Chapter 40
Separate Ways
"Shit fuckin' fire… you never come up dry when you're tellin' a story, I'll tell ya' that shit right now."
Weeks had passed since the defeat of the syndicate, and Sandra and her gang had slowly sank back into their usual routine of simply hunting bounties and trading stories with Randall of Randall & Associates. After the gold from Bradley's inheritance was stashed safely away in the Lucky 38, they all thought it best to continue the endeavors they originally set out to accomplish—and they'd done much the same here today.
"Quite the tale you're talkin' my ear off with. That reminds me of this zombie motherfucker I had to deal with down in a tunnel..."
"Dude... zombie is offensive, Randall."
"Yadda, yadda, yadda... hush up, now. Did you decide to shoot the shit again just to preach your PC bullshit at me, or what?"
"Yeeeah… sorry I didn't conversate much the past couple weeks," Sandra sighed, propping one leg on the other and leaning further back in her chair, twirling the severed finger of her latest bounty atop the edge of Randall's desk. "Kinda took me a while before I wanted to talk about it… but yeah. That's what happened."
"I can't imagine you would wanna tell that story… but I'm glad ya' shared it anyhow," Randall replied, leaning far from his terminal, as Sandra always managed to distract him from typing his records. "Sounds like somethin' I might need to know, considering…"
"Considering what?" Sandra asked.
Randall sighed into the thick wrap around the lower half of his face, cocking his head and shrugging. "Well, just… I'm pretty sure that Zimmer asshole was in bed with Richter and Associates. That might come back to bite us in the ass someday."
"Well… the dude's a pedophile. I could just take him out too," Sandra shrugged, glimpsing down and watching as the adolescent Scar chomped down a slice of rat meat she'd placed on the floor for him. "Scar's getting big. I bet he'd eat the Judge."
"Yeah… he's sproutin' horns and shit," Randall agreed. "He ain't gonna be able to fit through the goddamn door before long."
The two were quiet for a moment, Sandra turning and eyeing the door, feeling somewhat uneasy with her friends all out of her sight. Her companions were outside in the bus—Vulpes taking a nap, Arcade working at the mini lab, and Niner flipping through a comic book—and now that they'd all made a great dent in Randall's bounties, they had precious little to do.
"Loss ain't easy, is it?" Randall asked, propping his arm on the desk.
Sandra faced him again. "What…?"
"Ah… it's just a thing you pick up after you start loosin' people, something you don't even mean to do," Randall observed. "Once that shit starts happenin' to you, you feel a touch of anxiety whenever your buddies are out of eyeshot. Feels like you always gotta be watching everyone so they don't end up in a grave. That's some mother hen bullshit, don't get me wrong… but it's an instinct that grows for a reason, and it sure ain't goin' anywhere now."
Sandra sighed, making a loose shrug. "Yeah, that's… been there for a while. But I still feel like I… just…"
She trailed off, much like she often did when she found herself on the edge of a rant. One thing she'd made a point of since meeting Randall was to never let herself complain too much; after all, Randall had been through enough himself, and whining to him about her own problems wasn't something a good bounty hunter would do.
However—Randall seemed oddly invested now, leaning forward and seeming to stare fixedly at her from behind the darkened lenses of his desert goggles.
"Iunno," Sandra shrugged, glancing away.
"No, now… c'mon," Randall replied, swatting the air. "How many damn times have we done fuckin' story-time with Uncle Steven? Talk to me. I'm ahead in my typing for once. So shoot."
Sandra gave him a hesitant look, sighing again.
"I jus…" she mumbled. "I don't know. I feel like I'm not feeling anymore. Like everything is just… meh. Whatever. Who cares. Movin' on."
Randall slowly nodded, pondering for a second and gently patting the desk.
"Well… don't go mistakin' that for apathy," he advised. "That's how you cope with shock and hardship… and it balances out more as time moves on, provided you don't go piling more on top of it in the meantime. It ain't that you don't care anymore. You're just getting better at handling the shit that's hard to handle. That's all there is to it."
