the footage, suddenly gained more interest when a female trooper patrolled into view, with a face full of bruises and the need for support from another fellow to move around. Call it family instinct, call it a good vision, but neither the grainy footage nor the wounds on her face prevented the two men from seeing that Max was on that screen, greeting the reporters with a slight smile and a thumb-up.
"Inspiring, isn't it? Our little trooper apparently used to be a humble little citizen a week or two beforehand! And some would spread rumors about improper equipment or training in our army! Whoever that young girl is, she'll return to her family a woman!"
Roger stared at his son. Conrad stared at his father. They stared at the tv. They stared at the ceiling. Stared at each other, again. Then, Conrad calmly set aside his glass and took a deep breath. For this one time, he'd break his rule…
"… FFFUUUCCCCCCCCCCCCCKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKK!"
…
"… And here come my golden goose! Crawling out of its little nest to provide me with some fresh caps!" Dixon spread his arms in greeting, not-so-accidentally pushing aside one of his customers. Then, he held them out at Andrew, motioning at him with his finger before offering his palm. The young man, fighting off the urge to spite in it, instead pathetically dug into his pocket. Managing to fit in a handful of caps, he proceeded to handle it feverishly. At Dixon's sides, two scrawny men hawkishly watched the transaction, holding their varmint rifles close. Neither was physically intimidating, and their little weapons could stand to be more menacing too, but they could stand on their own two feet and hit a decently close target, which was more than enough to outmatch the threats on that side of town.
Also more than enough to kill Andrew, there was that too.
"… Thank you! That'll be 25 caps the next time," Dixon's smug little grin grew a little wider when Andrew recoiled in surprise. "Well, what can I say? You're a bit of a star in the neighborhood! I've got a lot of nice folks who'd really like to know where you went. 'Sides, lying eat away at my consciousness, funny thing like that. It's too bad when a merchant starts telling lies, after all!" Andrew hunkered down slightly, giving Dixon the space he'd need to loom over him better. That jackass wasn't doing much to keep the conversation quiet too, even with everyone else around being too high to care or even hear it out. "Go suck somebody off or whatever. In two days, I want to use those caps you'll give me to pay myself a drink at the Wrangler."
"H-how about I give you some money in advance then? You've got jet?"
"That's a fair deal. But I might forget about this transaction by two days," Nixon shook his head and opened his coat, fetching some Jet. "It's nothing against you, man. But druggies like you… ah, you all kinda look the same after a while! So I may assume I handed that Jet out to someone else and reclaim the full payment in two days!" Andrew gave away his caps once again and feebly grasped the Jet like it was the keys to Shady Sands. "Don't overdose too quickly though! I still need those twenty-five caps and you buy a lot of Jet!"
"We could get them from his corpse, boss." Sneered the thug on the right. Dixon shot him a glare, and Andrew bowed humbly before feebly walking out. Derisive laughter accompanied his retreat, but once he was certain that the three men wouldn't be seeing him, it was Andrew who smirked. And even furthermore, after vanishing into an alley, he abandoned his frail stride to walk upright at a far quicker pace, stepping over debris and dead thugs and junkies amongst them. Having to suck up to that twat was painful for his pride, but in the end, Dixon was merely a tool for him to manipulate. The dealer's sadistic attitude and overconfidence had let him blind to the little subtleties in life, and they took a lot of forms. Like the paint on a bottlecap's label and the specific metal, it was made from. Any expert at the Crimson Caravan, for instance, would see through that ruse in mere hours at most. Far less than weeks, which was Dixon's current time. In Andrew's mind, it made sense though: He probably assumed that NCR "squatters", as he called them, would have fresher bottlecaps than the rest of the Wasteland.
Or, and Andrew smiled derisively at the thought, that Freeside thug had never gotten his dirty hands on a bottlecap before… But who cared about Dixon? The young man would be back in the Strip and gorging himself on fine dishes before nightfall. Focusing on what laid ahead, the young man began to loot the corpses on the ground. Sometimes, if one looked fresher than the rest or was close to a large stack of debris, he'd give them a little kick or toss a little stone at them, just to make sure they wouldn't be getting up at the worst times.
