Trailer, for sale, or rent
Owen undid the clasps keeping the information processor and ballistic plates onto his stealth suit, shedding them off like an old layer of skin. He took the LINCLOE combat webbing off, belt, suspenders, and all, laying it neatly on the not-so-neat bed. Remembering he wasn't naked, he started unzipping the sleek black coverall. He inhaled deeply, no longer constricted by all of his gear, before his face crinkled in disgust. "Iron. I hate that smell." He laid the suit tenderly on his bed. There weren't many experimental cutting edge pre-war combat suits in pristine condition left, after all. He walked over to his dresser, and picked out a pair of white nylon briefs, putting them on, and ranger rolling a few other pairs of undies and socks.
He pulled out a pair of desert grid Strichtarn pattern cotton Jöhdpurs, a leftover from a war over 300 years ago when some now dead communist puppet nation made a coup d'état against some now dead desert nation, the pants meant to protect horseback riders and horse cart gunners from being spotted when on the move or staying still among mountains and deserts, yes, but mainly to disrupt and hide the outline of a man when looking at him with NVGs. That wasn't such a worry only a few short years ago, but an Independent New Vegas proved to be a very tantalizing prize for the NCR war machine, and almost every mind in their machine was trying to figure out how to plunder the city Him and House built from the blood and the sand. He put on the pants, and grabbed his LINCLOE utility belt, wrapping it through all the loopholes. He took some kneepads, taken off an old set of pre-war riot control armor, and covered them with some strichtarn grid cloth coverings he made, putting them unto his knees and fastening them snugly. Putting on his stealth suit boots, tucking the johdpurs into the boots, before tying his shoes, wrapping some light tan NCR-issue puttees around the boots, and putting a sheathed knife into his puttees, he tried thinking about what dangers he'd encounter on his way, and tried to figure out the best route to take.
Legion? Yes, but if we're fast they won't be able to catch up. NCR? Well, we made a treaty, but technically it's only an armistice. They'll definitely see me if I'm too indiscreet leaving Vegas, and then I'll have a bunch of rangers out for my ass until we cross the river.
But there were precautions made for this very thing. He wore the same ensemble that every other security officer that didn't have a TV for a face wore. As it turned out, House had few shares of Bill Borkler's National Textile Industries, which manufactured aramids and uniforms for the military, prisons, and the US civilian conservation corps before the bombs dropped. It was a tedious month of negotiating, but eventually the textile factory, conveniently located near the former NCRCF prison, was graciously handed over by the Californian Republic, after which the same prisoners were still running the factories, only it was now Vegas' Prisoners instead of the Republic's. He wore the same face-concealing helmet and identity-hiding uniform everyone else wore, but it raised morale among the force, because they got to wear the same thing as "The Courier". He could feel bile rising in his throat, and swallowed it.
Cazadors. I'll need lots of ammo, and a rucksack of chems. But I need to carry water. Lots of it.
The Courier pondered over what caliber would lay down men and cazadors most reliably, and how much he could carry. He took the pistol bandolier out of the walnut drawer, brought over a green ammo can from the other side of his room, sitting at a straight ninety-degree angle in a cushioned red velvet seat, filling the cured leather bandolier up with as many .44 caliber bullets as it cared to fit. He idly wondered why pre-war people engraved roses and ladies on something that carried promises to make widows, before filling up his belt bandolier up with .44 as well, and set both of them on the desk. Looking at the mirror, he was reminded of a preacher he used to know. The years were not kind to his body. Oh, sure, he wasn't out of shape, but the human body was only meant to take so much abuse. He had met ghouls who looked better shirtless. Owen stood up and grabbed Bonnie, delicately placing her medical sensors, a tangle of metal spring-framed wires and suction cups, over his chest and arms, fastening the computer "psycho-plates" around his ribcage, grabbing the desk until his knuckles turned white while Bonnie dug her needles into his skin.
He then pulled open the nearest dresser, grabbing a plain white long-sleeved cotton t-shirt, and pulled it on, taking care to not disrupt the bandages, gauze, and technology precariously placed around his body. He taped a switchblade kept under his pillow to his left arm with some medical tape from the bedstand, and got a Kevlar vest along with some arm-guards, issued to small town police forces before the war and whoever looted the body of the vault security officers after it, from under his bed, fastening the protection over his shirt and buckling it for good measure. He put the bandoleers on, tucking a machete snugly between his armor buckles and the bandoleer, grabbed his trailblazer and ranger helmet from a coat rack, and walked into the spacious kitchen, ED-E resting on the dining table with a foam apple skewered on his laser gun, looking like a robotic roast pig. He took the water pouch out of the canvas slot on the back of his coat, unscrewed the cap, and raised it to the sink, filling it with precious water, and resting it into its place in his trailblazer, connecting the tube from his hydration pack to his helmet and putting both articles of clothing on.
