Chapter 43
The Friend in Frosthill
Sandra and Virgil traveled together for a few days, rarely speaking to each other.
Aside from trading minor travel plans and pit-stops, they hardly talked. It was partly because of how they'd met—and admittedly, that trip down memory lane couldn't have possibly started them off on the right foot—but on the day they were set to arrive in Frosthill, they finally spoke up a little more.
Long after emerging from the caverns, they met up with a caravan—a wagon pulled by Brahmin, which seemed to be waiting for them, as the folks were friends of Virgil's—and now, the two of them were sitting in the back of the wagon together, across from one another and sandwiched between boxes and tied-down crates. The air was nippy, cold and numbing in a way Sandra hadn't felt in five years, and she began to wish her old world duster had some sleeves attached to it.
"So… out of curiosity," Virgil said, nodding at her. "How did you take down the Judge? I've been wondering that since it happened."
Sandra stared at him, sighing, her breath escaping her in a visible icy cloud.
Her eyes wandered down, the faint burn on her wrist—the one she'd gotten five years ago—now somewhat healed and faded, but now, a smaller and fresher one had been seared onto her skin just an inch above it.
She didn't think about that day often, as it was one of the most unpleasant ones she'd ever endured—and even now, she'd never spoken about it to anyone. Perhaps it was time to.
"I just… walked in… and blew him up," Sandra mumbled shortly, propping her arm on the side of the wagon and watching the snowy scenery pass by.
Virgil squinted at her. "What… just like that?"
"Yeah," Sandra said vacantly to the passing trees. "Just like that."
Virgil examined her, eyeing her wrist for a second, then surveying her expression again.
"You're fascinating," he murmured ominously. "You know that?"
Sandra didn't respond.
"No… you really are," Virgil insisted, leaning slightly closer and resting an arm on his leg. "Because I… can't imagine being pushed to the point where your own survival becomes a non-issue. Surviving is priority numero uno for me."
Sandra still said nothing, though she began to dwell even deeper in her thoughts.
She wouldn't say it aloud, but he'd hit the nail on the head. The day she arrived to Richter & Associates—she didn't know if she'd survive the insane stunt, and at the time, she didn't care in the slightest. All that mattered was exterminating the people who sought to do her and her friends harm.
Everything else truly was a non-issue by comparison.
Just as it was now.
Everything—everything in her world—had to be put solidly on hold until Marko was gone forever. Then, and only then, could she press forward—kill the Legion—drive the NCR away—and finally secure a safe home for them all.
"Ah… I think I've found it," Virgil mumbled observantly. "I think I've found… the one key difference between you and Marko, because he's the same as me. He puts survival and domination above all else. You, Courier… you'd throw everything away to accomplish your goal, including your own life. But he… he'd throw everyone else's lives in the fire. That's the key difference, right there."
Sandra managed a shrug, still remaining silent.
Virgil perked up, gazing over the boxes at the road up ahead. Then, he reached out and patted the boxes loudly, gesturing for the men up front to stop the wagon here.
The caravan slowed to a stop, and Sandra turned her head, giving Virgil a look.
"This is where you get off," Virgil explained, pointing across the landscape, which consisted mostly of snowy ground and an endless conglomeration of pine trees. "You go that way, and break a little east, and you'll be right in Frosthill."
Sandra nodded, seeming hesitant. "Where're you going?"
"Oh… I don't live right in the heart of town," Virgil replied. "Like my privacy, y'know."
Sandra stood and began climbing out of the wagon, tossing her backpack down to the pavement and cradling her shotgun close.
"Hey… Courier," Virgil called.
Sandra landed on the side of the street, staring into the wagon and meeting his eyes.
"You oughta pick every move you make really damn carefully while you're here," Virgil warned. "They call him Demon of the West for a reason."
Sandra continued to stare, her eyes void of feeling. "I'm the Demon of the East. I don't give a damn what they call him."
"Hah. Well… he's actually from the east himself, originally," Virgil replied with a laugh. "Vault dweller, ran away from home, father was a piece of shit… ended up in a slave trade, went through hell and torture, fought his way up the ranks… yadda yadda yadda. Point is… he comes from all the same shit you do, and he's been there and back, too. Whatever you do will be nothing new to him… because, whatever it is, he probably majored in it before you ever learned to walk. Just a fair warning."