"Shipwrecks" is what he called them. Some had been stabbed or beaten, others had taken too much chems, the last ones plainly curled up and died of despair. All too common around these parts, and he didn't care about the "whys" of things. The only thing he cared about those dead folks is what they had on. Be it caps, unused chems, maybe even a weapon or object he could sell. It was grim, and at first, Andrew had nearly passed out while doing so, but there wasn't much else to do. Much else that, at least, wouldn't piss off folks. So he turned to corpse-robbing to survive. Not glamorous, yet lucrative: He walked away from a fallen thug with about 7 caps, a grimy switchblade, and a baseball. It'd be at least worth 3 caps, so it was ten caps in one go! Feeling content with himself, Andrew moved unto his next target, a woman laid face down on the ground and rolled her on her back.
"Ew!" The bald woman must have had tried to expel those chems in her before dying, splattering herself and her surroundings in vomit that had long dried up because of the sun. He was sure that the smell in itself was awful too, but that was as expected, really. Still, Andrew gagged before he began looting. After all, the corpse hadn't been moved, so it probably had some useful stuff on it, right? It took him a bunch of empty Jet canisters before he realized that the poor woman had probably liquidated the rest of her caps to a certain someone before her overdose. But well, at least, he got to take some more Jet for him: Her heart had given out before she was done with her reserve, at least. With a tired sigh, Andrew made do with what he had found and glanced about once again, setting out for the corpse of a man with a sharp wooden stick through the throat.
"Ahhh, that does sound reasonable. Let's take all the Jet we can find! It's not like half the corpses here overdid on it, right?" Andrew didn't even stop, but his eyebrows furrowed in displeasure. Can't a man be allowed to scavenge in peace? Trying his best to ignore it, he kneeled next to the victim, after a cursory glance about in case of an ambush, and prepared to relieve the body of whatever it was carrying. It's not like a corpse needed those. "Oh, ignoring me, aren't you? How typical."
"Shut up. I'm not going to take it all, I'll just sell it back once I'm farther from Dixon's territory."
"Ah, wonderful! You're not going to take the drugs! You're going to sell them! For a second, I was elated to have another speck of conscience up there, but it looks like I've gotten my hopes up too fast. Then again, disappointing people is your specialty, heh?" Andrew mumbled in his beard, but not solely because of the insult: Rather, he'd noticed the man had no loot on his person. Most certainly, it had been taken away by whoever did him in. Still, he kept looking around, trying to find anything he could at least sell back for even one cap.
"That's a pretty ideal life, huh?" The voice had that shrill tone. It sounded exactly like him, but more… girly, he couldn't define it all. "Stepping over sharp debris and glass, looting murder victims and dead junkies, selling back whatever you find including the drugs themselves to a few damned souls. All to gain those precious caps you need to go back to the Strip! How will it feel to see that money gone in a night, I wonder…"
"I know how they do their little tricks. I'll replicate with some of my own and I'll be fine!" He set aside the corpse and got up, once again stumbling towards more bodies. "I'm not going to get done dirty by a pre-war relic and his pack of Mafiosi goons, ya hear me?" He wondered what that tiny voice was, at times. He'd begun to hear it after he was kicked out from the Strip, a month or so ago. Left with nothing but the clothes on his back, counterfeited caps, and wounded pride, he'd begun to hear it… communicate. Few whispers at first, that grew stronger when he finally acquired the caps he'd need to go back home and yet decided he'd much rather stick in Freeside and earn the wealth back. It was never too forceful, never too loud, but it always hung at the back of his head whenever he was doing something morally reprehensible, so he was pretty much always hearing it in the back of his skull, commenting on his deeds.
"Oh please. We both know that these guys are better than you are at scamming people! You'd just rather not admit you're surpassed in your field of expertise." The voice paused ever so slightly. "Because that's all you have, huh? No friends, no survival skills, no good contacts… Hey, ever wonder how the others are doing at times? Matthew? Elissa? Chris? Max?"
"They're probably living a boring life somewhere in Shady Sands. Living by the shadow of that well. While I'm out there…"
"Oh, what a dreary existence! Those poor souls! They get up from their comfy beds early in their morning, put on clean clothes, eat good food, take a walk around town, do a safe job, get paid more caps a day than you'll earn in three days of rummaging through corpses for it, go home, eat steak, go to bed! The agony! As they peacefully go to sleep, confident that no thief is going to sneak in and slice their throat, they must be cursing all that boredom! The horror of having a stable, secure life!"