Sandra absorbed this, biting her lip and feeling as if it made sense. "M'kay…"
"Hey. Lemme tell you right now," Randall said, waving a finger at her. "You can only walk through the same damn fire so many times before you just get tired of screamin' in the flames."
"You'd know better than I would…"
"Oh, bullshit. Just 'cause my scars outnumber yours don't mean they're any different. And you wait another ten years or so. You'll have more… and you'll be right where I am."
Sandra leaned farther back, crossing one leg over the other and thoughtfully stroking along her face. As she did—Randall seemed to observe her intently, more closely than he ever had before.
"Lemme ask you somethin' right quick," he said. "And don't get offended. It's a genuine question. All right?"
"Okay," Sandra uttered.
"How, ah... how does a girl get inspired to jump into this business?" Randall wondered. "Particularly a girl your age—I just don't see that happen. I never see that happen. Ever."
Sandra pondered on this, gazing into his splintery ceiling, then made a shrug.
"Iunno," she admitted. "Me and my friends have a stake in Vegas… in the big games. And, if all goes well… then we're gonna have a hand in damn near everything that goes on out here. So, with that in mind… we kinda figured we should start cleaning up the whole region right now. I've thought a lot about this stuff… over, and over, and over again… and I have a million different scenarios in my head. I can see how every single one is gonna unfold… and I'm trying to move the right pieces before the game comes to an end. Because… well… that's just how you do it if you wanna win."
Randall absorbed this, fingers tapping along the desk, and he remained silent for a moment.
He and Sandra had never discussed the business of Vegas before—in fact, she wasn't even sure if he knew a thing about it. Now, however, he certainly did, and he seemed to be dwelling deeply on those thoughts.
"And… y'know what else I've thought about," Sandra added, raising a finger and cracking a smirk. "If I do end up at the top… then I'd probably get eyes and ears all over the place. And if he's still alive… I'd probably be able to track down Marko."
Randall stared at her, still saying nothing.
Sandra sighed and made another shrug. "But… that's up to you. I don't know if you'd wanna get involved in all the…"
"I got into this business for that," Randall said, his voice seeming to diminish, softer and more serious. "If you ever get a lead on Marko, shoot him for me. No… in fact, here."
He suddenly stood from his seat, marching past his cabinet and stopping at the safe in the wall. Sandra had seen the safe nearly every day for months now, but she'd never seen him open it, and never asked what was inside.
Randall pulled out a set of keys, unlocked the safe, and pulled its thick metal door open, reaching inside and retrieving a sleek black revolver, one unlike any others she'd seen in the Mojave. When he reached the desk again, he sat across from her, planted the gun on the desk, and pushed it straight toward her.
Sandra stared at him, her eyes slowly venturing down to the gun.
In stylish font, the side of the firearm was inscribed; Sweet Revenge
When she faced him again, her mouth drifted agape, unsure of what to say.
"That… is yours now," Randall stated. "If you want it. But I wanna be clear, here. I planned on pluggin' Marko with that thing if I ever got the chance… so, if you get the chance instead, then you're gonna take it for me. That's my only condition. Ya' hear?"
Sandra hesitated, her eyes shifting between the gun and its owner, feeling several conclusions suddenly snapping into place; she herself harbored intense feelings of disdain for the Enclave for all the wicked things they'd done to wrong her, and now, she could practically feel that very same sensation radiating off of Steven Randall.
It seemed the two of them had far more in common than she'd ever noticed before.
"That… that's your only condition? After what I just told you about Vegas?" Sandra muttered, revealing another smile. "You could ask for a lot more, y'know. Like your own indefinite suite in the Lucky 38…"
"I don't need all that fancy shit—and I can't imagine you care for it much more than I do," Randall told her knowingly.
Sandra narrowed her eyes at him. "What makes you say that…?"
Randall scoffed out a laugh, somewhat muffled by his face wrap. He cocked his head, intertwined his fingers, and gave her a nod.