Opening a cupboard, the courier took a large brown dufflebag from within it, and placed several cans and jars containing green substance into the outer pouches, before walking over to the dining table and half-rolling, half-tugging the deactivated robot into his bag. Owen walked back into his bedroom, dropped his dufflebag at the foot of his bed, and took a scoped Marlin 1894 carbine out from under the mattress. He looked at both sides of it, noticing a couple scratches and dings, before working the lever action several times. Satisfied there was no ammo in the tube, he took a deep breath, held it to his shoulder, aiming it a portrait on the opposite side of the room, and smoothly and quickly pulled the trigger and worked the action, repeating this process seven times. Satisfied his crosshair never wavered from the spot between House's eyes, he set it on the desk and loaded ten rounds of .44 WINMAG ammo into the feeding tube, before working the action and putting one more into the tube. He reached into his desk and pulled out a modified swing-out cylinder 1873 Cattleman, opening the lip of it and filling each space of its partner cartridge with practiced hands, letting the bullets fall out of his palm and perfectly slide in, then putting it into the holster by his belt buckle. Owen knew he could handle a six-shooter well into his dying day.
The battle-ready man sighed, wondering what else he would need to trek the long journey, and how much his back and knees would be regretting it if he took anything else. His eyes lingered between two boxes, one marked with a red cross and another with a green pineapple. He decided it was better to be prepared and sorry than dead and sorry, and took Thump-Thump and its food from the gunmetal cage, and a messenger's bag with a faded pin going through the pouch flap, the pin reading "Re: lat on 9:6". Owen strapped these, too, around his chest. He buckled up his trailblazer, and walked over to the elevator, pressing the down button. The sound of static started playing through the speaker, with the occasional bit of bland sounding music coming through.
"Bonnie, how much does the gear I'm carrying weigh?"
"The weight you are carrying is: One Hundred, And: Twenty. Seven. Pounds, and: Fourteen. Ounces."
Well, ED-E is at least twenty-eight pounds of that. Shit. That's still a lot. But I'll need all the water I can get. I hope those pencil-necks can at least carry their own food and water. Can they shoot? I hope they can shoot. Or at least know how to take cover.
The elevator dinged, its doors creaking open.
Wait, I'm forgetting something.
He took his straw cowboy hat and bandanna off the coat rack, and placed both on his helmet.
Perfect.
You never really noticed how bad the Vegas air was until you've been outside of it for a while. And yes, while Owen was wearing a mask, some pre-war genius figured out how to have a both a filter and another port to breathe through, to save on filters while still keeping the mask on to intimidate disobedient citizens. Normally, intimidation was only a plus in Owen's life. It kept the troublemakers out of his way or made them bow. Unfortunately, this mask also intimidated most cab drivers.
"Taxi! Taaaxi! Finally-oh for fuck's sake."
No, that one went by too. It stopped to pick up some greaser getting too friendly with a lady in a nice dress around his arm.
It'll be dawn by the time I get a cab.
As Owen was contemplating whether it would be a good idea or not to smoke a cigarette through his mask there finally appeared a golden chariot sent down from the heavens to take him to paradise. It braked harshly in front of him with the sound of squeaking tires, and had the number 4757 on the side, a checkerboard pattern on the edges, and others might have mistaken it for an old rusted beige Volkswagen, but to him it was divine. Owen opened up a door and set his bag down inside. The familiar smell of already-smoked tobacco that lived inside every taxi invaded his nostrils, and he set his mask to filter level one.
The clean-shaven cab driver, brown hair, neatly kept, spoke up, "So, where to, masked fella?"
"Take me to the East-side of Free-side."
"You sure? That's about 20 minutes from here to there. You got the cash for it?"
Owen reached into his jacket and pulled out a few stacks of bottlecaps, roped together with duct tape and twine, and put them in the dinged up wooden slide-out box labeled "CAB FEES GO HERE". The cabbie slid the box out to his end of the probably bulletproof glass wall between them, and unwrapped the duct-tape with his pocket knife, NCR issue. Come to look at him, his jacket was NCR, too, but it was worn. As the cabbie was counting caps, The Courier studied him. Anglo-saxon. Mole on the left side of his chin. Recently shaved. Plenty of hair, combed over neatly. He could've either been very muscular or very lithely built, the re-purposed flight jacket made it difficult to tell. The box slid back to his end, making the distinctive jingle-jangle that only bottlecaps could make.
"There's your change."
Owen slid it back to the cabbie. "No, keep it. I insist." The cabbie eyed him suspectly from the mirror, and pulled out into the road. The Courier decided to ask the cab driver something. "That jacket, it's NCRA issue, right? What regiment did you serve in?" He could see the eyes of the cabbie through the rearview mirror looking at him, but he couldn't read anything from his eyes. "Yeah. I used to be part of the supply corps. Handled the logistics of an army. Sounds good when you say it out loud, but all I did was look at a map and decide which road the caravans and trucks should travel through. Most of us got the wash after the Hoover armistice. Honorable discharge, they say. In theory that should mean I'm a decorated war hero. In reality all it really means is I don't get nickeled and dimed so much at booze and hooker stores." The cabbie sniffed. "Still pay out the nose for everything, though. Damn this city stinks." The driver looked at him through the rearview mirror, dull but focused green eyes sizing him up. "What about you? You one of those rangers I've heard so much about? Thought that most of you guys ditched the NCR a while back."
