The worst part of putting together a plan? Actually putting it into action. That was, at least, Andrew's opinion on the matter. How many times had he started out a glorious scam with a plan C for a plan B and about seven escape options, only to be caught off guard by something so obvious he hadn't even thought of it? Like wanting to seduce an older woman, hanging around her, and forgetting that her son, a heavyweight boxer renowned in New Reno, was coming to visit and hadn't been informed of his presence. Or that time he'd tried to sneakily damage a farmer's crops, to convince him to buy a scarecrow, he could use to fend off the beast behind the vegetal massacre, then remembered that the paranoid old man was a crack shot with his rifle.
That country hick would have sent him back to Shady Sands in a coffin if not for about of tactical retreat!
Each time, he swore to himself to learn from his mistakes. And then realized that he hadn't really learned all that much from them on the next occasion. Else he wouldn't be standing in front of a row of thugs dressed like an almost-forgotten icon of the old world. Had to be pretty egotistical if he went around calling himself the "King." And that hairdo… bah, perhaps the nuclear flames should have been a little bit more ruthless, here and there. Not that Andrew could comment on it yet, with his disastrous hairdo and overgrown, filth-ridden beard. Even now, he was using a small wooden stick to clear out anything that could've gotten in there while he was sneaking in the streets of Freeside. His bare hands could've done the trick, of course, but he was afraid that something sharp could've found its way there. Call it a precautionary measure.
Satisfied enough with the cleansing, Andrew threw the stick over his shoulder. He adjusted the brown suit he'd put on right before coming here. It was as clean as it could get in Freeside, which would get him envious looks around the area, and easy to wear since he was so thin. And to make it all the better, he didn't even need to pay for the thing! He'd stalked around the Strip's entrance, where gamblers of lesser status or folks inconsiderate with their money were kicked off and left to wander the streets of Freeside. It was a matter of waiting for the thugs to be done with them and take the suit off the body. He had to try it out many times to succeed: some of the suits were covered in vomit, blood, or… post-mortem processes. And then this one guy passed out drunk, and Andrew borrowed his clothes.
He wasn't heartless, though. He had left rags behind. Not his, but it was still lovely, no? Anyway, he placed the clothes in his little "safe" and forgot about them until he'd made enough caps. Which he did: that good doctor, Arcane Canon or whatever his complicated name was, informed him that Max had left him a portion of Dixon's pocket money. He'd also told him that it was enough caps to get a comfortable seat in a Caravan for Shady Sands, a place devoid of Deathclaws, Cazadores, Fiends, and grown men palling around in a long-dead guy's costume.
"I'm going to be very honest with you, Andrew, because I think it's the only way you're going to get it." the Follower's voice bounced around his mind. "Freeside can only get worse for you and the settlers around here. Max left you this money so that you could leave, and I think you could afford to share it with others to give them a ticket home too. For once in your life, please take a hint! The farther you get from the Strip, the better."
He'd spent the following days in convalescence with someone else, digesting the blond man's advice. It would… fit if Max was his shadowy provider; she'd always been a nice girl like that, albeit one straddled to an asshole dad. What was she doing in the army? And was she the soldier who beat up Dixon, paving the way for that creepy zombie back there to brainwash the junkies with her repertoire of chems? She wasn't patrolling around the place anymore, and NCR soldiers who knew patrolled elsewhere from the Fort he was staying at. All he knew was that, like a guardian angel, Doleetle had turned up to gift him money and apparently capture the guy he owned caps too. It was a bit of a sum, leaving him with 2200 caps in total. More money than he had on himself leaving for Vegas, the voice in his head noted.
"This isn't the Crimson Caravan Company, you know?" his inner conscience harassed him once more, sarcasm ever-present. "You can get there pretty easily if you need. You just have to walk out of the slums filled with people that resent you, and for once, not for good reasons."
Andrew ignored his conscience and approached the lined-up thugs and ignored them in favor of the tall guy with metal armor and what looked to be a fancy revolver with a scope on it. Pretty good, compared to the other guys and their leather jackets and pipe pistols! The young man approached him with his torso stuck out, evoking confidence in himself, only to notice a rival.
A thin guy with small round glasses and a small mustache who wasn't too stoked to be in the same place as the Kings and the rest of the rabble outside. He was distraught with the sick masses gathering at the doors of the Followers. Amongst them, he could see some of his fellow settlers bandaged up with whatever they could find, patiently waiting to be treated for the wounds inflicted upon them.
It had been barely hours since Andrew left the Fort to reclaim the suit and the money he'd kept carefully hidden near a settler camp, and yet the queue wasn't that big.
"Just fucking leave!" the voice ordered him, dropping the snark entirely this time. "You're going to die if you stay here! Take that big metal door and walk away! God, whatever you'll find outside won't be as bad! You'll end up like these people!"
He huffed mentally to avoid spooking out the bodyguards. "I'm not ending up like these people for sure. I'm riding high."
"Nice suit you stole, buddy, you found in on a corpse?" the taller bodyguard asked, eyeing Andrew suspiciously before raising a hand to Andrew when the latter prepared to speak back... "Don't answer that. I don't care all that much. What matters isn't the suit: It's how many caps you can fit into its pockets. Two hundred of them, and I'll guide you to your precious Strip… I'll even tell you the location of a good barbershop or two, heh!" the young Californian man laughed a little at the joke, knowing that the slightest frown or comment could upset that asshole. 200 was reasonable, after all.