"If you like Shady Sands so much, how about you shut up and go back then?! You pack your stuff and leave me to my things!" Andrew smirked at a portion of a wall, covered in vomit, where he imagined the voice stood. "I'll be nice enough to give you a bit of my fortune when I return loaded." In the background, about two men entered the alley, seeking to salvage as well. Spotting Andrew talking to himself, they stood there in obvious confusion, turned to one another, shrugged, and walked out.
"I'd love to, but I'm bound to your sorry ass. When you inevitably get shanked in a dirty street or beaten up by goons because of your cheating, I'll be there, watching it, and making sure you hear my last words before we move on to our next life altogether: I. Told. You. So." Andrew gave the air the finger, and packed his 2 caps worth of fortune into his pocket. The voice seemed content to have "won" the argument, and shut up, for now, granting him the peace of mind to further contemplate his surroundings. This made him notice a few things, like that one "corpse" that had slightly changed positions a few times. He could tell by the movements of the arm or the club that just "happened" to be laying around, up for the grabbing should a victim approach. A slow victim, though: It'd be a test of reflexes. Andrew smirked.
After two seconds of nothing happening, the youth lunged at the bat, his surprising swiftness proving to be superior to a sluggish goon playing dead. With ease, Andrew grasped the wooden weapon and set it overhead. Realizing he was in danger, the failed ambushed rose up immediately to defend himself, but was once again too slow to save himself from a whack to the back of the skull, instantly knocking him out. Though to be sure, he gave it another go with the bat, on the back this time, in case he'd try anything. When the man took the blow without so much as a grunt, then a relieved Andrew sighed and gave the weapon an appreciative look: It wasn't much, and he'd thrown punches only twice in his whole life thus far, but he sure felt a bit more confident about taking on thugs now. Satisfied, he knelt down and began to pat the man down for the caps he had. As if to reward him for his swift use of violence, he extracted about ten of them out of his pockets, along with a bit of scrap to be sold for later and a tiny knife.
"Thank you, nameless thug," Andrew patted the man on the head, pocketing what he had found. "It's not much, but you ensured the rise of a rich man," He prepared to continue, but his palm got tied to something sticky. Pulling his hand out of the mess with haste, the bearded man noticed that the palm was covered in wet hair and blood. To this, he answered with a reassuring chuckle and proceeded to wipe his hand on the thug's pants. "Well, if you have any memory of the confrontation, by the way! That's a nasty head injury! See ya around!" Andrew got up and decided that his collection had gone far enough, he'd go to Mick and Ralph to sell the scrap and then he'd wander deeper into Freeside to get the Jet out. It'd get him closer to his new resting spot before nightfall.
"… See ya around? We've only met!" Andrew stopped: Before him, blocking his way out of the alley, were three thugs, carrying bats bigger than his own. Like the bodyguards, they weren't particularly intimidating on their own, but they had numbers on their side and meaner weapons. All that the squatter could bring to the table was a useless inner voice that couldn't do much in a fight and a regular bat. The lead of these goons gave him a smug grin, aware of the favorable odds. "Hey, ya know what though? I get it, you have big plans, we'll let you-"
"Gosh, shut the fuck up!" Andrew slammed the jet contained against his lip and took a deep breath of it. The drug made its work swiftly since Dixon has had the foresight not to hand him one of his shitty homemade confections. The world began to slow down as the fumes seeped down his throat and into his lungs, filling him with power… and a vague aftertaste of Brahmin dung. He'd know, he had to hang around it as a kid. With his current level of speed, he could even see the leader's smug wrinkled grin very slowly make way for pure rage at being insulted. He could also see the thugs prepare to swing their bats, meaning to anticipate him, but he was already running past them by the time they were done with the wind-up. As for the leader, the young man simply shoved him aside into some debris as he sprinted past him, ensuring that his goons would be distracted trying to pull him out instead of giving chase. Not even bothering to look back, Andrew ran out of the alley and sprinted to the left, intending to cover as much distance as he could before the drug's inevitable end.
