David
"Taking your chances coming here. Just like bringing the lord of Vegas his tribute, bending your knee to Old World ghosts, while you brandish the flag of the bear for all to see." The gravelly voice of Ulysses was distorted through the voice box of ED-E. Wherever he had been, Ulysses had picked up the signal the moment they left the silo.
"You and that chip, deserve each other." Ulysses spoke with a scorn he did not understand, though the hate was mutual. This was the man who led the White Legs over the walls of New Canaan. "Twenty-nine less coins than other traitors have carried, if history's true. Now see the road the Old World paves… and what the lights of New Vegas promise, if they haven't blinded your eyes."
"Maybe you better tell me who you are, and what you want." Though he'd already got to know Ulysses by the by trail he left, there was still plenty else he desired to understand.
"I'm a courier. Courier Six… was Courier Six. Like you, and not like you, in all the ways that matter. Spent too many years looking for you – now, letting you come to me. Thought carrying that chip would end you, no… you got lives in you, hard to kill. Storms, bullets… sand and wind, yet still you walk. For now."
"Huh, I got the impression that Frumentarii knew how to find people."
"For a time, your trail was near cold. Looked for shadows, for footprints. Found only empty air."
"I know you're not really Legion, at least not anymore. Why did you want me... Ulysses?"
"Not my given name, close enough. Took it from history, found it in a book. It's an Old World name. Ulysses lived a long time ago, long before the Old World set fire to itself. He made a mark without being myth. Had to fight during a time when his world had two flags, and he had to make them one."
"You still haven't answered my question. Why the obsession for someone you've never met?"
"Words aren't the only ways couriers meet… sometimes it's the paths we walk. But no… we've never spoken before now. You may not know my voice, but we've walked the same places. The Long 15 to Primm… that wasn't the only road you ever walked. I've been to your home, the place you kept returning to… may not be the place you were born, was the place you gave life to, same thing. People forget couriers can keep communities alive… until the day they're gone, and their breath catches in their throat."
Did he know? David's blood ran cold. "By those standards, I've had many places to call home. What home are you referring to?"
"Your real home was the trail from Junktown you blazed. I camped same places you did, hid where you hid. From the Rangers who looked for me, looked for you."
"Of course, they wanted me," David replied flatly. "It was my trail after all."
"More than that, heard them over campfires, talking about you. Had a different name back then. Wore a different face too, your true face. True colors exposed in the Divide for the bear to see."
"Get to the point," David snarled. He could feel the color returning to his face, as blood rushed to his head in irritation. "I heard you were supposed to carry the Chip?"
"Meant to? No. Never. Your burden. Weigh you down long enough to let death catch up to you… but you survived. There was death in that package, and while the Chip is important to Old World ghosts… no, you are more dangerous than that Chip ever could be. Maybe why you found each other, little piece of the Old World, speaking to you, waiting for you to wake something else up with it."
"So you refused to deliver the Chip – what, to set me up to die?"
"We all have death following us, only a question of how close. You dodged it... time and again. You're good at that, talent for it. With that Chip weighing you down… a burden, lets death move a little faster without me pulling the trigger."
"If you wanted me dead, why did you wait?"
"Promises to keep. To others. And the Mojave's dangerous enough, left to the land, land has its way. If I wanted you dead, we would have met sooner. Not sure that's the way this ends. Might be that history needs to have its say. If not, then messages will do."
"You went to a lot of trouble to lure me here, so let's get on with this."
"America sleeps ahead of you, its nightmares filled with quakes, storms. You'll need to find your own path. That means waking America's spears up from their slumber. There's ways - warheads set off the collapse, warheads could open the gates again. You're resourceful. That machine, robot with you - can help you find the warheads you need to destroy… and their trigger, the detonator. The way ahead is below. The tools are there. The rest, up to you."
"Fine. I'll find this trigger, then I'll come find you."
"The Divide will send its worst against you, it may break you. We'll see if you're stronger. Road gets rougher from here… Courier. Left marks for you, colors'll tell the way, if you're smart. They'll lead you to your home one more time, lead to the ending of it; maybe remind you why you wander."
One Week later,
"That him?" A burly man with thinning hair, in a lavish suit of steel plate armor pointed in his direction.
The housecarl nodded. "That's him."
David could feel the man looking him over as he finished his breakfast in the hall, or "broke his fast," as the cooks called it.
The meal itself, was a handful of sausage links from some kind of animal he never once laid eyes on (but tasted pretty good), complemented with some potato grits and delicious treat known as a sweetroll.
"Looks pretty big for a milk drinker," came his response when he finished sizing him up.
What kind of stupid insult is that supposed to be? David wondered. Besides he wasn't even having any milk with his meal.
He contemplated a reply of his own, but decided against it. His mouth could really get him into trouble here if he started raving before understanding the place he was in.