"Sounds right on the money, friend!" Andrew snapped his finger and moved his hand to his pocket. "Let me toss a few caps…."
"250 caps, and I pass first!" The older guy pushed Andrew aside, holding up the money to Orris's head. The taller man stroked his beard, pondering about the offer, and gave Andrew a silent glance as if asking him if he could offer a better price. Of course, he couldn't! Any higher, and he wouldn't pass those damn Securitrons! What he was looking for was a visit to the Strip, not a trip through that disease-ridden ghetto for funsies.
"I'm sorry, sir, but money speaks for itself! You Californians know that best, don't you?" both client and bodyguard gave him the same smug smile, and Andrew refrained from punching both. What he couldn't refrain himself from doing, though…
"I hope you'll choke on a ghoul dick at Gomorrah, you fucking fossil!" Andrew bellowed, instantly regretting his decisions when several pairs of eyes laid upon him. It was worth it to see the old guy's face go pale, though… and then it wasn't worth it again when Orris huffed his way, unimpressed with the insult. Drawing his revolver, he invited his client to follow him with a wave of his hand, the armor clanking with every motion he made.
"No respect for your elders… Come along, sir, it's a long way to the Strip, and we're going to need your full attention." He walked off, closely followed by the now-silent man. Andrew sighed and turned his attention to the other bodyguards, seeing if they could pick up on Orris's slack. It wasn't like they could have heard his insults about their fashion sense, right? And then the closest of the gangsters shook his head, glaring harshly at the Californian.
"We don't take too kindly to prejudice around these parts. Go fuck yourself, dude." Andrew threw his hands into the air and stepped back, wondering where to go on next. Turning his sights to the Fort again, he began wondering if he couldn't perhaps wait out Orris's return to the area from there. He had given him a wrong impression, sure, but money was money, right? But staying here in the open wouldn't cut it. The Kings did fight back when things tried to rob them, but he didn't expect those souped-up thugs to lend him a hand if one of the more desperate addicts outside started something.
Andrew headed back for the Fort with a frustrated sigh, trying not to get too close to the folks who could touch his suit or spit on him. Then his eyes widened, and he very quickly moved to join the masses of lost souls gathering at the doors. He didn't want to be seen by the few people actually coming out of the places: that one ghoul guard who, in his experience, didn't do that much guarding and that cowboy guy who asked him to interrogate nearby NCR soldiers on top of giving him that bogus medicine!
Elaborated plan, meet very previsible yet completely forgotten detail. You're well-acquainted already.
"Didn't expect to see you so soon, Dillon. How are things back South?" the ghoul woman spoke, lighting up a cigarette for herself. She held out the stick at him, but he politely declined and lit up his own lighter for her.
"Lots of mutants there, Deb. It's a time capsule to the time of the Master and his freaks," he grunted and shut off the lights. "Lots of Super Mutants took a dirt nap. It wasn't all that bad because of it... Savage as those freaks are, they acknowledge their nature, unlike those back up here." He spoke with the faintest glee. Huh, weren't Ghouls and Super Mutants pals? Like, buddies in radiation?
"Huh-huh" Beatrix smoked her cigarette to mark a pause. "… So, why'd you abandon that little slice of mutant Heaven? and come back West to bring politics and warlords?"
"I trailed someone's shadow here," the Ghoulette rolled her eyes slightly and smirked in amusement. "Fate's way of telling me I'm needed here. Took me a little while to figure out where I was supposed to go through, but that's alright. I've got someone standin' on my shadow to help me figure it out. Would ya care to help a fellow out…" he walked back. Before Andrew could even think of leaving the premises, Wayne's arm shot out like a snake to grab him by the collar and hoist him out of the queue. All too aware of the Ghoul's physical strength and speed, for a guy with a body so ravaged by age and radiations, the curly-haired youth could only whimper at him. "… Andrew?"
"How'd you find me?" he eventually stammered out, looking for Beatrix to get support. She shrugged.
"Don't ask him, kid. He'll start to ramble about…."
"A suit isn't going to hide you from me anytime soon, boy," Wayne sat him down, and Beatrix tilted her head, curious at being wrong for once. "And I saw you around the Mormon Fort. Knew you couldn't leave the Strip alone, too. Was a matter of waiting for you to come to me… And now that you did, I'd like to ask you for a service. You'll like it, don't worry." The ghoul cowboy began to walk away from the Fort, and Andrew followed him along. Running was pointless, fighting back was pointless… shit, shit, shit! Why'd he even go back to that place? He would have wept at the injustice of it all if he wasn't looking to safeguard his remaining scraps of pride.
"Take care, Wayne," Beatrix waved him over. "See ya in half a century."
"Lookin' forward to it now" Wayne tipped his hat at his fellow Ghoul and then walked to an abandoned brothel at the end of the street. It wasn't that way a week ago, but things tend to happen fast in those slums. Last Andrew heard, a few desperate addicts broke into the place in the wake of Dixon's absence to search for chems and killed the owner Karl after he violently refused to relinquish the product. In the main cities back home, sordid stories like these would be on the newspapers everywhere, and political figures would be up in arms and putting down quotes for the future generations to learn about.