At that, Virgil patted the boxes again, motioning for the drivers to roll on.
"Oh… one more thing real quick," Virgil said just before the wagon began to move. "You might wanna get a haircut. Shit's getting long now, and that doesn't look like your style."
He smirked and gave her a wave, and the wagon slowly rolled away, thumping and bumping down the old road and slowly vanishing into the snowy trees.
Sandra stared after the caravan for a short while, sighing and shifting her bangs aside. Most times, she had a habit of trimming her own hair once a week, as her short style always suited her, and it helped to keep her cool in the desert—but it had grown a bit this past week, and she figured she wouldn't cut it this time. Keeping cool wasn't an issue here; it was keeping warm that would prove to be a challenge.
"Fuckin'a… I don't think I've ever had long hair before," she sighed, sliding her backpack on and wandering down the road. "The hell am I even gonna do with it…?"
She ventured on, her nose and fingers slowly fading numb in the blistering gusts of wind.
As she walked, her mind wandered back in time—back to the last time she'd traveled the backroads beyond the state of Nevada. In fact, she traveled in a caravan wagon back then, too—and she traveled with a fellow vagabond who also found her fascinating.
The thought of Vulpes made her chest ache, and she simply marched on, frowning and forcing all the thoughts away.
She had no clue that things would play out in this way, and she thought she always had time to let things develop naturally between herself and him—but if she would've known that she'd have to venture off alone for so long, then she might've done some of it differently. She hated being away from him—or being away from Niner and Arcade—but none of them were safe so long as they were with her.
Once it was all taken care of, she could go back to them—and succeeding in Frosthill would earn her that reward.
Gunshots broke the air—snapping her out of her thoughts.
Sandra halted at once, freezing in the middle of the street and glancing around—and three people emerged from behind the trees down the road, opening fire and continuing to shoot at her. Two bullets struck her armored vest while another whizzed past her hair—and Sandra staggered back and opened fire, hammering the trigger of her shotgun and riddling the nearest outlaw with slugs.
"Shit fuckin' fire—they're swarmin' all over the gat'damn place out here!"
Sandra's breath cut thin—and she stopped, almost forgetting she was in the middle of a sudden firefight. But that voice, she—she knew that voice—
She narrowly avoided a headshot—flying behind the nearest tree and popping off more shots, killing the second attacker.
Just when the third outlaw rushed her with a knife raised—
BANG—BANG BANG.
Sandra gasped and whipped around—and the final outlaw crumbled to the ground at her feet, blood pouring from his head as the knife slipped from his fingers.
She heaved several rapid breaths, her eyes venturing up from the body—and landing on the man who'd killed him, a man in a sleek brown duster, a hat to match, his face covered in a wrap and his eyes hidden behind dark goggles, the very last person she ever expected to see again.
"Well, hellfire… if it ain't my old protégé from the Mojave," Steven Randall cackled, lowering his revolver and stepping closer to her, his face wrap seeming to morph around a forming smile. "'Bout damn time you finally made your way up here."
"Okay. We got some mail today that we all need to address."
Inside the spacious and elegant dining area of the Lucky 38 suite—Sandra's many companions sat around the elongated table, and Arcade stood at the head of it, holding two separate letters in either hand and trading eyes with everyone around him.
Since the day they all reluctantly made their return to the Lucky 38—many new alliances had been formed, and the group running the tower was now larger than it ever had been. Niner was forced to inform Arcade of the great secret he'd kept during their bounty-hunting travels—that a couple of Sandra's older friends from back east had fled to the west to avoid a dictator, and they'd suddenly landed themselves in the Mojave.
And now—here they all were.
Mr. Burke sat nearest the head of the table, Sarah Lyons just across from him. Bryan and Melody—the two kids of the group—were seated together farther down, and Niner was across from those two, leaned back in his chair and digging a finger into his ear, seeming somewhat disinterested. Everyone else, however, was purely vested in this news—and they continued to watch Arcade with attentive engrossment.