It, unfortunately, didn't last long, Jet being Jet. After five seconds of running, his body started to feel heavy, like an anchor had been tied to his back. The world began to feel less detailed: Passerbys in the distance became faceless ghosts and details obvious to his chem-addled minds suddenly became much harder to focus on. The street of Freeside, wide enough for an army to pass through, now outright constricted around him, like a devious reptile. The ruined buildings of Freeside, still standing proud after years, shrunk and shrunk until becoming pale shadows, susceptible of breaking down should he wheeze too close to them. Soon, his legs, beforehand capable of carrying him all the way back home, now were too weak for him to support him, and he collapsed in the middle of the street, sweating bullets. And because that wasn't enough, his heart was beating at the pace of a machinegun, knocking on his ribcage so hard it was probably going to dislodge it, medically impossible as that was. Clutching his chest like he meant to grab his heart and keep it in place, Andrew quickly got up and shambled forward, cringing as the caps slipped out of his pocket. "Fuck! Fuck! Jet lasts longer than this!"
"Well, your strategy of sniffing drugs and running away from danger isn't working out too hot, you've got other options, right? You're in worse shape than these guys at the moment…"
"Shut up! Shut the fuck up! It was that or being beaten down like a dog! You don't get to lecture me!" He probably sounded really pathetic right now, screaming to the sky with a quivering voice like that.
"You won't have my pity, Andrew. Not when you could've avoided all of this." The young man grimaced until he reached the corner of a street and sat down there, too exhausted to move anything but his eyes. The strength drained out of him, he looked in terror at every alley within sight, expecting an opportunistic hobo or band of thugs to come out at any time now. And because Lady Luck was definitely feeling generous, there was one such group to his left. And those weren't the desperate junkies he ran circles around when he was feeling better: Their arms were beefy enough to make those bats they wielded hurt and they were not as malnourished as the local folks. Which didn't mean much, but at least they weren't bound to fall over mid-chase out of sheer hunger.
Those were his compatriots. Ambitious farmers, small-time guards, or plain jobless (rare as it was in the NCR) folks. Some had abandoned California to seek Vegas and its riches, others had simply sought to live in the exciting new frontier, others had problems running away. They were worse to deal with than the average inhabitant, shocking as it was. Physical health aside, they were all convinced that the locals were out to get them, sadly not much of irrational fear, and most strove to defend themselves by preemptively attacking anyone who looked at them funny. In their desperate attempts at protecting themselves, those squatters only angered the locals more, causing them to take arms as well or scheme to actively worsen their lives.
Because of this, the squatters liked to band together and scour the place for caps or stuff to sell, like him. He was a part of one, briefly, before he'd realized that he was not earning enough caps to sustain his dream of going back to the Strip. That and he just liked it better when he was winning on his own. Unfortunately, it was hard to tell who's NCR and who's not once you got in the lower parts, where even the Kings dare not patrol, and as a result, Andrew had to flee from his countrymen quite a few times.
This meant that he was in danger. But probably less so than that ghoul that they were surrounding. Why was it always ghouls? One of the goons was looking back at him too. "Just you wait, we're taking care of the zombie first." The one who spoke to him did keep an eye on him, in case he'd crawl away, but all three paid no heed to the human and focused on the cowering ghoul. He recognized him: It was Rotface. His sole prior interaction with the ghoul had involved him tracking down Andrew and inviting him to shove several sharp objects up his anus after the young man had attempted to become an "informant" and encroach on his territory. Were Andrew in a better physical condition, he'd surely be pleased to see the freak on the chopping block. But his body still felt incomprehensibly heavy and the lightning-fast beating of his heart had gone the other way into being nearly frozen.
"We're going to break one limb per useless tip." He could vaguely hear the sole woman of the group communicate to Rotface, ignoring the latter's frenzied begging. She was still bigger than Andrew. "And see if we can make you even uglier than you are…" Two of the men hoisted their bats and raised them up, sadistic grins on their faces. The woman, meanwhile, walked back slightly and rubbed her hands together, pondering. "Hmmm, where to begin? How about that "cache of weapons" apparently near the fort? The one with the weak lock? Turned out to be pretty damn strong and I lost a few of my guys when the Kings came back!"
"Hey! Hey! I… I sometimes get slightly outdated information! You get those in the trade!" The man on the right ignored him and raised his bat further, aiming for the arm. "Wait! Wait! I've got a tip! A very hot tip at that Fresh from the oven!"
The woman tilted her head but, amused, motioned for her underlings to strike the ribs instead. Andrew heard something break as Rotface fell on his right side, screaming in agony, and even he couldn't help but wince. Normally he'd keep his mouth shut, and would instead focus on regaining his strength to hopefully flee, but something compelled him to raise a hand at the thugs. "Stop!" He shouted. Whatever he hoped to say to dissuade angry gangbangers got stuck in his throat, preemptively shut off by the glares sent his way by the locals.