Here? Barely noteworthy. It had been slightly unusual for the junkies to get bold like this, but that new dealer, Sandra, brought them right back under the fold. Her side of town, at least, had most of the addicts quietly waiting for their turns huddled around flaming barrels.
"Nice tantrum, by the way. If your actions spoke half as loudly as your words, you'd be up in that tower." Wayne leaned against one of the dilapidated walls of the buildings and jerked his thumb at the Lucky 38 tower up above them. There was probably something symbolic in it. A sleek, tall, ambitious home for the overlord of Vegas to watch over the derelict slums he shoved luckless losers and degenerates into.
"… Y-yeah, much love and respect for my good friends, the ghouls. We've got rights for them, ya know? I heard that in Legion territory, they kill them outright," Andrew scratched the back of his head, dislodging a few parasites from his hair. He smiled, unwittingly exposing his yellow teeth, and then closed his mouth. Not a good thing to let your interlocutor see them. "Well, I mean, I he-"
"They left me alone pretty well when I went there," Wayne dismissed. "Anyway, I was about to help you proceed into the Strip, boy… but your words… ohhh, now that ain't a way to make friendly acquaintances with someone, boy," he drawled. "You don't get to say you hate a town and walk into it, you know?" He stood straight up and put his hands on his belt. His coat parted briefly, showing off the guns he used to kill off these settlers guys. Andrew gulped.
"I-it was in the midst of the action, erm… I can make up for it. I… I did make up for it, right? I did as you said and spoke to those NCR soldiers, erm…." Andrew began to scan out for any escape point he could use, people to call out for. As usual, no one around looked like they'd be up to help. A few bodyguards even accelerated the pace with their clients, looking to get to a safe place before things would blow up.
"You did, but you still pissed me off," the cowboy shrugged, his voice sounding relatively impartial despite it. "I don't take prejudice lightly, smooth skin. So you're going to do me a favor now if you see what I mean… I picked the place for it too. You like it?" Andrew blanched and stared at the Ghoul in horror. God… old people, he could understand. He never did, thanks to circumstances, but he was ready. Really old people, though? He'd make a joke about Wayne still being intact down there, then reminded himself that he wasn't the one with two guns and experience using them.
"… A-alright, I'll do it," Wayne didn't say a thing, and those goggles, hat, and headwrap kept his emotions concealed well, nor did he move at all. Andrew sighed and leaned in just a little bit closer, likewise attempting to hide his feelings. Pure professionalism. "I'll do what you want me to do. What will it be? Delivering drugs? Killing a ghoul racist? Anything you want, I'll do it." Wayne taped on the area a tiny biiitttt below the belt, and he saw the young man's skin go pale beneath all that facial hair. "… Fuck me, man, I… I guess I'll do it, but elsewhere, okay?"
Wayne wasn't much of a sadist, really. Not with Smoothskins. There's a lot of them running around the place. While they all have their pettiness and cruelties between each other, nothing can get them to unite faster than a different person stirring troubles in a community. But a familiar feeling did creep up his spine as he watched a "man"'s confidence be destroyed before his very eyes. What was he thinking? Of that cushy life, he'd so eagerly abandoned to enjoy Vegas and get its riches for himself?
Was he picturing himself with a beautiful woman in one arm, a glass of alcohol on the other, and a dozen grown men at his feet, begging for him to teach them his ways? Were those months spent lying, deceiving, and stabbing people in the back for caps worth it now that some old kook of a ghoul was about to request him for services of a lowly nature?
He could push it farther and see the outrageous abuses Andrew would accept to slink his way out of due punishment… but then he reminded himself that he had a goal to accomplish. A place to go to. People (important people!) to talk to. One who wouldn't be happy learning that his promising meeting was delayed to please his employee's rather twisted thoughts. There was a purpose to his steps now. If he were to succeed, then there'd be many teeth chippering for ghouls everywhere.
Wayne was to intertwine his shadow with Andrew's, for now. "Get up, boy," he drawled, gesturing at him. "You've learned your lesson, I reckon. You'll be headed to the Strip with a fuller head and a fuller heart for folks like me."
"O-of course!" Andrew didn't seem to believe in his luck and got up, looking ready to thank every deity he vaguely learned the name of at school. "You… you want to accompany me to the Strip?"
"Wouldn't have been my first call either," the Ghoul precise, and Andrew winced. "… I could get you out of Freeside too if you want. It's a short walk, really, and the patrols to Crimson Caravan will protect you from raiders." Andrew very briefly thought of the choice offered to him: Leave and return home technically richer than before or go back to the Strip and potentially nullify months worth of pain and struggle navigating within the scum of Freeside, all to try and get the famed "jackpot" sought out by thousands like him. And ruin Max's trust in him for good, since the previous years apparently hadn't.
He should've taken much more than five seconds to make up his mind. "I'll go to the Strip. I know how the games work, and I can always… keep a portion of the caps for myself to go back home if-" he put some emphasis on the word. "I happen to lose."