"Both letters are equally alarming—yet one of them is nearly impossible," Arcade explained, holding the older letter up and giving it a shake. "Because this one came from a place in Utah called Frosthill—and it came from Steven Randall."
Mr. Burke narrowed his eyes behind his sunglasses, trading odd looks with Sarah—and Niner suddenly perked up, slamming chair back down to all fours and looking to the doctor in bewilderment.
"Wha? No—no, Six said he was dead," Niner argued. "She wouldn't lie. Not about that."
"Sandra didn't find a body the day she went to Randall's shack," Arcade explained. "She must've just found his would-be assassin—which was likely the dead stranger we found in the shack later that day—but Randall's body was never anywhere to be found, remember? It's entirely possible that he survived, and apparently he has."
"What does the letter say?" Sarah wondered.
"Yea—why's he up in Utah?" Niner asked.
"And sending mail here, of all places," Mr. Burke added, sliding his fingers together. "Sandra must've trusted him a great deal if she told him about her situation here in Vegas."
"She did." Arcade placed the note down and scooted it over to Mr. Burke, allowing him and the others to take turns reading it. "And there's another thing—an update on our little runaway fox."
"What?" Melody spoke up. "Where is he?"
Bryan glanced up from below the table, where he was feeding Scar the deathclaw scraps from his recent lunch. He glimpsed over at Melody, who suddenly looked concerned.
"I don't know how—chalking it up to the skills of the frumentarii, I suppose—but Vulpes somehow found out that Sandra was heading to Utah while he was out blindly scouring the region for her," Arcade elaborated. "I don't even know how Sandra found out where Randall was, considering all her mail is coming here—but this place up in northern Utah is evidently where the big party's at now."
"Hey… if Randall's alive, and if he's up there, then…" Niner uttered, stroking his soul patch. "Maybe that's where that other bloke is, too. The one he's been lookin' for the past ten or twenty years. Guy who killed his whole family… whatever his name was…"
"Marko," Arcade mumbled grimly, wearing a deep grimace and sighing down at the table. "Damn… that… that's entirely possible, Niner. That would explain why they're all congregating up there. They're all on the same damn hunt."
"Then… it seems likely that the frequent wasteland travelers among us will be heading out for the same destination," Mr. Burke assumed, perking his brow at Arcade. "Am I right?"
Arcade and Niner traded expressions.
"Iunno, man," Niner shrugged. "She keeps bailing on us. She wants to walk, let her walk."
Mr. Burke stared at him, saying nothing. Everyone else did the same—and Arcade stared the longest, his visage hardened and stricken with perturbation.
"Fine." Arcade flicked Vulpes's note across the table, then began to march away. "Going solo, then. Fine by me."
"Wha—hold up—what?" Niner barked, shooting up from his seat. "Whoa, whoa, whoa—Doc, you ain't gonna last a fuckin' day out there by yourself."
Arcade marched out of the room as if he hadn't heard him.
Niner followed him out to the hall—and he leaped in front of the elevator, blocking his path.
"Y'know what—runnin' off alone would be a pretty stupid move for someone who's supposed to be the fuckin' smart guy," Niner griped at him. "I doubt if you could get up to the goddamn mountain—much less cross the fuckin' state past it."
Arcade gave him a long, deadened stare.
"Niner," he said in a low, calm voice, an oddly grave and serious tone for him. "You might be surprised to learn this—but I actually have been outside before. Do you remember what the NCR's bounty hunters put me through? Huh?"
Niner glared at him in silence.
"They drugged me, they dragged me off, and that bitch in charge bragged about planning my execution," Arcade hissed, inching closer. "And Sandra marched in there—killed them all—and pulled a wild stunt at the embassy just to grant me a pardon. Now, do you really think I'd hesitate to return the favor for a second? Because if you do—then you really don't know me that well. You might not care anymore, but I always will. Now move."
"Fuck—I—I was just being passive aggressive!" Niner chided, tossing up his hands. "Fuckin'a—I'm hurt! She told me she wasn't gonna bail again—and she did! So fuckin' sue me if I'm still mad! But I'm still gonna go to friggin' Utah too!"
Arcade reeled slightly back, narrowing his eyes at him. "What… really?"