The Courier spoke up. "No, I don't trust the NCR so much anymore, but I'm actually thinking about running for city council, I have to meet with a few friends before I decide about whether I'm serious about doing it or not." The Courier went to pull back his sleeve to access his pip-boy, but realized that was a distinguishing feature about him, and let his arm drop naturally. "I've actually learned more by sitting in the back of a taxi than sitting around any group of politicians. What improvements would you like seen done to the city?" Owen wanted to know. The cabbie started looking angry. "Well, you know, you know this uh, this city, sometimes, I drive around it, and it just smells… It smells God-Fucking-Awful sometimes. I think if you run for city council, you should get it cleaned up a litle, wipe the trash off the streets. Because, honestly, sometimes I'll drive around the city at-" The cab screeched shortly as it halted and the cabbie hit the horn with the back of his fist for a good four seconds. "Fucker! The light was red, dipshit! Fucking chem-heads…" Owen felt the cab start to move again, and he watched the neon lights of every color come and go by out the window.
"You see what I mean? Anyways… What was I saying… Oh! Yeah, and sometimes I'll drive around the city at night, and I'll see hookers that aren't even sixteen yet. I'll see pimps and junkies and dealers and all kinds of degenerates out there. Sometimes they walk out into the middle of traffic, either too dumbed up or too drugged up to know better. Sometimes I have to resist the urge to run them over. Because I can do that, you know? They know in the back of their heads they shouldn't be walking in the middle of the street, and it's all I can do to not just push the petal down as hard as I can and let the blood run. To play chicken with them. You know what I mean?" The cabbie sniffed again. "So what I want to see, if you're running, you should just clean up all this trash. Make the city a bit cleaner. Because it smells and looks like wet dogshit and some nights it prevents me from sleeping." Owen pulled the payment box back and put in a box of cigarettes. "Here, you need these more than I do." The cabbie looked inside the payment box and gave a tired look to the masked man. "Thanks, but I don't smoke. If you got some liquor on the other hand…" Owen shook his head. "Sorry, for me it's the other way around. So, you gonna keep the cigarettes, or…" The man prepared for war waved his hands in a circle. The cab driver sighed. "Yeah, I guess I'll keep them. Could probably barter them for a bite to eat. Thanks." Owen nodded. "Don't mention it. Are we almost there?"
The cabbie smiled. "Yeah, we're almost there. Is all the extra stuff hush money? Because, y'know… I don't mind it, if it is, but I keep my clientele information private anyway. I've been in the business long enough to know it's best to not show your dirty laundry to everyone. I'm no rookie." The Courier grabbed his brown duffle bag. "You can choose to look at it like hush money, but it's not. Consider it a gift. I haven't had a conversation outside of work for a long time. For you, it's probably just another agonizing chat with another shady character. But I enjoyed it." The green eyes of the driver stared hard the green lenses of the mask. "…How old are you, son? You don't sound like what I imagined a ranger sounds like." The mask stared back. "Drop me off at Ralph's hardware store." The driver looked back at the road. "Aye-aye sir." "I thought you were part of the army?" "Hey, it's not about where you served. If nobody tells the stories of good men sailing the seas, our children won't ever believe that it happened. And then they'll never dream of making a navy again. You have to hold onto hope." The courier looked outside the window and saw a gang of skinny-looking kids in rags gathered around a makeshift firepit on the sidewalk, roasting a giant rat. "Yeah. I know what you mean. Sometimes I wonder if we'll ever have a home like that again. Where the children dream."
The Courier walked into a bar, wearing a gas mask and overcoat. The few people in the bar went silent. It was a cozy little place, posters of bikini-clad women and license plates completely covered the walls, probably to hide that the walls hadn't seen serious renovations in over 200 years. He moved on up to the counter, spotting a man "cleaning" an almost pristine whiskey glass with a very dirty rag, he was a bit shorter than he was, tubby, muscular-armed , and gray haired, with a bald head and a flowing beard. Owen was reminded of dwarfs he would read about in comics as a kid. The greybeard dwarf eyed him up suspectly, coughed, and accused in a hoarse Scottish accent, "I'll warn ye now, I don't know anything about what goes on outside these four walls, and I don't care. Either buy a drink or get out." The Courier put both his arms on the table and leaned over the bar to speak to the barkeep, and whispered, in a low tone and voice, "Do you have a bathroom in here?" The dwarf looked up at him like he was tired, raised his fist and making a thumb towards the left, grunting a "'sin the back". Owen thanked him and went inside the mens bathroom. It probably stunk like the insides of a super mutant, but he couldn't smell a thing. Taking out the holo-tape given to him by Victor, he pressed a button on his pip-boy, and a slot audibly opened up. He inserted the holotape into the slot at the top of his pip-boy, and opened up a compartment that kept an extendable wire inside. He connected the wire from his pip-boy to the multi-tool at the side of his helmet, and pressed the play button on his wrist-mounted device. A methodical static pierced his ear, before being followed by what sounded like very fast Morse code. Then a digitized recording, oddly sounding like Yes-Man, started playing.