David did not understand what kind of society Skyrim was, but if this man and his armor - which suggested high status - were any indication, valued honor and battle prowess above all else. A more civilized form of timocracy than the tribals he'd come to associate the term when first learning the lessons of Plato's Republic in school.
There was also the matter of the man behind the armor. Black warpaint brushed over his skin beneath the eyes, one of them gray and sightless. Beyond that, his haggard features told the tale of a rough existence for a man who looked to be in his mid-thirties, if not, older. A second look at his countenance though, was enough to suggest that at least some of the lines on his face came from all around nastiness rather than just old age.
"We're not offering the job because he happens to be a milk drinker," The housecarl as she was known, came to his defense, "you're getting it because he's a stranger to Whiterun hold. That and there are some bandits who have been harassing Riverwood. We'll offer 200 for the job, and another 100 for the bounty."
"That's a pretty good contract, sounds like the jarl is riled up with the news of Helgen."
"Let's just say that a good many things hinge on our friend here."
"I see," said the mercenary.
David finished the last of his breakfast, and downed his cup of water to wash off the aftertaste of the grits.
"Ready when you are." He scooped up the pack that had been carefully arranged by Farengar, slinging it over his shoulder.
"Let's go, the name's Skjor by way."
"Call me Ishmael," David gave the name he was known in Dragonsreach as.
They left Dragonsreach in the dawn's early light in a quiet mood. None of them were in the mood for talking this early in the morning which suited David just fine. The city was just waking up as Irileth tagged along to send a garrison to Riverwood.
"Here's my stop boys." The blue skinned woman stopped at the city gate. "They'll be on the road soon, I'm sure they wouldn't mind the company."
She moved for the guardhouse and knocked on the door. In a few seconds, the door was answered and through it emerged four guards in varying states of dress.
"The jarl has finally agreed to send you back to Riverwood," Irileth addressed the small team of guardsmen outside the guardhouse.
"Yes housecarl, we will leave at once. I must ask though, will it just be us against a dragon?" One of the troopers, presumably the leader of the team, or whatever they called someone with the duties of a corporal, asked her.
"We cannot afford to send much more, and the dragon could strike anywhere in the hold. I don't expect the four of you to fight off a dragon, but I expect you to do your duty and get the people to safety."
"We'll be out within the hour." The captain turned to his subordinates. "Time's a wasting."
"Shall we go?" David asked his guide.
"That would be good."
The merc nodded to the guard on gate duty, who pushed open the heavy wooden doors.
They marched through the gates, the two of them. Neither felt much like saying anything until David passed the stables and decided to ask what a horse went for in these parts.
"I'd wager somewhere near a thousand septims for one of Skulvar's horses. You'd have to talk to him about that, preferably some other time."
David shrugged, "It's a bit more than what I have, and I only have so much faith in my bartering skills."
Skjor snorted, then looked at him for a moment in thought. "How do you earn your coin?"
"I do all kinds of things," replied David carelessly.
"Ha," snorted the merc. "That's the kind of answer I would expect somebody who doesn't have a trade to speak of."
"You might say I'm a," David racked his brain for an innocuous phrase that wouldn't prompt more questions than answer... "Man of many trades. You name it, and I've at least tried it somewhere if not made it in that field."
He looked at David suspiciously. "Alright, how about a fighter?"
"In what role?" He asked unsure of how to answer.
"With any guilds I mean," Skjor elaborated.
"I was a company soldier once."
"Company?" Wondered the companion. "As in trading company?"
"I was for a time," David affirmed.
"Who were you with? East Empire?" Asked Skjor.
He shook his head, "It was called Glacier Company. We were a force to be reckoned with back then, but it's been some time since then."
"What brought you to Whiterun?" Skjor inquired.
"Some friends. They needed me to bring the Jarl a message."
"I heard you were at Helgen."
David wondered how much he should let on. Skjor was a blunt man who clearly hated beating around the brush, but was clearly trying to find out something like a civilian ranger prying for dirt.
The companions were a mercenary company of sorts, and like Whiterun should remain neutral by principal. Still, he'd learned the hard way a few years ago just how fickle mercs could be. Plenty had offered their services in a never ending auction where the highest bidder could be someone else at any time.
At the same time though, he had a feeling the Legion would not request the services of the Companions anytime soon with Helgen in disarray.
"I was there when the dragon came down. I took the job in Riverwood though. They wanted protection."
Skjor pressed his lips together, and held an impressive poker face.
"I heard some strange tales last night, why did the dragon attack Helgen of all places?"
"I wish I could tell you, but nothing makes any sense. Tulius ordered the executions of Ulfric and his Stormcloaks, when it came out of the sky."
"Huh? So the Ulfric was there?" Skjor raised an eyebrow.
"Not anymore, he survived and went east. I'm sure at least some of the Legion made it out too."