"Yes, fuckin' really—whaddid you think?!" Niner grumped. "Six and Foxxy are up there now—what fuckin' choice do we got anymore?!"
Arcade stared at him. "Since when did you start calling him that?"
"Since I use nicknames for fuckin' everybody," Niner quipped in response, flicking him on the shoulder. "Are you fuckin' new here?"
Arcade cracked a smirk, scoffing out a laugh.
Niner sighed, simmering down and throwing his hand up again. "We doin' this or what?"
Arcade hesitated, glancing over at the room containing many of their beds, as well as their weapons and bags—all ready to be packed in a hurry for a quick departure of the tower. After a moment of thought, he flashed another half-smile, clasped his hands, and gave Niner a nod.
"Ad victorium. Let's go."
"Randall!"
Sandra gasped in disbelief—striding straight toward him and ogling him in awe.
His attire and demeanor, even down to the face wrap, was just as she remembered—but the only difference was his arms, his duster sleeves rolled to the elbows, revealing just how fleshy and scarred his skin was now.
"You're a…" she exhaled.
"A zombie? Ye'ap—I can say that shit with impunity now," Randall laughed. "Zombie zombie zombie, motherfucker."
"What the f—how d—okay." Sandra stopped, raising both hands and trying to force herself into composure. "Okay—what—happened to you?"
"Didn't you get the letter? I sent it to the most secure place I knew for ya. That damn tower."
"No, I… haven't been home in a while."
"Shit, really? I figured that's what brought you out here."
Sandra merely stared at him, feeling stunned in the most pleasant way she ever had. She'd faced loss countless times—but she never had any of her loved ones suddenly and miraculously return before.
"Oooh… you didn't get the letter. So… you still thought I was dead, huh?" Randall said. "Well'p… then I reckon you're in a good bit of shock right now."
"Randall," Sandra said in a low, serious voice, her eyes locked onto his. "I'm gonna fucking hug you—and you're gonna fucking stand there and take it."
She moved swiftly forward without waiting for his reply—and Sandra snapped her arms around him at once, trapping him in a tight embrace and grinning broadly as she did.
Randall let out a laugh, nodding and patting her on the back. "Okay, kid… let's not stand out here huggin' like jackasses right where the damn outlaws could snipe us from the fuckin' sidelines. We're out in the open right now… c'mon. Let's head on outta here."
He nudged her onward, and the two of them headed into the snowy trees—Sandra beaming like a child as she trailed alongside him, feeling more overjoyed than she had in quite a while. It was the first burst of emotion she'd had in what felt like years—and every step she took, she hoped it wouldn't end, as she'd almost forgotten what happiness even felt like anymore, and it was more wonderful than she remembered.
"So what happened?" Sandra wondered. "The day you disappeared—what actually happened?"
"Funny fuckin' story," Randall said as they trekked through the snow. "After Mr. Sugar showed up and dragged my ass off… that cocksucker buried me up to the neck in the goddamn ground. Didn't even have the sense to pop a round in my head first. I ended up next to a radiation pit, roastin' in the goddamn sun… and all that shit made me sick as fuck."
"Oof. How'd you get out…?"
"Well… first, some giant ants swarmed up that damn hill. Just when they go to chomp off my dome, some wild dogs came through and chased 'em all off. I'm thinking 'Hallelujah for man's best friend,' right? Wrong. Biggest one came up and commenced to humpin' my ear for five hours straight."
Sandra gaped at him, stunned—then exploded with laughter.
"Yeeeah… it's real funny when it ain't your ass gettin' half-zombified and covered in dog jizz," Randall snarked at her. "Anyway, some low-down group of Jackals came along eventually, and they dragged my ass off. Ended up being a zombie slave for 'em… briefly. Until they fell asleep and I stabbed 'em to death. But, since they hauled me up north anyway… I figured I'd stick around here and go after Marko."
Sandra fell silent, her smile fading. "How'd you find out he was here?"