"Well, lemme ask you this… between my little hole-in-the-wall business and that bright-ass tower on the strip," Randall said, and—if she wasn't imagining it—the wrapping around his face seemed to morph around a smirk. "Which one of them two places have you been for the past few months? Because it seems to me you basically live here now."
Sandra thought on this for a second, then nodded sideways.
"I know… it's a hell of a thing to put on you," Randall said, tapping the revolver, his tone darkening again. "And you don't have to accept that if you don't want it… but I wouldn't offer it to anybody else. And… there's one more thing you oughta know."
He slid his keys closer, removing one of them from the ring and offering it to her.
Sandra slowly took it, giving him a questioning look.
"That… is for this," Randall informed, reaching down and patting on the metal drawer of his desk. "And if anything ever happens to me… I want you to open it and take what's inside. All right?"
Sandra stared at him, pocketing the key and feeling a spark of anxiety, as well as concern. "Why do you think anything's gonna…?"
"I don't," Randall quickly assured. "But you get in this business, and you get pretty damn used to making backup plans due to all the low-life jagoffs who hold heavy grudges against the business and its operators. This is just one of those things. Just in case."
Sandra's eyes continued to linger on him, almost blind to her knowledge. She'd just lost a friend, and the idea of losing another put a heavy knot in the pit of her stomach. It was certainly the last scenario she wanted to dwell upon right now…
Her hand wandered forward, fingers coiling around Sweet Revenge as she slid the gun off the desk, holding it in her lap and giving it a once-over.
"That's a 44 magnum," Randall told her. "Got some kick to it… but I reckon I don't have to lecture you on that, considerin' that big-ass 12-gauge you're sportin' all the time. Where'd you get that from, anyway?"
He surveyed the combat shotgun, which was propped against the side of her chair—the inscribed name Charon perfectly in his view.
Randall only just spotted the inscription, seeing it for the first time. Then, he straightened up and tilted his head curiously at her.
Sandra sighed and prepared to speak, assuming he must've been awaiting an explanation—but then he spoke instead, and his reaction surprised her.
"I getcha," he mumbled. "You're just too damn used to losing people. And tired of being used to it, too."
Sandra fell momentarily speechless, staring at him thoughtfully.
Most people always asked questions about the name engraved on her shotgun—but Randall was the only person who needed no explanation, the only one to simply understand it from the get-go.
"But… shit happens, and here we are," Randall disclosed, patting the desk. "That's life."
Sandra nodded, almost wanting to ask him why—why life had to be that way, why they were simply expected to mold and adjust to this cruel reality—but she knew Randall had no answer, nor did anyone else alive.
In fact—even the dead had no answer, as it was a question that even her own father could never find a real answer to.
The only solution her father knew—as well as Arcade, and Randall, and Sandra herself—was to simply do whatever good was possible. Nothing beyond that could reasonably be morphed or changed by them.
So, Sandra smirked and nodded, using the barrel of the gun to give a lazy salute. "That's life, and here we are."
"Ye'ap. I reckon people like you and me are just cut out for it," Randall surmised. "Makes it easier on everyone else. We do it so the rest don't have to. I'd call it somethin' heroic if I believed in any of that bullshit. Don't matter… long as we do what we can."
"Yeah," Sandra affirmed, standing from her chair. "And… hey, me and my friends were gonna hang out in Primm tonight, maybe hit the slots a little bit. You wanna come with us? You never take any time off."
"Ehh… there's a reason I don't go out doin' that shit anymore," Randall replied with a laugh. "I'd rather be asleep."
"Hah… okay," Sandra snickered, heading for the door and waving him off. "Night, Randall. I mean… Uncle Steven."
"Oh… shut the fuck up," Randall chortled, shaking his head and swatting her away.
"I'm sorry… I meant old man."
"Get out. Just get the fuck out right now…"
"Make me, Dad."