Wayne didn't see fit to criticize him for it or make his disappointment clear. Andrew was man enough to get it. "That's your choice. Now come." Wayne leaned off the wall and began to join the line of bodyguards and clients walking down the street, all headed out for 's greedy paradise. The young man kept close to the Ghoul, for now, paying close attention to the thugs littering the streets outside. Because of the Kings, they were hiding behind (or beneath) the broken cars or debris, unwilling to act in the presence of the bodyguards. One would think that they could abandon the hunt, but the thugs were too craven to stop. They were waiting for that one opportunity to pass along, that one unwary or slow client, to reward their hours of waiting around.
"MICKY AND RALPH! YOU'LL FIND EVERYTHING YOU WANT-"
"Shut the fuck up, you stupid kid!" Andrew bemoaned at the crier, stopping him in the middle of his rehashed speech. "You'd agree, right? Kids like that are annoying to have around." Wayne didn't say anything back and kept walking. His escort pursed his lips, shoved his hands in his pockets, and kept walking, ashamed at the attention he further brought on himself. A few of the nearby clients and Kings glared at him, but nothing came out of it. Everybody was too busy trying not to get mugged. It'd take only one desperate guy, after all.
It wasn't Wayne's first time escorting somebody either. Probably wouldn't be his last. A boy fleeing from associates he'd angered, a woman with many angry exes, fellow ghouls (free of charge)… Freeside was a piece of cake next to these. The hostiles were scrawny junkies. Unpredictable and perhaps even dangerous in great numbers, but a step-down from the experienced killers he sometimes had to deal with. But Wayne knew better than most to be arrogant over these matters. He'd seen it happen too many times to names that once shook the Wastes a century ago, only to fade due to a mistake or overconfidence. Hell, he'd know better than anyone.
He didn't drop his guard, as a result, and paid heed to the smallest of details. Treat every desperate addict like they'd found a suit of T-51b power armor and a Gauss Rifle.
Andrew continued on, mistaking his bodyguard's vigilance with contempt. "… So, huh, I have to ask. Did you know that I would meet… her? Is that why you asked me?"
Wayne kept his eyes and the road in mind, not pondering about the plan. He'd seen the footsteps crossing and the blood that Dixon hadn't been spilled, of course, but the actual "plan" wasn't that thought out. NCR soldiers would investigate the disappearances of their fellow, they'd ask a local (be it Andrew or someone that Sandra would've sent their way), Dixon would be designed and subsequently gunned down in the open by the impatient soldiers, and chaos would ensue. Sandra then would emerge to pacify her side of it, making herself invaluable to the Garrets.
Sandra had been skeptical, bless her heart, but Wayne knew it'd work. He'd seen the boy's footsteps on the dirt and where they were leading. It wasn't anything he could explain, for, at times, he simply knew where to go, like the idea had always been on his head. At others, however, destiny was more direct and took a more physical form to things. 's invitation was one of these: The cowboy could easily ignore it and walk out of the Mojave. The trillionaire would be pretty powerless in stopping him, but that wasn't where he was supposed to go. Regardless of his feelings for House, they would join footsteps for now.
If House could still walk, ha!
Andrew's role in it was unclear, but it was best to be prudent with him for now. They had met multiple times before, so obviously, a more significant purpose was awaiting them. He didn't know what, but he knew he'd figure it out.
The addicts seemed to back off for now, and that was acceptable enough. Revolver ammo was rare, and he couldn't entirely spare it on Freeside scum unless an emergency was at hand. He had more common pistols tucked in that coat of his, but that was a lesser handgun for pettier thugs. Anybody could get one of these. But a clean revolver (not that .357 crap, mind you) would only belong to a Wastelander who knew what he was doing, and those guys, craven as they were, had the sense to realize not to mess with him. The threat of a weapon alone can be a sufficient deterrent to stop a fight without even firing it.
It wasn't the kind of stuff the likes of Andrew would ever be caught wielding. Oh, they'd ask their rich dad to buy them one, of course, but the recoil alone would snap their arms in half. From a better world, those were real weapons plucked from the bodies of foes he slew in the past. Familiar people were not meant to wield them, only stare in jealousy and…
A few gunshots rung out to the left, Wayne's attention skipped to that side of the street, but he saw no reasons to worry yet. Even Andrew, once his initial surprise faded, looked relatively nonplussed by it. The other bodyguards and clients scattered about immediately, the formers running after the latter as they sought cover.
Orris, the originator of the slight panic, walked out of the street, coolly spinning his revolver on his index. That gentleman Andrew invited to choke on "ghoul cock" walked after him, sticking like glue. "An ambush like that would've done you right in if you'd picked a lesser bodyguard. 250 caps well spent heh?" the larger man boasted at his quarry, putting the revolver aside.
"E-erm yes… well… I do not mean to cause trouble, mister, but you fired three times… and yet I saw four dead thugs," he took out one of his glasses to clean it up and adjusted it on his face. "N-no offense, of course!"
Freeside's own guardian angel paused, having apparently choked on his ego. "Errr, you noticed that?" noticing that he sounded too incredulous for his own good, he quickly readjusted his tone back to confidence, with a wavering undertone. "I keenly aimed one of the shots to go through soft tissue, and it fell that guy's buddy who was standing beside him. Bullets like mine, they tear right through steel, ya know?"