"Oh… I'd heard rumors for years," Randall replied. "They started callin' him Demon of the West when he started acting out farther from the east… and more recently, I also heard rumors of him disappearing from his little life of crime. I don't know what's true about all that… but I do know he's here. Saw him outside the town once. He was surrounded by a buncha folks I figured to be his followers, so… I knew I couldn't make a move then. He's got allies out here… and someone told me today that he's sending for even more. Apparently, he recently wandered out of Frosthill to take care of business elsewhere… and while he was away, he sent a message back here to all his little friends, and he instructed them to rally some older friends of his out here. I don't know what pissed him off all the sudden… don't know what the hell changed and made him jump off the deep end… but it's lining up a hellova lot of bounties for us now."
Sandra frowned down at the snow as she walked, the two of them beginning to ascend up the side of a rather long hillside.
Randall stole a glimpse of her. "But I reckon you might know… given the look on your face."
"Yeah," Sandra sighed. "I just killed his brother."
Randall slowed to a stop in the snow.
Sandra paused, turning toward him and eyeing him curiously.
"You killed Sergio?" Randall asked, sounding surprised.
"Yeah… and the Judge, and Red Bear, and about thirty other people," Sandra replied with an odd nonchalance. "Anyone even remotely connected to Marko."
Randall stared at her for a moment. "And… you did all that without your little misfit mafia?"
Sandra's expression seemed to deaden again. "I couldn't keep them with me for all that. It wasn't safe. Not remotely…"
"Ahh… so you were pullin' some psycho shit that you wouldn't pull with them around."
"That's not… the whole reason…"
"No, I know it ain't. You get the habit of makin' yourself detached in this business… and it ain't for lack of feeling, either. Just can't afford to get too close to anyone. Makes it harder if they die on you… and it makes that scenario quite a bit more likely to unfold, too."
"Yeah… exactly. I didn't want that happening to them, so…"
"Look, kid… I got no doubt in my mind that you been through some shit that your friends can't even imagine," Randall told her, resuming his pace uphill. "I can see that in you… saw it the first day I met you, and that's namely why you got hired. But there is a bad habit that some folks in our line of work tend to do… and it's being cocky."
Sandra gave him a questioning squint.
"Now, don't get me wrong—you don't have to be proud and arrogant to be cocky, that ain't what I mean," Randall explained. "Cocky can also mean that you're assuming you've got the situation covered just because you've done it all before. That's somethin' that's probably gonna trip up Marko—and it's tripped up a hellova lot of bounty hunters, too. So you better not go off thinkin' that only you can do all this. Excluding your friends for their safety ain't something I blame you for at all—but if that's the reason you did it, because you think only you can do this, then you oughta send for 'em right now, because that ain't right. And that mindset will screw you, too."
Sandra sighed deeply, following him to wherever he was leading her.
"What if it's true?" she asked.
Randall glanced back at her. "What if what's true?"
"What if I… am the only one who can?" Sandra wondered honestly. "Because I… I have before. I've killed armies before. I've done things even Vulpes hasn't done, and he was Caesar's best…"
She suddenly fell silent, only just remembering that Randall never knew of Vulpes's Legion past, or even his real name—and she instantly felt foolish for letting such a sensitive topic slip her tongue.
Randall spared her another glimpse, but he didn't seem perturbed or surprised, simply reflective.
"Talkin' about Vincent Fox?" he guessed.
Sandra gave him a hesitant look—and Randall observed her from over his shoulder, his goggled gaze resting on her for a moment before he faced forward again.
"I had a feelin' about him," he mumbled. "Too damn good at what he does, and too damn good at melee for someone who was supposedly a Vegas bodyguard. Them chicken-shit city-boys only use guns. But your buddy Vincent used pretty much everything but guns. Skillset didn't match his supposed lifestyle."
"Did you… know?" Sandra asked warily. "The whole time…?"
"What… that he was a Legion freak? No," Randall responded. "I just figured somethin' was off about him. But, if you'd like to tell me why you were runnin' around with a cultist tribal freak, then I'd be inclined to hear that story."
Sandra took a deep breath and began to speak, which made her grow winded as they ventured up the expansive snowy hill. She told him the entire story between her and Vulpes—how they met in Dog City Denver five years ago, how they stayed together and kept each other alive for many weeks after, how they went their separate ways in the Mojave, and how they reunited four years later. After telling him of Vulpes's banishment and betrayal of the Legion—as well as other stories of his endeavors for her sake—Randall was silent for nearly a full minute thereafter, mulling over the information as it all sank in.