"You make me get up from this chair, and my boot's gonna be up your ass. Get the fuck on, now. Go gamble—piss your fuckin' money away and get the fuck on!"
Sandra giggled and sauntered off beneath the sunset, feeling much better now and truly looking forward to her evening of fun with her friends—unaware that her aloof farewell with Randall was her last.
Sandra and Niner—much to Arcade's chagrin—spent the night getting wasted and dancing wildly to music in between using the slot machines.
The music echoing throughout the place during their most frantic dance-off was an old-world 80s song, a favorite of Sandra's and Niner's, a haunting remix of a song called Separate Ways.
"Here we stand… worlds apart, hearts broken in two… two… two. Sleepless nights… losing ground, I'm reachin' for you… you… you…"
Vulpes was sitting at a table in the corner for the majority of the evening, sipping on a drink and flipping through a book—and while he did, Arcade was tasked with the babysitting position, as Sandra and Niner were enacting havoc on the unsuspecting Vikki & Vance.
When the night finally concluded, they all wandered away beneath the night sky, sauntering down the broken road and retreating back into their bus. They slept the night peacefully away, and—once the booze wore off and the urge to use the bathroom suddenly ambushed her—Sandra blinked herself awake around sunrise, staggering out of the bus and wandering off.
She stopped in on the Nash place and used their bathroom, and on her way back down the road, her eyes traveled up the nearest mountainside, eyeing Randall & Associated from afar.
A strange, peculiar sensation began to sink into her for reasons unknown.
For whatever reason, she felt the need to visit Randall this morning—so, Sandra trekked out of Primm and marched up the expansive hillside, pushing the shack door open and expecting to see Randall where he always was, behind his desk and typing away.
But for the first time—the place was entirely empty and still, no Randall in the chair, and no gentle ambiance of keys clak-clak-ing echoing faintly from across the room.
Sandra slowly stepped forward, her expression darkening, reaching behind her—and feeling her heart drop, as she suddenly realized she'd wandered up the hill without her shotgun.
Then, her hand ventured down, landing on her side—where the pistol Randall gave her was still tucked safely in its holster. She hadn't yet taken it off her person since he'd given it to her, and now, she slowly drew it, easing deeper into the room and examining everything around.
The large, elegant painting behind the desk was the first thing to catch her eye—because now, there was a combat knife stabbed directly into it, pinning a single sheet of notebook paper to the wall.
Sandra moved forward, removing the knife and collecting the paper.
The note read;
Sandra, Randall & Associates is finished.
"I see you found the letter," a deep voice spoke behind her.
Sandra whipped around—aiming her pistol at the newcomer.
A stoic man with an overcoat and sunglasses stood in the doorway now, sunlight washing into the room from behind him, and he held a pistol as well.
Sandra glared at him, finger anxiously grazing the trigger. "Where's Randall?"
"I buried him in the desert," the man—Mr. Sugar—told her with a grave, sickening smile. "He's a dead man now."
Sandra felt a slow, icy sensation crawl up and down her being—face losing expression, eyes losing light, and she gave him a long, cold, and unfeeling leer.
"A dead man just like you."
She fired—and the bullet whizzed over his shoulder just as he managed to duck.
The revolver kicked back and Mr. Sugar took a swift side-step—firing off pot-shots and riddling the painting with bullet holes—as Sandra had ducked behind the desk. She kicked Randall's chair out—and Mr. Sugar opened fire on the sudden moving object—freeing her to leap out from the other side and—
BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG.
Sandra unloaded—face twisted up in rage, illuminated by the bursts of light, finger hammering the trigger until Sweet Revenge would no longer fire.
Mr. Sugar, riddled with wounds and pouring blood, instantly crumbled to the ground.
Sandra stood there—directly opposite him, glaring into him, chest rising and falling, teeth clenched tighter than ever—for what might as well have been years.
Head spinning and everything feeling dreamlike, she began to move without thought, stepping behind the desk and sighing with grim disdain. She pulled out the key, inserted it into the desk drawer, and unlocked it, pulling it open and peering inside.