"O-oh?" the man blanched before being left in the dust by Andrew and Wayne. They began focusing on a more important topic of interest: the gates of the Strip, guarded by Mr. House's robotic thugs. But there seemed to be more than in the week since his delivery of Hadrian to The Tops. From four to about eight, spread evenly all over the checkpoint. Had something happened to disrupt the Strip?
They would probably receive due explanations in time. For, seizing the panic of the other clients, Andrew decided to walk right up to the gates. Immediately, one of the towering machines advanced towards him, the cop guy on its screen boasting sunglasses to separate it from the rest of its fellow machines. It stopped short of the duo and analyzed them briefly before speaking out in that annoying monotone.
"SUBMIT TO A CREDIT CHECK OR PRESENT YOUR PASSPORT BEFORE PROCEEDING TO THE GATES!" it ordered before raising a cumbersome metal claw. Not to grasp their heads, as Andrew seemed to fear, but to show off a Gatling gun lodged within it. "TRESPASSERS WILL BE SHOT. BE ADVISED: YOU WILL BE HELD FINANCIALLY AND LEGALLY RESPONSIBLE FOR THE BEHAVIOR OF THE ACCOMPANYING MUTANT."
Andrew balked and turned to Wayne, who stood solemnly by his side. It wasn't his first ride with that situation on the Strip, but it was supremely unpleasant whenever it happened.
"W-what the hell are you speaking about?! That's discrimination!" Wayne raised… a place where his left eyebrow used to be, sensing fabrication in Andrew's outrage. It wasn't half-bad acting, but he seemed a teeny bit too angered for it to be genuine. The boy had learned well from his leaders back at home. "You can't-"
"BE ADVISED: YOU WILL BE HELD FINANCIALLY AND LEGALLY RESPONSIBLE FOR THE BEHAVIOR OF THE ACCOMPANYING MUTANT." The Securitron repeated.
Wayne eventually took his own defense. Andrew's gesture would have been appreciated it wasn't all made up, but that didn't mean that he would stand by and let a Human take his defense. "I was invited by the big man himself," he dug into his pocket to pull out the passport gifted to him by Victor and held it out. He looked calm, but inwards, it was a struggle not to accidentally crush it in his grasp. "But I might be leaving if my kind is to be treated like this." His voice was even, but within, he wondered what House could be thinking. How desperate was he to rely on a ghoul when he seemed to be looking down upon them? And he hadn't fetched Wayne's services when the Ghoul was visiting the Strip to relieve some old memories either.
Apparently, he was plan D, good to know.
"MY SINCEREST APOLOGIES, MISTER-" the machine cycled through a list of pre-registered names. "WAYNE. PLEASE PROCEED," Andrew coughed, and the robot spun over to him, scanning him as well. "THANK YOU, SIR. PLEASE PROCEED ALONG AND ENJOY YOUR TIME IN VEGAS." Both stepped into the checkpoint and past the gates, right into the Strip.
He'd always disagree with the Strip's policies on his people, but the sense of awe he felt whenever he entered almost made him forget the rage and humiliation of the checkpoint. He'd wandered in these new-fangled cities that sprouted out of the ground or were renovated from the corpses of older ones, but the Strip, and only the Strip, truly matched the scale of life in the Old World. Buildings that stretched to the clouds, brimming with lights and games, overlooked a buzzing stretch of relatively intact concrete, where all manners of identities melded together.
In front of the Gomorrah, prostitutes exhibited their barely-covered bodies to customers, enticing them to enter the casino to see more of the "fine stuff" Andrew more than once paid them a look on the way, but wrestled his focus away from them and towards the bright shops on the side of the casino. Those who entered the Strip the common way were very quick to flock to this particular casino, but much more was ahead yet.
Barbershops, fancy clothes, perfume, and other luxuries unheeded by the average Wastelander. Each of them had howlers standing on the sideway, explaining to customers why they should pick this shop and not the others in the victory. Entire fortunes were already sunk in these stores, and the satisfied customers went to the Gomorrah on their left or the Tops on their right. The Tops was the middle man of the casinos: Not as dangerously alluring as the Gomorrah and not as fancy as the Ultra-Luxe, but the risks of gaining an STD were considerably lower, and the latter casino was crawling with condescending assholes. Its position in front of the NCR monorail station made it more attractive to the average soldier on leave: it meant less distance to drunkenly cover when it was time to return to the base. To their credits, they did put Hadrian's name in equal billings with the smoothskins artists.
Deeper into the Strip, past the Tops and even more shops, the Ultra-Luxe. If asked, Wayne would entertain the Tops or Gomorrah to pass some time, but the Ultra-Luxe he hardly had the patience for. Pampered assholes being condescended at by even more prosperous pampered assholes. Bah.
In the end, Wayne had to admit that had his fingers on the pulse of the city. He knew what made it work in the Old World and why countless folks walked or flew all the way to Nevada to spend a night there. Wasteland cities like Reno could try to imitate that spirit with all their might. They'd never get the subtle wickedness of Vegas. The whole place is like a woman in a beautiful dress who get you to look at her cleavage before punching you in the stomach and robbing you blind. And still, as she leaves you behind, alone and about a wallet lighter, you only want to get up so that you may see her again.