"Aw'right," he eventually replied. "I didn't expect it to be that long... and complicated. And detailed. And long."
Sandra choked out a laugh.
"You could write a goddamn book with all that shit," Randall chided with a laugh. "Hell… you could write four or five books outta everything you just told me. Shit fire."
"Nobody would read that, Randall…"
"Nah, you'd be surprised. That sounds like a bad romance story… and you know there're a lotta suckers for that godforsaken market."
"Yeah, like me…"
"Kid. Listen." Randall pocketed his hands, releasing a heavy cloud of breath. "I don't care for traitors of any kind… and I damn sure don't care for the Legion and all their weirdo bullshit. But… as someone who's seen a lot of you, and a lot of your friends, and a hell of lot of y'all interacting with each other… I will say, he wasn't the same on the last day as he was on the first."
Sandra gave him a look. "Whaddo you mean…?"
"I mean… the day he walked in, he had the wall up," Randall explained, motioning in front of himself, miming what appeared to be an invisible barrier in front of his face. "His guard was up, his charm was on, and he breezed through that interview like he'd been trainin' for that shit. But, day by day, little by little… he had less and less of the wall up, and he had less and less of that fake shit glazed over his personality. And lemme tell you something… every time you got up to walk outside, or every time someone else walked into the office with you there… he always had his eyes on you. He watched every little thing that was goin' on around you. And, after that crazy shit you told me about Gomorrah, and Quigly, and all that other bullshit… it seems pretty damn clear that you're his first fuckin' priority now. Not Caesar. Not Lanius. Not Mars, or Satan, or whoever the fuck they worshipped out there. Just you."
Sandra stared at him as they walked, not realizing she was wearing a faint smile.
"Yeah…?" she breathed. "How d'you know…?"
"Fuck… 'cause I'm the same way he is, and I can spot that shit a mile off," Randall chuckled. "Listen… there's two kinds of men in the world. There're folks who always just talk a big game… and then there're folks who don't like to talk, and instead, they speak solely through their actions. I'm the latter… and your little freaky fox friend is, too."
Sandra pondered on this, thinking of Vulpes and feeling a tug in her heartstrings, suddenly missing him. Quite honestly, she always missed him—as well as her other friends—but she'd been keeping a lid on all her emotions up until today.
Now, however—after being met with the pleasant surprise of Steven Randall upon her arrival—she became overjoyed inside, and keeping a lid on the feelings suddenly felt much harder to do.
"Nooow… if we can quit with all the sappy fuckery," Randall disclosed, slowing to a stop at the top of the hill and gesturing to the area before him. "Welcome… to Randall & Associates."
Sandra stopped by his side, her eyes traveling across the small collection of buildings at the top of this hill, nestled on the mountains and overlooking a town in the far distance; this place was surrounded by a small wall, a large metal building off to the right, complete with a sign reading BARRACKS. To the left was an old trailer—where a couple of men in dusters were strolling out and trading conversation with each other—and on the opposite side of the encampment were two buildings, a shiny metal one on the right reading NCR, and a rustier one on the left, its sign proudly displaying RANDALL & ASSOCIATES.
"Yeah… I've actually been here for a while, few weeks… maybe a couple months," Randall told her. "And I knew Marko was 'round these parts long before he started actin' all crazy again. Figured the bounty business would lead me straight to 'im. So here we are."
Sandra revealed a grin, utterly delighted at the encampment of bounty hunters.
Randall read her expression, releasing a faint laugh. "Downright giddy, aintcha?"
"Hell yeah I am," Sandra beamed.
"Good—now squash that shit right now," Randall ordered, snapping and pointing at her. "Because we got work to do here—and I damn sure don't plan on continuin' this without you. Harden up and c'mon. We got a lot to go over now."
He led her across the encampment and into the shack—and the inside was strikingly similar to his shack back in the Mojave, only with newer paintings, no sense of death in its atmosphere and no dust lingering on the air.