The man chewed it over for a few moments clearly trying to figure out the implications.
"Hmm, no avoiding the war now."
"Where does Whiterun lean if I might ask?" David could probably guess, but what he really wanted was to gauge Skjor's opinion.
"Hard to say, the jarl has grievances in both Windhelm and Solitude. But I would assume Balgraff would side with the Empire if he were forced to make the choice."
"Will the Companions take a side?"
Skjor, the caged beast of a man he was, shook his head in disgust. "Not a chance, it would tear us apart just like it will Skyrim." He pressed his fists to his hips. "Besides," added Skjor, "we take jobs in every hold regardless of who their Jarl will support."
David dropped the matter at that. The merc for his part, was also content to be quiet.
Soon, they reached the crossroads near the river, and traversed the bridge on the road to Riverwood. Beyond it, the trail took on a moderate grade uphill.
As they neared the top, Skjor suddenly stopped. "What's this?" He asked aloud to no one in particular.
Damn it. Suddenly it dawned on him, as Skjor turned his attention to the roadside brush and weaved his arms around the foliage to part its green screen.
David tried to keep a neutral expression as the merc looked over the body of a legionary propped up against a rock he'd fought yesterday.
"Upper body skin looks like milk, feet are red as snow berries. Must have died yesterday," deduced the canny mercenary.
Indeed the body had been there long enough for the remaining blood in his body to settle in the lower half of his form.
"Interesting, not like many Stormcloaks would bother to hide their dead, and this one was dragged while he was still alive."
"What's the Legion supposed to be doing less than an hour's walk from Whiterun?" David asked the question in hopes of steering the focus of the merc. He knew way more than he had a right to know for someone who hadn't been there to see it.
"Probably just passing through with his Legion brothers..." It was as if he suddenly realized there was more. Skjor shifted his attention to what had to be the other two.
A few moments later, the man returned sniffing the air like a Denver Hound. It went on for a few seconds, until Skjor glanced at David's lower half.
The Mercenary glanced up, their eyes met.
For one long horrible moment he looked into the one good eye of the Companion, and realized that something was off about the man indeed.
"Where did you get that sword?" There was a wary edge to Skjor's voice.
David felt his lips curl in a slight smile. "Helgen, why do you ask?"
"Because all three bear the marks of legion issue steel." The words strongly implied that he had killed for the Legion long ago. "Somebody killed them here with a sword made for the empire. Somebody who was also on the road yesterday." He paused for a moment as if unsure if he should continue. "Somebody who didn't do a very good job washing the blood off of their blade."
David felt thunderstruck and knew he was losing his composure. Who the hell was this guy? What kind of person could link out the smell of a particular person's blood, to a weapon.
It was not quite unheard of though. He had known a fair share of people with superhuman or near superhuman abilities well before he became one himself. Most notably were the Hexes, or Hex Men as they were known to others beyond the ranges of the Bighorns in Wyoming.
David dropped what part of the pretense remained, and casually beat his hands together a few times in a mock clapping motion.
"Very good story. Except for the fact that all the evidence is circumstantial. How would you know if my blade smells of legionnaires? Besides," he added tauntingly. "What makes you think a 'milk drinker' like myself would be capable of putting those three in the dirt in a fair fight?"
"Because somethings not right with you, got a feeling..."
"What's that feeling?" David asked him.
"There's something off about you. You're not telling me everything. The question is why?"
David let out a mirthless chuckle. Not a particularly pleasant sound. "Could say the same about you?"
"Don't play with me!" Skjor snarled. "Whiterun may be neutral, but it still offers bounties for the killings of Imperial soldiers."
David dropped what remained of his act. Gone was the carefree facade he had tried to keep up. In its place, was only coldness. "I'm not worth the payday, and I think you know that."
"Who says it's about money. Companions uphold the law when the guards of hold can't be bothered. We do not run with outlaws, or two faced adventurers like yourself."
David laughed at the irony. "Funny thing by the way, I spoke to one of your order yesterday who suggested I that I speak with your man, what's his name... Kodlak White-Mane, that's right. Seems like a haven for people with dark secrets if you're any indication. Might change the name to Double Life Brotherhood and I'm in."
Skjor's dominant hand, which was level with his ribcage suddenly twitched as if the remark was enough for him to draw the longsword that hung by his side. "Small chance of that," the mercenary growled. "White-Mane could turn you away with a look into your soul."
He was hiding something no doubt. "Tell you what, I'm not sure how much I should care about it here, so I'll drop my lie if you drop yours."
"What exactly do you think I am?" Skjor asked brusquely.
"Well..." David Shrugged. "There's this cult. They come from a faraway land. They believe in some pretty weird doctrines about aliens, and they have this thing for radical, how do I put this..." He tried to think of the simplest explanation possible. "They believe that some otherworldly space emperor of evil is trying to turn mankind against itself, and the only way to fight it is to undergo rituals that transform the initiate into something more powerful, if they don't die first."