Wayne glanced at Andrew, who wavered between awe and guilt, and tilted his head when the youth glanced at him. "Erm… By the way, sir… I do believe that you've promised me 2000 caps for a certain job I may have done on your behalf and…." Wayne reached for one of his pockets, extracted a bagful of coins, and shoved it upon the young man. 2000 caps in one go. All the money that Andrew so painstakingly gathered over his stay in the Freeside, given to him in one shot.
"… Erm, thanks?" he quickly got over his surprise and kept the caps on himself, looking around for thieves or murderers in reflex. "I… well, I'm sorry for that interaction with the Securitron. I may sometimes make jokes, but…."
"And I'm sorry for that one shadow that sticks to yours after all this time, boy!" Wayne cut him off, leaning in a little to better contemplate his face through those thick goggles. "I want you to know that you're holding all that money in your hands, more than you'll ever see for the rest of your short, short life, and remember that feeling when you'll be once again destitute and penniless in the streets of Freeside." Wayne marked a pause and then snarled. "Do not pretend to have sympathy for my kind when you were so eager to steal from one of mine in his hour of needs!" Andrew listened, almost stuck in place, lips quivering behind that bush of a beard. "But I have observed you. And I know you, Andrew, I've seen your footsteps! You will fail, again, and I'll have made three times those measly 2000 caps by then!"
He stammered, wanting to defend his pride. "G-grecks was a…."
"You are a loathsome child… but your kind is always so convenient to have around! Blaming the world even as your own steps lead you right into the traps that you've set for others!" Wayne let the silence hang into the air and slowly leaned back, letting Andrew take everything in. With that act, their fates were severed: he no longer had any use out of the boy. It was best to make it permanent so that they would not meet once more when destiny dictated that never again would they be illuminated by the same star. But it was killing two birds… it was to vanish a gecko and her young pup with the same bullet. He'd never "liked" Andrew, too feeble for the brutality outside, never to understand the plight of a fighter and a ghoul alike. He left him behind without a care for the Strip to pillage again.
Left on his own, the "normie" was left stuck in place and shook his head before heading for the nearest barbershop, a storm brewing in his thoughts.
…
The "Rendez-vous point" was in one of the countless shops in the streets. Still, this particular one happened to be run by a Securitron shopkeeper. The friendly female face on its main screen contrasted neatly with its bulky armored shell. Wayne paid it no heed. He headed out towards one of the rooms on the back, as Victor had told him to previously. Was he too sullied to lay his hands on the doors of the Lucky 38? Or was the meeting something House wanted no one else to discover? Either way, he kept shut abut his opinion as one of the rooms he'd entered had a hidden compartment leading to a flight of stairs below, lowering him into a dark underground tunnel below the Strip.
Apparently, House had installed this as a means to flee the Lucky 38 should it be infiltrated, but it had found a new use as a way for him to discreetly get people inside of his closed-off fortress now that he no longer had much use for his legs, or arms, or legs.
Wayne wasn't too privy to House's method of immortality, but he was no ghoul, or else he would never treat his brothers and sisters like this. He'd never paid heed to the man before the war, being too distracted on his life to care much about the latest outrages or oddities involving the nation's wealthiest and most powerful, but Robert House's fascination with robotics and technology was well-known, so perhaps it was merely an AI. Naught but a shell left behind by the man himself to continue his work.
He'd find out soon. With a huff, he watched the steel wall at the end of the tunnel (or was it beginning?) open itself up to lead him into the Lucky 38 main lobby room. Six Securitrons patrolled the empty casino. Their wheels rolling upon the aged carpet provided the slightest bit of sound in a world of silence. Slot machines, roulettes, and other gambling tools sat by without a sucker in sight to tempt into playing, and the alcohol sitting in those shelves had to be potent enough to knock down a super mutant by a whiff alone now.
It reminded Wayne of the world immediately after the bombs fell, before Raiders formed and society sprung anew. Food that'd never be resupplied, enthusiastic ads for products that'd never be made, or, worse, holotapes. The last ones were the most vicious: hearing people talk of the future and prosperous society immediately after the war was like leaving home and watching it grow tinier and tinier in the distance with each step.
The cowboy almost welcomed the change in scenery when he walked into the elevator and left this place to better get to House's place of residence, on top of the tower. Quickly recovering from his case of old world blues, Wayne walked out of the elevator as soon as it had arrived, walking past Victor and another Securitron to walk directly into a room with a massive computer in it. From outside, one could see the Strip in all its glory, but also the ruthless desert, endlessly stretching for miles across the surface. It was poetic even before the bombs made much of the outside world look like that.
As Wayne stepped down the stairs, following the footsteps, the computer screen flickered to life, and emerged from the virtual depths, his face frozen into a slight confident smirk. Odd: he had almost expected to see a withered little old thing in a bed surrounded by Securitrons and jars of his own bodily waste. And yet, his shadow melded with his own tower to tie his existence with it. The actual body was long gone: had become the Lucky 38.
Wayne began the conversation by taking off his hat, revealing the top of his scarred head. Obviously, from the radiations, but claw marks and even bullet scars littered the top of his skull. There would be more of those if the encounter had taken place five years earlier, but he healed nicely. "Robert Edwin House gotta pay my respects to the Lord of Vegas."