This message is only for those directly employed or related to this job. If you are not employed under Registration Number 8006, listening to this message is an act of corporate espionage, which can result to fines up to 300,000 caps and legal action. As an employee working directly under the Free Economic Zone of New Vegas, sharing details of your employment can result in corrective action up to, and including, imprisonment, indictment, or seizure of any assets or currency as recompense directly proportionate to the amount of damages such leaked information may cause. Failure to complete the job as you are contractually obliged may result in forfeiture of your advance and bonus, criminal charges, and/or pursuit by mercenary reclamation teams. The Free Economic Zone of New Vegas is not responsible for any injury or loss of life you experience as a result of said contract.
The Courier considered whether he could survive three shots in the head before the message switched to a different, serious voice. Still digitized, but recognizably human. House.
"Time is of the essence, so I'll keep this short. The facilities at Black Mesa need repairing, but the radar fence prevents any living thing above a certain size or any radio-controlled automaton from getting inside or outside the research facilities. Your mission is simple: Discreetly escort 3 engineers to the facility, de-activate the radar fence so they can get inside, and repair the radio dishes within them. Then, connect them with the Helios One radio network. Once they have repaired everything, re-activate the radar field and await further instructions. The three repair-men will be waiting for you outside the gates of freeside. Be aware that mission priorities and orders are liable to change at any moment, so keep your radio tuned into 165.3885 kilohertz. I cannot emphasize the secrecy of this mission enough. Nobody must see or know about this. Burn this film as soon as possible after you've memorized every detail of your mission. The future of Vegas, and humanity, is at stake."
The film ended there.
Owen hit eject on his pip-boy and released the holotape from its cage, cracking the case open. Unreeling the tape out of it, he took out a zippo and burned the recording, holding it, watching the flame rise up the shiny black strip to meet his gloved hand. When there was only one square of film left, he let it drop. The ember burned entirely into smoke on its way to the ground. The Courier tuned his pip-boy to the radio station mentioned, and heard only static. He lowered the volume until he could hear his breathing over the transmission, just barely, and walked out of the bathroom back into the bar. In the corner, on a small and round metal table with a single flickering lightbulb over it, a group of three men were playing poker. California Hold'em, judging by the four cards laying on the table and the pot going to the doctor. They were using bottle caps as poker chips. There must've been somewhere around fifty caps on the table. One had on a greaser jacket with some khan-like patches sowed on and sunglasses, another looked like a normal caravaneer, and the last had on apparel similar to the followers of the apocalypse, a generic lab coat and some thick-rimmed eyeglasses. They were an odd bunch. Owen scooted up a chair to the table and dropped his duffle bag to the wooden floor. They all stopped playing.
"Hey folks, I just got off work. Would you give me a game or two? I'm good for the caps."
The trio eyed each other. Then the khan spoke, "Sure, ten caps to play and the pot's twenty-four right now." The Courier reached into his pocket and put 18 caps into the pot. The khan snapped his fingers at both the men and they gave the cards to him so he could shuffle. He switched the cards around and flicked the two piles from his hand to the table, making the sound rich men and poor men knew equally well in Vegas. He dealt the cards out two at a time from his right to his left.
"The blinds are only one and two caps. The turn order is clockwise from me." The courier peeked at his cards. A slightly creased, on the bottom right corner, ace of clubs and an eight of spades. Not too bad.
A "Check." came from the khan. The doctor also checked. As did the courier, and the caravaneer. These men knew what they were doing. The khan dealt the first two community cards. A six of diamonds and an eight of clubs. The khan checked, looking the tiniest bit angry. The doctor raised six caps, shooting a clinical glance at the caravaneer when he thought nobody was looking. The courier also raised six caps. "Hey, wait a minute, I only let you join because I thought you were going to take your mask off. Either take your mask off or get going." The courier was still for a moment, and took out his revolver, setting it on the table. "If you let me play with it on, then whoever beats me gets my revolver."