Randall sat behind his desk, propped his arm on it, and upturned his head at her. "I only have one question… are you willin' to kill people for money? Yes or no?"
"Pfff… what're you, senile?" Sandra laughed, plopping into the chair adjacent. "You know I am, old man."
"Ah… had to ask for old time's sake," Randall snickered. "I actually got a special task in mind for you before you start huntin' bounties… and it has to do with our, uh… delicate relationship with the town down below."
"Frosthill…?"
"Yeah, now listen closely. My firm is teaming up with an NCR firm that's seeking bounties in the same area—and, since damn near everybody in Frosthill is some form of outlaw or another, that's kinda made the entire town hate us. Plus, they like to lump me together with the damn Republic, which I take personal offense to—but regardless, point is, we need to establish some bridge between us and them. Especially before the hard bounties start pouring in, and the real bloodshed kicks off."
"Okay, so… you need to make nice with the town. Have you thought about sending somebody down there? Just… having a nice member of your firm go and play nice with them for a while?"
Randall cocked his head, folding his arms on the desk and tapping his fingers atop it, simply staring at her.
Sandra returned the stare in confusion for a second—then took back.
"What, me?" she uttered. "I said nice, not crazy."
"And you're the best of both worlds, kiddo," Randall quipped in response. "You got this childlike way about you that can really suck all tension out of a room… but, when you're pissed off, you got the exact opposite effect going on, and your inner child at heart turns into a fuckin' terrifying presence. That makes you perfect for bounty hunting… and perfect for making nice with Frosthill for us. Win-fuckin-win in my book."
"What… okay… but what am I supposed to actually do? Do I just walk down there and tell them that you guys are—?"
"No." Randall held up a hand. "No—it ain't a goddamn war negotiation. It's just a subtle way to make some social connection with the town before we piss them off even more by huntin' bounties out here. Look, I ain't askin' you to go down there and be an ambassador. I'm just askin' you to go down there and be you."
"Ah… okay… what?"
"Go… make… friends," Randall spelled out clearly for her, thumping the desk with each word. "Go do that thing where you make people like you… and then, later on, when they find out that you're one of us… then the town might just hate us less. We need that. We gotta avoid all possible extra conflict that might spark up out here, and makin' allies always helps. Besides, it ain't right havin' you run around full renegade-mode without any friends. That shit just ain't your style."
Sandra stared downward, sighing and nodding mildly. "Fashion people into weapons…"
"What?"
"Nothing… nothing. I'll do it. How long do you want me to keep this up for?"
"Well… I'd say until the first of the Marko-related bounties comes in, and that ain't far off. But you oughta keep up friendly terms with Frosthill after that, too. I ain't asking you to fake it. I'm askin' you to make real friends here. Can you do that for me?"
"'Course I can…"
"Good… now, there's a hotel down in Frosthill, and they don't get out-of-towners bunking in the town very often, so you shouldn't have any problem findin' a place to stay down there. Hang around their little diner in the hotel, chat with a few folks at their saloon over yonder… just do whatever normal folks do. Make a few people smile, make a few people laugh… y'know. Just humanize yourself to them. And that's gonna humanize the average Randall & Associates bounty hunter overall."
"Good plan," Sandra said. "Anything else I should know?"
"Yeah… just don't tell them you're a bounty hunter straight off," Randall advised. "You don't want them to know that until they're already friendly with you. Other than that… it's a pretty normal town. Just kick back and relax… and do it while you can, because the hard work is gonna come down on us real soon here. Oh… and get yourself somethin' with sleeves, too. You're gonna freeze your everlovin' ass off out here."
"Okay… it's already almost six now," Sandra uttered, glimpsing at her nuka-red pip-boy. "I'm gonna go ahead and get the room, maybe talk to a few people… then I'll come back here, and we can catch up more. Either tonight or tomorrow morning, depending on what happens. Mkay?"
"Sounds good, partner," Randall agreed, giving her a nod and two-fingered salute. "Good to have ya' back, kid."
Sandra smiled, pushing off the desk and reaching her feet.
Randall glimpsed at her arm—surveying her new, fleshy scar—just before she turned and marched out of the shack, old world duster shifting at her heels in her wake.