The screen of the computer flickered. "Oscar Wayne, soon-to-be the right-hand man of who he calls the Lord of Vegas, should he plays his cards well," Wayne put on his hat again. The voice was smooth, missing in those annoying metallic reverberations House's more common machinery had. "It is most fortuitous to speak to one who also has traveled the ages like I did, different as our methods might have been. Before we get to business, allow me to indulge in some vanity: how does the Strip compare to the streets of Las Vegas, in their prime?"
Wayne had only set foot once in Las Vegas when he was a younger man. It was a part of his life that only came to him in brief uninspired flashes and that he was confident he would have definitely forgotten by three years. "I have always been a boy of the plains, with all due respect," still, destiny told him that they were made to congregate, so he made an effort to whip up a memory. "… But I have visited Vegas, and I can tell that its spirit has aged well. Its shadow reaches far across the wastes. Countless men have followed it down to fulfill their dreams of conquest, riches, or glory, and you have crushed their shadows to increase its strength."
House's face never budged, obviously, but he could tell that he'd considered the first half of the retort as an apt answer. "Excellent. Indeed, its spirit is what I've preserved the most from the bombs! The Strip may be a pale shadow of its former glory, but Vegas's spirit in itself invites countless to travel to it to try their luck. In a world as dangerous as this one, plenty is willing to throw away their safety simply to try their luck in my casinos."
Wayne nodded to his beneficiary, and the latter followed up on that.
"Good, now for business matters. I would like you to retrieve the Platinum Chip for me. Your colleague, Courier 6, was supposed to transport it to the Strip, but he was intercepted and shot by Benny, one of the chairmen of The Tops." House's voice grew slightly more irritated. "This is a rather troubling development, and I would like you to solve it on my behalf. You will receive Courier 6's due payment if you succeed and the appreciation of a man of great power and wealth, an invaluable gift, you would concur."
Wayne grunted his answer. "And why would you wait on me for so long? Last I heard, that tale is a month old."
"Courier 6, or as he is called, Cletus Samson, had an excellent track record before the delivery of the Platinum Chip, and his miraculous survival was another random variable I was willing to observe. A man who survives two bullets to the head is best to be put under your employ, after all… but unfortunately…" the screen switched to depict rather… grisly pictures, most of them involving lopped-off limbs, heads shoved in odd spots, and other atrocities that would have made any other man balk.
"It would appear that the cranial trauma has caused a loss in Mister Cletus's cognitive functions and ability to non-violently interact with anything with a pulse in sight. Lacking the patience to entertain his psychotic whims, I quickly decided to comb the area over for potential replacements. I found you as apt for the task."
Wayne didn't answer him yet. Instead, he quietly took his hat off again and joined his first three fingers before touching his forehead, the left and right side of his chest, and his chest again with an open palm this time. The gesture was a part of the memories he'd forgotten, but he knew it was to be done in reverence for a departed. "Goodbye, Samson."
"… Old acquaintances, I presume?" House's tone was cordial, but he wasn't asking because he cared. "If you are to grieve, I would like you not to do it in the manner of the Wastes by charging into the casino to strangle Benny to death. Aside from the obvious risks in taking on Benny and his bodyguards alone, the chip could be damaged, and a gunfight in one of my casinos would be devastating for the image of the Strip and ensuing profits!" the screen switched back to House's face. "Most of the customers below wish to escape the omnipresent violence all around the city. If I cannot protect them from it, then why even bother?"
Wayne tilted his head. Funny how the man cared about the profit that'd be lost in a gunfight, not the lives themselves. "Got it. I'll corner Benny elsewhere, I suppose."
"Excellent," House responded slight approval in the voice. "You've had past contacts with The Tops as well. Tommy Torini is of importance in the casino. A good relation with him should make getting to Benny easier. You will only need to leverage his fear of getting exposed to meet him privately, without his four bodyguards" House then switched tone. It almost felt like being scolded. "But even in such circumstances, I would greatly appreciate restraint on dealing with him. Interrogate him over the matter of the Platinum Chip and acquire it before you deal with him. Preferably in a manner that could be mistaken for an accident. No flaying him alive or whatever barbary they inflict to each other in pre-war ruins, hm?"
"Noted, sir," the centuries-old Ghoul looked at the stairs, thinking that he'd be leaving soon at this rate. "… What sort of item is this chip? You had me transport a chess piece."
"An object like the Platinum Chip is best understood via a demonstration," the screen flickered slightly. "For now, focus on acquiring it from Benny in the shortest of delays. You are free to prepare as much as you want. You will be given an executive suite the President of the United States himself envied. Still, I trust that we will not see each other again until you have succeeded in your task. If you do, you will have a potent ally and the means to secure your cause, whatever it might be."
Wayne understood but first held up his index. "What about Courier 6? His shadow reaches this place."
A slight silence. "… He is irrelevant. Courier Six has demonstrated his profound lack of people skill and common decency many times over. It would be a miracle for him to find the gate to the Strip, let alone have the financial wits to secure two thousand caps, not when he is so content running around the ruins of Outer Vegas fighting Fiends. Should he, by a miracle, succeed, I will simply up the required sum of caps to enter just for him. He will predictably go violent, and my gathered Securitrons will predictably tear him asunder with their weaponry, far more advanced than the wrecks scrounged up by those common Raiders… even with the current model…" he muttered to himself, Wayne's keen ears noticing the slip-up without making it obvious.