The caravaneer eyed him and his gun with amusement, the doctor cocked an eyebrow, slowly looking at everyone at the table, and the khan still looked a bit angry. Although it could have just been the way his face was. Not the worst poker face he's ever seen. Khan grumbled, and then managed a "Oh, alright. But you still have to pay caps." out of his throat. The caravaneer was grinning from ear to ear, but Owen didn't think it was from his hand. "I check," He said. The khan played the next community card. A queen of diamonds. "I fold." Came from the khan. "I raise." The doctor said, adding another five caps into the pot. "I check." The courier muffled out. "And I check." The caravaneer said. "You know," the doctor looked at Owen, "if you have anthropophobia, a fear of society and people, that is, there are ways of treatment for that." Owen titled his head to where the mask was facing the doctor. "You know, if you have ballistophobia, a fear of getting shot one day for being a pushy salesman, that is, there are ways of treatment for that." The doctor's eyelids raised as he pulled his cards closer to his face, suitably chastised. "Fair enough." The khan played out the last community card, an ace of spades. Owen grinned behind his mask, even going so far as to let out a small laugh, but soon he frowned. Wait a minute…
"All in." The doctor put the rest of his caps in the pot. Owen was forgetting something. He should be focused on the faces of his opponents. No, not even faces. Torsos. You could predict a man's next move by his body. His face will always lie. But all he could look at were the cards. They meant something, there was a message. What was the value of his hand? What were the other hands? Some deep, primal memory of Owen's was blocking him from making his next move, from even focusing on anything else. A six of diamonds, an eight of clubs, an ace of clubs, a queen of diamonds, an ace of spades, and an eight of spades. What are some matching pairs? Six and a queen, both diamonds. Eight of Clubs and Ace of clubs. Both Clubs. Ace of spades and eight of spades. Both spades. Ace of Clubs and Ace of Spades. Both Aces. Eight of spades and Eight of clubs. Both Eights.
Oh. Oh, no.
"Hey buddy, you gonna go?" Owen shot his head up. "Hmm? Oh, yeah." The Courier laid his cards face-down. "I fold." The caravaneer looked puzzled. "After that laugh? You're folding? I would've thought you got nothing but aces." The courier spoke to him, "I felt like that was more of a short chuckle than a laugh." The merchant looked amused without smiling. "Remind me not to take you to any stand-up comedy." He remarked dryly. The caravaneer looked at his hand. "Ah hell, why not. Check." The khan spoke. "Alright, show the cards, everybody." The Khan flipped his hand, a six of hearts and a five of diamonds. Junk. The doctor had a pair of aces, one a diamond and one a heart. Three of a kind. Owen revealed his hand, a two pair. And the salesman had a king of spades and a 3 of clubs. "Alright, pot goes to the doc. Next rounds blinds are 3 caps." The extended both his hands to grab the pile of caps and his gun, but the courier's hand shot out for his revolver and started alternating where he pointed it at all three of the men on the table. "Do you have nothing better to do than sit around at a bar and jip people out of their cash? Nobody gets that many aces, queens, and kings in the first round. And the corners of them are all creased. Hands where I can see them." The khan calmly replied, "Now officer, this is just a friendly game of poker. You're off duty, and nobody made you play it. If you'd be so kind as to hand over your bet to the good doctor, we can all go home and pretend you didn't just stick us up for a game of cards." The khans hands were resting against each other on the table in a business-like fashion.
The caravan trader's hands were open wide, but also resting the table. And the doctor was drinking what looked like whiskey and cola. Signs this wasn't their first situation like this. Signs of trouble, of laxity or a compromise in his own police force. They were entirely too comfortable. "I don't think so. Put your hands where I can see them, high above your head." All three were eyeing him intensely, and the bartender was cowering behind the item of his profession. "Officer, I'm not so sure you want to do that. We know quite a few guys in high places. Low places, too. The kind of people who don't sleep and know at all times what you're doing halfway around the world. Just hand over the gun and we forget this ever happened. For your safety." The courier growled and then he spotted the caravaneer's hand slinking towards the end of the table. He aimed his pistol square at his jaw, and as he did so he also saw the other two men and some greaser who was formerly playing pool in the corner of his eyes reach for their pants and underneath their jackets.
"Fighty time!" Bonnie spoke into his ear. He felt the strange electric buzz of vats jumping through his nerves as a mix of adrenalin and some other slightly addictive chemicals were injected into his veins. The caravaneer just managed to put his hand on his holster before a hollow point .44 bullet turned every part of his neck sans the spine into runny paste. Even as the body tilted over backwards in its chair, he was moving onto the khan. Owen pulled his pointer finger, and another bullet found its way into another man's throat, but the khan almost had his 10mm pistol aimed completely at him. When he moved onto the doctor he saw that he was extremely close, brandishing a combat knife, heading straight for his right armpit. The courier dropped his gun and crouched as fast as he could, grabbing both legs of the doctor, and letting his own legs kick him back, pulled as hard as he could. He heard several gunshots ring out, and felt rather than saw debris and license plates fall on him. The courier jumped from his laying position onto his knees and grabbed the doctor's right wrist with his left arm, and went almost as if to punch his face, but extended his fingers at the last moment, gouging the mans eyes. He used his right arm to grab his revolver, and silenced the doctors yells with a single bullet.
Then Owen flipped the round table they were all sitting at, peeking his head and right arm out with practiced synchronization, putting three bullets into the greaser's center of mass. He ducked behind the table and reloaded, peeking his head out once again. Five tables besides his own were also flipped, three of which had bloodsplatters on them, where the patrons had taken cover. There was also a large amount of blood pooling by his feet and over the pool table, turning it from dark green to red. He looked around, cautious, but when he saw nobody else was aiming a gun at him he decided it was safe. "Is everyone alright?" A variation of words ranging from yesses to swears to lamenting the loss of a radroach steak and friendly offers to eat it for them came before a much louder voice, the Scottish accent completely gone and replaced with a southern one, "GET THE BLAZING FUCK OUT OF MY BAR!", along with several beer bottles narrowly missing his head, but only because he ducked back behind the table.