The drawer contained nothing—except for a single, sloppily-written note.
Sandra was on autopilot, steeped in shock and moving without volition—but the sight of the note made her heart ache for a split second, just before her off-switch flipped back on.
She picked it up and read it attentively.
The note read;
Sandra,
There've been new developments in the whole business conflict that I haven't been up front about. Richter & Associates has been sending me subtle little messages that they want me out of the business, and I never wanted you involved in my shit.
But, hopefully, I'm just being paranoid. Hopefully, nothing comes of it.
I want you to know—you're the best damn bounty hunter I ever had the privilege of working with, but I'm never gonna tell you that while I'm alive.
I'm hoping you got some ol' fashion revenge on whoever busted into my place and took me out. And, if you're feeling brave, the Richter & Associates business is run out of a bunker down south of Nipton. But I'm not gonna hold it against you if you choose to walk away from this life.
However, I do think that'd be a goddamned waste.
You got a gift, kid. I suggest you keep using it. And try to stay alive when you do.
Your friend,
-Randall
Sandra stared—empty, expressionless, gone beyond all feeling, seeming to glare right through the letter for several silent minutes.
She couldn't feel, couldn't think—as all of it had become obviously, painfully clear, and nothing she ever thought or felt could possibly change that now.
Because now—now it was all she needed, all the confirmation she could ever have to have, that her life most assuredly was destined to always result in this, that her skills and paths would always lead the people around her to their deaths, and she was always meant to carry this heavy, painful torch right until the very end.
She carried it back east.
She carried it across the ruins of America.
And she still carried it right here and now.
It would never change.
Never.
"We do it so the rest don't have to," Sandra murmured mindlessly, turning to the cabinet and popping it open.
Inside were several shelves, and one of them had a few boxes of 44 magnum rounds.
She began collecting them, placing them on the edge of the desk and preparing to stuff them into the small side pouches on her belt.
"Check your sentiment at the door," she mumbled absentmindedly again, Vulpes's powerful words echoing in her mind just as lucidly as Randall's, and she grabbed Randall's notebook, preparing to write her friends a note.
She scribbled on the notebook for a moment, finished her brief note, and pinned it to the painting with the combat knife, just as Mr. Sugar had done.
"I am alpha… and omega," Sandra breathed without a thought, still searching through Randall's cabinet shelves.
Her hand drifted down, coiling around something.
"I am the beginning…"
She found a long string of plasma grenades on the bottom shelf and swiftly retrieved them—turning toward the exit with stony eyes of resolve.
"And the end."
She strode on, marching away from the desk and reloading Sweet Revenge, plasmas strapped around her as she slid her sunglasses on—and as she stormed out of the shack, the sunlight bled deeper into the room, illuminating the note on the wall that her friends wouldn't find for hours yet to come.
The final words they would see from Sandra read as follows;
Guys,
Someone from Richter & Associates came here and killed Randall. I'm going there to kill them, and I'm going there alone.
I know I promised I wouldn't do this again—but I need to be alone from now on.
Go back to the tower and stay there. Just run Vegas for me.
I know it's selfish, but I can't care about that right now. I just need you guys safe. I'm tired of this happening—and it's not gonna happen anymore.
Ever.
—Courier (6)
The bunker sat nestled into the crevice of a mountainside, far south of Nipton and hidden on the fringes of the Mojave.
The sun began to set as Sandra marched across the sand, approaching the large metal door and hitting the button on the wall beside it. The door shifted and opened up, and she stepped into the darkened interior with ease.
Two armored guards—both holding miniguns and wearing slave collars—were standing on either side of her just when she entered the wide hallway.
"Go on in," the first guard said, giving her a nod. "He's expecting you."
Sandra didn't seem to hear him. She simply continued walking, rounding a corner and emerging in a large clearing—a kitchenette to the left, beds on the right, and more collared guards standing at the far door.