That's the mask's purpose, along with shielding his "skin" and eyes from the sand, of course.
"… And let us not entertain the possibility of this witless brute using the monorail. Another great war will happen before he gains access to it!" He concluded, sounding quite final in his assessment.
Wayne, however, slowly shook his head. "This ain't an issue to solve with science and robotics, with all due respect. His shadow is hungry and reaching for your lights."
"Quaint. I had thought mysticism dead with the naïve fools who believed in it… to find meaning in stars and sands, bah!" House marked a pause. "Science has shielded this city from intercontinental ballistic missiles, mister Wayne. I trust it to repel a cannibalistic troglodyte fairly easily. Worry more about Benny, will you? Good evening."
"Good evening to you too, Mister House," Wayne tipped his hat off at him and walked back to the elevator. It had been… eye-opening of a conversation, really. House was doomed.
It wasn't his shadow hanging over the Lucky 38. And those footsteps that led to his computer weren't Wayne's either. His dirt nap was coming, a prelude to many more graves being dug.
Time was of the essence. He had to do what he wanted to do… immediately.
"… Victor," Wayne asked as the elevator led him to the suite. "Could I receive an autograph from Mister New Vegas? As a token of good luck."
The Securitron's screen flickered like it was blinking. "Ahhh, fella! Mr. New Vegas's a bit like me! That voice may be like sweet chocolate, but the rest of him? All wires and data!" the machine sympathetically tapped Wayne on the back, and the Ghoul's shoulders slumped in genuine disappointment.
"Damn it."
…
Courier Six sat atop the burning wreckages of a caravan; his sense of preservation barely kept him from going straight into the flames, but he sat very close to them nonetheless. It wouldn't interrupt his current feast: a human head in the palm of his right hand, which he bit into like it was an apple.
"Six?" Veronica's voice made him very briefly pause mid-bite, but he resumed his nonchalant consumption, keeping his head turned away from her. When that one merchant ran to her while she was rejoining the spot where Six was, crying and screaming about a "monster" attacking and sacking his caravan all on his own, she'd immediately know it could only have been him. And her thoughts when confirmed when eyes aghast in horror, she spotted his silhouette sitting on top of the wreckage.
"Well, of course, the hulking cannibal isn't going to spare a caravan full of hapless victims if they pass by, Veronica!" she thought. "Maybe you ought to realize that you're pretty close to being on the menu as well!"
Should she cut him off in Vault 3? Abandon him to the Fiends and see who would win? The scribe had the feeling that the Wasteland would be better off regardless of the victor, even if she knew, somewhere, that it would likely be him.
"Why?" was all she could ask, even as she knew perfectly well the answer.
"Fun," the brute mumbled, giggling in amusement and tossing the head into a fire. "… Spread story." Rising up from his seat, he surveyed Veronica, attempting to find a weakness in her. Putting her regrets aside, for now, the young woman held firm against him, knowing that the slightest showing of weakness would result in an attack on her.
They contemplated one another, and then the Courier slowly stepped off the burning wreckage, approaching her. If he meant to say something, then he was taking his sweet time. All she could see was a white sphere, beneath his thick goggles, with a single black dot at the center of them. Then, he turned his head away from her, towards a small gathering of running shapes in the distance. Legionaries, and not all of them clad in gear stolen from a gym campus either!
"… Assassins again? That isn't-" it was all pointless. Six ran at them, howling in fury. She could leave, of course, but then she'd have to fight the Vault 3 fiends on her own. And she had a… bit of an idea that the assassins' gears would be perfect for!
She just hoped that the Courier wouldn't take that guy's Super Sledge. She wanted it.
…
On the news: More Freeside! Rumors abound of a "granny gang" harassing travelers in Freeside. Far from handing out cookies or milk, these rambunctious old ladies much prefer using a rolling pin to beat you unconscious! A traumatized victim has agreed to give us an interview.
"I was walking out of Cerulean Robotics because I wanted to see if I could get something of value inside, and those three old coots started attacking me! I managed to run away but fuck me, this place is getting wackier by the minute!"
Will there be a bounty on the heads of the Evil Elders gang? Well, I hope not! It'd be a little bit sad, don't you think?
Now here comes the music! This one is dedicated to a fan. here's to you: Big Iron.
…
And that's a chapter done!
I'm glad you like the chapters thus far. Max is indeed a bit of a shadow Courier isn't she? And as for the actual Courier, here's some tidbits about him. More of his past will be shed in following chapters, but you've got a name and a bit of a hint at a past bond or two! You might see him again, pretty soon, so keep an eye out and don't let him get you!
is a bit hard to write, it's difficult to make justice to the canon chars. I hope you've liked his dialogue though! I paid special care to it. And meanwhile, we have Andrew and Wayne sheaningans. What will they both do, as it seems like the former is also stepping into the canon role of the Courier as a problem solver? How'd Max react to Andrew once again taking his chances with Vegas?
Well, that's stuff for later! We'll be back with Max and everyone else for the incoming chapters!
See ya later, alligator!