"Was that all?" Bonnie spoke through the helmet earphones.
Yeah, he deserved that.
After he gave his testimony to a pair of detectives and called a cleanup crew, Owen was on his way to the freeside gates. The sun was beginning to rise on the horizon, which meant that for a few minutes, the desert would neither be extremely hot, nor bone-chillingly cold. It also meant that this was the time of day when the geckos would crawl out of their holes. Owen liked to watch the sunrise. So did many other people. The geckos must have come to learn this over time, and they also loved this time of day, because not only did the geckos wake up then, they often could catch an unaware trader or wanderer off guard and get a filling meal, meaning they could go right back to sleep with a full stomach. Owen liked to watch the sunrise, but only in a past tense. He didn't like it as much anymore. He walked outside the freeside walls, passing maize-fields while searching for the three engineers and hoping they didn't become gecko food. Come to think of it, House didn't specify what they looked like. How was he supposed to identify these three engineers out of the thousands of people in Vegas? It's not like they would dress up in yellow hardhats, carry toolboxes, and have a bright orange vest that said 'Engineer' all over it, right?
He really hoped not, because he was looking at a trio of egg-headed idiots that fit that description exactly.
"What's your designation number?" Owen asked, fully confident these were just engineers assigned to the water pipeline. "Oh-Six." The one with a black handlebar moustache responded. Molerat tits. "I'm Eight-Oh. Follow me." Owen walked for a while until he was at the nearest building, a grey five-story apartment tower building. Some young man in a jumpsuit was smoking inside by the stairwell. "Hey buddy, do you know where the restrooms are at in here?" "Yeah, second door on the right, third floor." After thanking him, all of them walked up the stairs to the bathroom. The courier rapped on the door, and after waiting a moment with no response, went inside, motioning for the trio to follow. "Alright. Ditch the hard hats and orange vests in the bathroom. Put them in a bag or into those toolboxes. Leave no trace on your person you're engineers besides the toolboxes. After this we're going shopping for some essentials." They nodded, and the men went to go into a stall to change, but the courier interjected. "You're not changing in the stalls. You're changing where I can see you."
"What are you, a fuckin' queer? Why can't I change in the stall?" The blonde one bit back at him, an angry look on his face, and the others didn't look very happy about it either. "Because I've read all of your files and need to make sure they're still accurate and that you're all who you say you are. If any of you are unhappy about however many thousands of caps you'll be paid for only three weeks work, you're free to quit right now and play hide-and-go seek with hired guns for a few months." All of them looked at him incredulously, and with a bit of fear. Owen knew what these men were worried about. "You haven't been roped into becoming a male prostitute or some other degenerate job, don't worry. We just got a lot of travelling to do. It's best you get comfortable shitting and pissing in front of others as soon as possible. There's zero privacy in the desert and the only bathroom breaks you'll have will be communal. We're not going to stop just because one person has to use the john, this contract is too time sensitive. That answer your question?" None of them still looked entirely pleased, but the blonde one gave an unpleased "Yep. Diode-crystal." And they started undressing.
Sometimes, Owen hated his job.
The good news was, none of them had any faction tattoos. The bad news was that didn't mean a damn thing and he's going to have to hit the bottle much harder tonight to get those images out of his head.
Speaking of which, he was opening the door to Mick's Ammo Dump right now. The familiar smooth sandstone tiles greeted him, but now there was more decorations. There were these red carpets mats all over and now there were these lampshades hanging over the lit-up lightbulbs. Every place in Vegas above the poverty line now had power, which took a little getting used to for Owen. Vegas was a bit different to how it used to be. But Mick himself hardly changed at all.
Owen walked up to the counter, where a young blonde-haired boy that looked to be about seventeen was cleaning a disassembled m99 Avenger pistol, assorted brushes, screwdrivers, and bottles scattered on a rag with several black stains. "Is Ralph home?" Owen leaned an elbow on the desk. The kid set the barrel and brush down onto the rag, looking up at him with widened eyes before giving him a bored expression. "Do you have an appointment? Or a warrant? If not, you can get out." Owen didn't have time for this bullshit, but he had to be professional with civilians. "I don't have either, and of course you always have the right to discriminate your customers and all other enterprise-related matters, but I can guarantee that if you kick me out you will be fired. Pick up that phone, call Ralph, and tell him that an officer came in that said he needs to make a polite society. He'll know what it means."