"You tried."
"Stop what? You wanna go before him?" Addressed the first thug, slowly approaching at Andrew, who was very much regretting his initial bout of empathy. The youth hastily attempted to climb on his feet only to slide back down to the ground, not having moved an iota. Having easily reached the cowering scam artist, the thug took a quick glance at him. "Heh, you look like you'd be a goner even without us around. It'd be kinder to just whack you in the head, really."
"My last tip!" Screamed Rotface, catching everyone's attention again. "My last tip… hah… you're all going to die!" The thug in front of Andrew tilted his head, in confusion, only for a surprise bullet to suddenly drill through it, splattering the sidewalk in blood and head bits, internal or not. In the very same instant, two more bullets impacted the bat-wielding men responsible for Rotface's torment. The first died swiftly, but the second fell to the ground grasping his throat, even if his attempt was only delaying the inevitable.
There, under Andrew's eyes, appeared the duo's surprising savior: That cowboy ghoul from earlier, holding a smoking revolver and walking at the woman of the group with deadly intent. He wore his same set from the other day, but with a long black cloak on him this time.
But instead of crippling, her with bullets, the ghoul instead spun the gun on his thumb and holstered it. Seeing this, the woman wisely began running away, but Wayne simply ran after her. Closing the distance in seconds, the tall ghoul grasped the fleeing thug by the neck, hoisted her up overhead… and Andrew looked away before it was over, but the sound he heard would forever stay with him anyhow. Rotface looked shocked as well but quickly shrugged that off and got up as Wayne approached him.
"My apologies, brother, I only just came back to that cursed slum," The tall ghoul bent down and picked up a wooden bat, which he handed over to Rotface. "I have a matter to attend to. You may… vent on that human in the meantime." He pointed to the last "survivor", tenuous as his connection to life was at the moment, and patted Rotface in the back. The informant shrugged and advanced towards the thug, priming his bat, as Wayne reached Andrew. Whatever the Jet had done to his body, he couldn't even feel fear anymore, or even the slightest sense of dread. Moving his eyes to even so much as glance at the ghoul felt like an impossible task, though Wayne resolved to help him by kneeling down to be at eye level. "Smoothskin. We meet again."
"… Nrhg?" Andrew wanted to respond. Too bad some idiot had dumped sand into his throat, a few seconds ago.
Wayne listened and looked down, moved to deep contemplation. "… I am a spiritual one, young man. I was taught, more than a century ago, in the ghoul belief of the Shadow. It is our impact on the world. The towns we influence, the people we kill or save, without even knowing them. Our influence, as you say," He spoke, sounding almost disgusted as he began to pull something out of the pockets of his coat. Andrew couldn't see it clearly: The whole world around Wayne's face had grown dark, and was growing dimmer. Only his voice was keeping him anchoring upon this life, even if it was as pleasant to the ears as the sound of two Deathclaws matings. "It is everlasting. It continues to cover the world and grow even when the body dies. Tandi's shadow still lingers after her death. So does the Vault Dweller of Vault 13. To do that, they used many others. Absorbed them via killing or convincing. Added many more little shadows to theirs, until it grew big enough to cover nations."
Speaking of shadows, Andrew's vision was almost completely gone, and whatever Wayne was telling him was being filtered through his ears with much difficulty. It was still sweet, though. No pain. No cold. No heat, even below the sun. No hunger. No illness. He was dying, yes, but it felt much sweeter than carrying on living in that slum. Whatever awaited him after death, he was content to witness it. Only one thought still held him back to this Earth: Whenever Max learns that I died a dog's death, will she even care? The thought lingered on for a few seconds, and he put up the very briefest of resistance to whatever was happening to him like he wanted to at least depart in peace. But before he could find a conclusive answer to it, it all came back.
Freeside, the pain, hunger, light, sound, touch. All important things, but the only one that mattered was the feeling of something rising in his throat. Leaping aside with regained vigor, Andrew violently threw up a grey substance over the gutters, mixed in with some portions of fried squirrels and corn. Wayne watched passionlessly, even taking the time to reload that revolver of his. "… That sure is a lot of chems, smoothskin." He commented, sounding almost impressed. Andrew didn't register it at first, since he was trying his very best not to collapse face-first into the sludge, and began to slowly get up to better see eye to eye with the cowboy.