Something about the last sentence clearly made the mysterious mercenary uncomfortable. David continued, knowing that he was going in the right direction.
"They call them Hex Men, those who survive and get their alignment. Save for a handful of frequent themes like sterility or potentially terminal diseases, its different for everyone."
"Why are you telling me about this?" Skjor asked him confused, but also wary.
"Because all the best cults have a business model." He grinned. "You see, their way to bring in money was to roam the lands every coming of spring and kill things most people wouldn't dare to touch. They all had a special power of sorts to give 'em an edge over the average man," he continued, "it was a pretty good place for a man wanting to get rich by the sword. But a pyramid is still a pyramid. The wealth always found a way to the top and the 'glorious prophet Elrond' who invented the whole idea after getting chased out of the cult that he was born into."
Skjor, though he looked fit to burst a blood vessel somewhere, stayed silent. David came to his conclusion.
"You remind me of someone I knew. His name was Gerald, and he was the best damned tracker I've ever met. He could find trails for the smallest of animals and follow them across miles of flat rock. Where I'm from, they're called 'freaks' and 'muties.' Non-freaks don't seem to like freaks very often, and I know secrecy is in your company's best interest?"
"Alright whelp, what do you want?"
"General Tulius wanted to kill the Stormcloaks as soon as possible, and didn't care to see if every condemned man, woman and child were even combatants. Anybody who claimed their innocence, were told it would be sorted out later." David let out a bitter laugh at the memory of the sympathetic clerk with the hooked nose.
"So when the dragon came down, I chose to earn my death warrant instead of taking it on my knees."
"Did they know?" Skjor gestured in general direction of the bodies.
"Honestly, I panicked," explained David. "In all honesty, I don't even know if the Legion would remember me. They didn't even try to interrogate me."
The merc's eyes widened. "Tulius is known for being a thorough in everything he does. I guess Ulfric's capture clouded his judgment."
"It could happen to anybody, which is why I would like you to help me keep this," he gestured towards the dead men, "under wraps. We've a job to do and I'm sure that helping me saves both of us some awkward questions down the road."
Skjor sighed. "Promise me that you'll let me do the talking if we run into Legionaries?"
"Fair enough," agreed David.
"One more thing, Ishmael. If I'm to do the talking I'll need a story to go with."
Veronica
It was almost noon when he came.
Nobody in the lunchtime crowd stood out so easily as Arcade Gannon, especially with the pip-boy he carried now. He scanned the smoky room until settling on her. He nodded in her direction before coming over to her table before taking a seat across the table.
"Its been a while," said Arcade.
"It has," agreed Veronica. "Thanks for seeing me outside of the Fort."
"So what's up with you?"
Veronica went straight to the heart of the matter, and showed him the signed transmission on her pip-boy.
"Hmmm..." Arcade studied the message for a moment. "What would be around Primm?"
Veronica gestured at Arcade's computer. "You didn't happen to get any recent transmissions did you?"
The expression on the doctor's face visibly darkened.
"I got the coordinates to some place around La Madre mountain."
"Why there?"
Arcade shrugged. "Why should I know? Its not like there are any top secret bunkers in the area."
"Should there be?" She raised an eyebrow.
"No," Arcade answered with a tone that somehow didn't meet his eyes.
"What do you think it is?"
Arcade mulled over the question for a moment. There was something about him that reminded her of David.
Though their physiques were vastly different, they somehow bore a striking resemblance in facial structure. The cheek bones, ears, and even the nose were familiar. There was also the fact that they had both come from the Hub.
"Do you remember what David was like after he came back from Utah?"
She nodded, "something changed."
"I think David wrote a will and arranged for the messages to be sent should some Ill befall him."
"How would that work?"
He pointed at Veronica's occupied wrist."You know that card in your Pip-Boy, the one that lets you see satellite imagery. It was designed for so much more."
"What do you mean Arcade?"
"The Government, the uh... Pre war one that is, was interested in colonizing other planets with less than welcoming environments. The device on our arms regularly checks vitals and sends out alerts if programed to do so."
"Hmmm," Veronica thought about the implications. "So you're telling me, that three different points on a map are a distress signal of sorts?"
Arcade shook his head. "Not at all. He was here before he disappeared a week ago. David said he had some personal business waiting for him in the Divide."
"There's nothing in the Divide, what could he possibly want?" Asked Veronica.
"He never said, but there was death in those eyes."
Suddenly, a thought flickered. "That cloud west of the Nopahs, you don't think..."
"I do, Veronica." Arcade finished for her. "I'm not sure if the Brotherhood knows, but the NCR didn't just want the Divide for a supply line."
Author's Note: The updates have been even slower on accout of a Fallout 4 story that was stuck in my head way too long.