The boy cocked an eyebrow, and dragged a phone out from behind the counter, the click-whirrrrrr of a rotary phone echoing in Owen's ears over the muted static of his radio and the breathing of his engineer. It reminded him of when he dragged the corpse of an NCR soldier back to safety through a fiend ambush. He reached for his 10mm pistol, the breathing and yelling all too audible as he whispered his location into the radio, using the pip-boy to read out coordinates as he swiveled his head and arm around. He was in the worst possible spot, in an alley between two short buildings. There was only one way out, the other path blocked by a fence. A barrier, but not one that would stop bullets. He thought there were only three or four fiends, so he had placed a mine further away but where he figured he could shoot at it within the alley. He was going to shoot at the mine to cause a distraction as he dragged the corpse through the alley the other way, but he missed one tiny detail. The fence. He tried to figure out an escape route but when he heard a gunshot and the corpse's arm blew off he had to stop planning and shoot the fiend at the top of the building. Dark crimson oozed down the walls as the fiend crumpled into the alley. Now he could definitely hear at least seven fiends close by yelling and trying to find him.
He had set the fiend on top of the NCR grunt and was currently crouching low behind the corpse pile. "Whiskey, tango, zulu, nine, five, three. Over. I repeat, whiskey, tango, zulu. Nine, five, three, over. How copy?" "Solid copy green fly, earliest ETA is thirty minutes." Shit. He needed a game plan. He grabbed into a crack in the mortar and used it to gain solid footing on the corpses, jumping up from there onto the ledge and pulling himself up. He yanked his binoculars from around his neck up to his face, scouting the surrounding buildings. He saw a few fiend poking their heads out over by a collapsed and crumbled apartment tower. Shifting to the right of that building, his left, he saw a pair of fiends sweeping the area with an ECW rifle and a submachine gun. And looking to the right- "Nye-heh! You like the sight of your own blood?!" A shout from very close by on his right echoed in his ears as he heard a roided out psychotic was hitting the wall with a pool cue. He sighed and dropped down, "I'll gut you like a-"BLAMBLAMBLAM. So much for the plan. He grabbed a bolt-action rifle from the raider he killed before, leaned against the wall, and aimed where he figured the mine was set down. As soon as he saw movement he let loose a shot, rewarded with an explosion and a woman screaming. He then went to the fence, where he started slicing the pie. Scoot, see a body, breathe, aim, exhale, shoot, work the bolt, aim, scoot. Plan be damned, he settled into a circadian rythym of systematic murder.
This zen was how he'd survived so far. He'd read about it in a book, once. The Japanese called it Budo, their art of war. To achieve perfect clarity in battle, they left themselves completely out of the battle. To them, a master of Budo was the ideal soldier. Supposedly unkillable. There were similar ideals in other places and times. Knights of old Europe called it divine clarity. Private military corporations often called it professionalism, but they knew it extended further than what that word offered. His own thoughts were adrift, right now he was a methodical animal, observing without thinking, and acting without moving. He handled his gun with instinct, not with hands. And as he reached the toppled apartment building and reloaded, his 10mm pistol dry from suppressing a raider with a plasma pistol, he felt something akin to peace. He was doing what came natural, what was right. He aimed and fired on the next raider inside the complex, sprinting toward some stairs and ending another piece of human refuse, he felt as if everything made sense. He was disposing of evil. He was doing good. He was the cosmic purifier for life. His peace, however, would be interrupted for a long time. Because as he cornered the last shaking and unarmed raider, who he could tell had urinated himself, and as Owen was about to give a one-liner, he saw a plasma grenade roll by his feet. Click-whiirrrrrrrrrr-
"A little med-x will make the pain go away." Bonnie brought him back to reality, again. He had several stares from everyone around him, customers, clerks, engineers, and Ralph himself. He realized he was leaning against the glass gun case. And although his chest wasn't literally on fire like in his memories, it burned like hell right now. Fuck, how long had he been out of it? "There, all better." He loved Bonnie so much. All of these guys were great. Ralph was great. He just met those greasy engineers, but they were awesome, too. No. None of that. Budo, remember Budo. A shot of pain like a supermutant grabbed his legs and whacked him upside a tree split through his head, he grit his teeth and winced, grateful for the mask keeping everyone from seeing it. All of them are horrible and he couldn't trust them with a bloatfly egg. It's the morphine that makes him think they're alright. But Bonnie really is a nice friend. She never judges him or stares at him when he ha lapses like those. "Hey friend, you alright?" Ralph was trying to start a conversation with him. Owen was trying to care even though it felt like his legs were on fire and he was going through a bad drug high. He didn't really care, but he responded anyways. "Sorry about that, it happens sometimes. I'm all better now." He brought himself up and dusted off his kneepads. Ralph looked concerned. "You know, I know about some really good doctors. If you want, I can set-" "No. No, Ralph, that won't be necessary. I already know what's wrong with me. Listen, I'm going exploring, and these three green gentlemen-" he waved at them "need the best kit possible. We'll be outside of civilization for a long while. Doesn't matter how much it costs. Understand?" Owen could practically see the bottlecaps light up in Ralph's eyes. "Oh, certainly. I'll hand-pick the gear myself. Right this way, fellas."