" … Za fuck…" The youth reached for his throat and winced in pain. He wasn't surprised to see Wayne hold up a little box of "Fixer", though.
"A good cure.. for a few days. If you thought the overdose was nasty, the withdrawal's worse. And I give you three days before you experience it. Maybe less, maybe more. You'll take a dirt nap unless you take more Fixer or an antidote." Andrew stood still, registering the news.
"So, what do you want me to do for you then?" Wayne nodded, as if pleased, and held out his hand.
"I want to crush your shadow and acquire it for mine," To emphasize his point, Wayne clenched his gloved fist into a ball. "You… you have influenced many people. Your shadow is thin but it spread all the way back to California. A worthy sacrifice to mine," Andrew didn't quite get what the hell the cowboy ghoul was saying, but he had seen him casually manhandle a woman twice his size. Whatever it'd ask him to do, he'd do it, even if it involved single-handedly slaughtering the Kings or others favors he'd still rather not think about too much. "The NCR… it has been spreading, as of late. The Powder Gangers, the Khans. They made them take dirt naps and devoured their shadows. They're bolder, will move to Freeside now."
"… Oh, so you want me to keep track of them? Ask them why they're around?" Andrew was eager to put an end to the conversation. The gunslinger… looked a bit crazier than he was when he confronted the mercs menacing Grecks. Did someone call him a zombie a minute ago or something?
"Yes. Ask them how thorough they plan to be, but be discreet about it. You are one of them, so they'll trust you inherently."
"I'm Californian, but it's not like they'll just know I am at first sight."
"… Not Californian. Human. They'll tell you what they wouldn't tell me. Learn as much as you can, and in three days, I will find you. If you do not betray me and give me valuable information, then I will reward you with the cure for Jet and 2000 caps." Andrew's eyes widened in surprise and he got up, now suddenly interested.
"W-what? You'll give me that many caps?"
"What you see as a fortune you've spent a month trying to acquire… is nothing to me. Your body will be healed and your greed satisfied. Is it not a good deal?"
"Well… Yeah. I'll be your informant. Where do-"
"I will find you. That is all you need to know. Farewell," Wayne turned around, heading towards Rotface, and stopped, without bothering to glance back. "… Oh, furthermore, I know you stole the caps from Grecks. Should you do anything to displease me, then I will give your body a scar. One for each stolen cap, and only after the last one will you be allowed to die. I hope this will provide you with further… encouragement."
"Y-yeah, I'll… huh, I'll find you juicy stuff. I've got army pals! Yeah, lots of army pals." Andrew glanced about and looked down at some of the caps he spilled, still covered in vomit. After some careful deliberation, he picked them up anyway and headed out to leave the scene. Wayne grunted in appreciation and headed for Rotface.
"Brother, follow me. I will guide you to a shelter."
"I sure hope there are ghoulettes to be found then." Asked the informant, half-jokingly. Wayne glanced at him, with his eyes set beneath those goggles of him, and nodded.
"Plenty." He said, his tone devoid of any humor whatsoever.
…
Car enthusiasts of the wastes will be delighted to hear that a Corvega had been spotted driving down the roads of the Mojave, in what will surely be quite a nostalgic sight for some of the ghouls in the audience. A witness describes knowing the identities of the drivers.
"Yeah, cute girl had it repaired at a merchant outpost. I was thinking of asking her out but then this tall masked guy walked in and kept trying to use dinosaur toys instead of caps to buy the car. He was really insistent and said he'd wreck it if he couldn't have it. Looked like he could do it, so she relented. Then she asked him a question super discreetly, and he shouted something about people shooting lasers from their eyes. She said she'd drive, probably because the car would crash if he was driving, and he agreed."
It looks like the dinosaur enthusiast of Novac has made the news once again! If you're listening to us, brave drivers of the Mojave, then this song is for you!
…
Hello!
It's a bit of a filler chapter, I know, but it's fun to have insight into what the other characters are doing and the situation in places. Besides, it set up stuff, expect to see Andrew again very soon!
On me news, I've begun playing Fallout 4. It sure feels a lot different. But I didn't quite like NV early on at first so maybe I need time! I'd like to see the West Coast again though.
Also fun fact: I wanted to make the Veronica scene a "full one", but I don't want Courier Six to be seen too much. I want his actual on-screen appearances to remain rare, for now.
See ya later alligator!