She stormed toward the door, and it opened for her, revealing a large, elegant office inside. Across from her was a mahogany desk, two more guards on either side of it—and behind the desk was none other than Judge Richter, tall, stoic, wearing a feathered hat, and fidgeting with a small hatchet that sat on his desk.
The man gently intertwined his fingers, giving her a look of intrigue.
"Your restraint is noted," the Judge remarked. "Most in your situation would've stormed in here with… little mind to dialogue."
Sandra said nothing, merely standing across from him and frowning.
"Although… your décor puts me rather on edge," Judge added, surveying all the plasma grenades strewn across her torso. "I presume I don't need to point out to you how outnumbered and outgunned you are."
"No. You don't," Sandra replied tonelessly. "I have eyes."
Judge let out a dry laugh. "Yes… and you also killed a rather close friend of mine. Something the two of us actually have in common now. And… if you could come to the compromise of seeing just how even we are in that regard… then perhaps we could do business together."
Sandra had no reaction, showing and feeling nothing—only thinking, thinking of Zimmer, of his ramblings of using people like pawns, and knowing for certain that the Judge thought no differently.
These types of men expected her to move on without a single second thought—to care nothing for those she'd lost at their hands, as if the people dying around her were nothing more than missing pieces off a chessboard. Such a cold, common factor that was, such a terrible way of thinking that seemed to infect everyone in every region of the wasteland—from the east to the west—all of them, coldhearted and empty, and all of them expecting her to be much the same.
And she had a rather violent habit of slaughtering anyone who mistook her in that way.
"I don't want that," Sandra murmured in a soft, serpentine hiss. "I don't want work. I don't wanna be even. I don't want… anything."
Judge perked his brow at her. "Oh? Then… what did you come here for?"
Sandra slowly slid her sunglasses off, staring into him with the most vacant expression she'd ever worn.
"I am the end," she glowered—slowly removing the string of plasmas from her person.
The guards began to raise their guns—the Judge started to stand—
And Sandra pulled one of the pins—pitching the string of plasmas across the room at once.
She stood.
Everything; it all unfolded on fast-forward, and in slow motion, all around her.
She simply stood—watching, empty-eyed, and waiting for the finality to rip it all away.
The guards fired—muzzle flashes illuminating the room—and the Judge reared back as the plasmas smacked into hi—
BAAA—BANG BANG BANG—BOOOOOOM.
The air blasted past her as great bursts of neon green exploded all around her—the floor crackling and the walls shaking with a terrible deafening echo—the Judge ripped to pieces. Her hair flew back as the desk erupted in shards, the guards all torn apart and filling the bunker with cries of agony—and she felt it, burning in her arm, a sharp pain in her side, as a bullet and a burst of plasma had both struck her—yet still, she stood.
Sandra remained rooted to the spot, watching them die without the faintest hint of reaction.
The guards in the room behind her began to scream and collapse to the floor—as their collars seemed to have activated—and all at once, everyone in Richter & Associates fell dead to the floor all around her.
The gravest silence came thereafter, and Sandra stayed still even then, gazing across the bloodshed and feeling nothing, as everything had—much like it had five years ago—abandoned her heart and soul entirely.
"Someday… love will… find you…" she began to murmur, a soft, rhythmic voice, mumbling the song under her breath as she slowly took a step forward. "True love… won't… desert… you…"
Sandra ventured around, twirling on her heel and dazedly wandering back out the door from where she'd arrived.
Everything spun and blurred, passing by in a haze, even names seeming to flutter past her eyeshot as she meandered past the bodies at her feet.
Charon, Vulpes, James, Arcade, Randall…
"You know… I, still, love, you…"
Sandra blinked drearily, flinging her bangs aside and slipping her sunglasses back on, just before marching out of the bunker.
"How we touched, and…"
With the most ominous sense of finality—she strode across the dirt and sand, marching beneath the brilliant sunset that was fading into twilight on the Mojave's glorious horizon.
"Went… our separate ways."