Ralph dragged them all into the back of the store to presumably go through some fitting for the clothes and gear. Owen sighed. He needed a cigarette, badly. That would have to wait until they got beyond the free economic zone. But his lungs felt like they had miniature fire-ants crawling and biting around in them. "If we keep going through Haloperidol like that, we only have enough of a supply for: Six. Days." Fuck. He needs that. Hopefully once he gets out of the constant war of the city and back into the familiar, less intense war called wasteland he won't need so much medication. It worried him. If his body is starting to develop a resistance to the medication, he's shit out of luck until he can find a better alternative medication, and who knows how long that will take without any medication to suppress the symptoms. Practically a death sentence. And the only other explanation is that his brain is finally… No. Best not to think about that. The blonde kid looked scared. Poor boy. The courier reached into a pocket and pulled out some bottlecaps, setting them on the counter.
"You forgot all of this. Anyone asks, you never saw any of this. Got it?" The blonde boy nodded. "Smart kid. Learn from this experience. You'll survive much easier in this city if you do. Get a less dangerous job lined up." The courier checked his pip boy. It'd probably be another hour before Ralph was done getting and fitting everything. Fuck it, one cigarette couldn't hurt. Owen took off his helmet and took out a pack of cigarettes, going outside with a straw hat on. He burned the faded yellow stick with an engraved silver lighter, and took a long drag. The more smoke he inhaled, the more the burning went away. It was temporary at best, and he knew it killed him evern faster than what his condition was already doing, but he didn't wholly care. He wanted to retire soon, the quicker the better. He hated long goodbyes. He exhaled all the smoke, and raised the cancer stick back to his mouth. He noticed his hand was trembling. He scowled and the hand grew still. He breathed deep, closed his eyes, and gave his habit another long hello.
The three engineers were standing in front of him, adorned in chocolate chip everything. From backpack to shoes to boonie hat. "Well, I've given them all the best gear I could find. They're set for just about anything now! There's a cold fusion cell filtration system, a portable auto-scanning two-way radio, infrared laser target modules, automatic-" Ralph droned on and on. He had to hand it to Ralph, he was a great businessman. He was completely selling these engineers, professional(he hoped) electronic specialists on why they definitely just needed a hard to repair proprietary cold fusion water filter, a colossal waste of power, potentially unworking flashlights, and a constantly-on radio. They even seemed to be buying into it, chatting among themselves excitedly on what they'd do if they had this back home. That, and Ralph is a very hard man to say "No" to. Owen knew better. He was trying to sell him expensive dead weight that just took up shelf space for months. "Ralph, I told you we'd be far away from any civilized placed. We're not going to war or making a new town, we just need to survive a long time without a reliable source of water." Ralph got a twinkle in his eye. "Ah, I have just the thing you need." Ralph went behind the counter, scrounging through what sounded like a box of polymer knick-knacks, before emerging with what looked similar to a deactivated plasma pistol, but even smaller, most likely modified to sneak into casinos. "The thermal energy dampener! I got this beauty from some travelling caravan. They said it was from Massachusetts, I think. It used to be a lot bigger, was a weapon before, if you'd believe it, but I got it modified to be as small as I could get the thing to be and get more utility out of it. It's got an adjustable power and temperature dial so you can make it flash-freeze food and water, make your backpack a portable freezer, or just be a very complicated AC unit. I don't think I need to tell you this, but don't point it at anyone. It freezes live meat just as well as dead."
Owen whistled. "That's impressive, Ralph. How much?" Ralph smiled. For you? Only 800 caps, if you give me feedback on the gun once you return. Owen was unamused. "Are you serious? Eight hundred caps for something you don't know even works? That's a rip-off." Ralph pretended like he didn't hear the question, just smiling over the cash register, face unmoving. Owen sighed. He needed to work on his bartering skills. "I'll take it." Ralph shot up, punching keys on the register. "Great! That'll be-" Owen interrupted him, "But! None of crap the eggheads have. Take that back and get them actually useful things. If the name is more than two words long I'm not buying it." Ralph stopped typing and immediately slumped over the desk, his head making a big *thump*. He mumbled out an unenthusiastic and tired "Yes, sir." Before slowly walking out from behind the counter and motioning the three to follow again. Owen smiled underneath his helmet, yelling out to him, "And don't call me 'Sir', I work for a living."
A.N. : I was originally intending not to put any author's notes into the story for immersion purposes, but a hiatus of 2 years warrants such a thing. I've been working over 50 hours a week trying to save up enough to afford my own place(besides the flat I share, which I pay rent on), and while I'm not much closer than I was two years ago due to a couple months of poor life choices, I'm now back, better, and I believe I'll be able to start working on the story again during my free time before and after work. I apologize to all the people who were biting their thumbs at me wanting to read this story. I am truly sorry. I hope to make that up to you by updating much more frequently now!
Anyways, though I haven't said anything about it before, feedback is always appreciated and welcomed, no matter how harsh. I read and take into consideration every review and PM. It's a poor thing to be, a writer that doesn't want to improve.