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Chapter 9: Side Quest
"Why do you carry that gun?" Ulysses had spoken as he watched Courier Six examine the Survivalist's Rifle over and over, checking and re-checking the ammunition, ensuring the integrity of the rifle. He sat against the wall, resting his head against the solid wooden wall, near where he had previously cracked it.
"Why do you carry that rifle with you? Carried it through the Divide, still carry it now." Six wore his armour and helmet faultily, still degraded from what could be considered a 'mental breakdown' earlier in the day.
"This rifle?" His body settled, his hands unmoving, "This rifle has rid the lands of Zion of corrupt killers, protected those who sought refuge, watched over the children who soon grew to become those who inhabit Zion today."
His head stooped and he pulled the rifle closer to his hands, "The White Legs destroyed New Canaan, this rifle destroyed the White legs. I have carried this rifle from the caves of Zion to the storms of the Divide. I have killed assassins to Deathclaws with this gun, a real tool of survival."
The room fell silent for a few moments.
"That aside," Six continued, "I managed to find us some contract work. We'll be escorting a convoy through the city of Vale, the big one a couple miles away. In the dead of night, no less."
"Contract work will only lead us to our deaths." Ulysses said
"It's just one contract. Besides, the pay was pretty big, five hundred thousand Lien each. Not sure how much that is, but the number is big so I ought to assume that it's good pay."
"They would let up so much money for a simple guard unit."
"Supposed to be some pretty important people. They wouldn't tell who though."
Joshua spoke up as the door clicked open, the Burned man entering the room casually and seating himself on his bed and producing a brown medical bag.
"I forgot to ask before, but why did you think it be a good idea to sign a contract for us to be a guard detail?"
Six replied simply with, "I needed some time to cool off. Some girl pulled me aside, the numbers were too big to resist."
"Could be a fraud. A scam that would only result in death." Ulysses said
"There was nothing too off about the girl. Kinda seemed like a princess in some manner." Six said
Joshua produced a wrap of bandages from the brown bag. "We would just have to wait and see. It might be a good chance to get better acquainted with this place."
"You know what," Six continued, somewhat zoning in and out of thought as he spoke, "That girl looked like that Weiss girl now that I think about it… That was her name right? The stuck up bitch in the white outfit?"
"I believe that is the one," Joshua replied, confirming Six's notion, "Though that amount of profanity against one single person isn't absolutely necessary."
"That amount of profanity is absolutely necessary, Graham," Six said, standing to his feet, "She spat in the face of your God and though I would most probably dismiss that if this were a regular everyday situation, we are currently in a pre-war world here. This place is civilised and it pains me to hear someone degrade God in such a way." Six finished, having moved from one end of the room to the other, resting himself on the opposite wall to his previous lounging position.
"You never heard the conversation, Six." Joshua said, "How do you know she did as you are implying?"
"Ah," Six started, "She decided to waltz up to me and go on a miniature rant about how she wouldn't tolerate my behaviour…" Six paused for a short moment, "And I may have punched her."
"I… don't believe that was a necessary action to take against a child, however irritating they may become." Joshua replied rather serenely, completely ignoring the fact Six had assaulted an innocent (yet irritating and incoherently naggy) child.
"Taking action against a child…" Ulysses started, "Would be considered a major offence in this place, even more so than the Mojave."
"Anyway, more about the contract," Six switched the subject of conversation, "Meeting at a pretty big corporation, Schnee Dust Corp. if I recall correctly. Scoped out the place earlier, fucking massive factory we're meeting at."
"Why would a person of such power resort to placing themselves in a factory in such a prosperous world?" Joshua asked
"Not a clue, does seem pretty weird though." Six replied
"Being hunted?" Ulysses said
"Only reasonable explanation." Six said, hopping up and producing a large duffle bag from underneath his bed, "That's why I only said there would be two of you."
"Two of… us?" Joshua said
"I said I would send two people to escort the convoy, but I didn't tell them where I would be." Six said
"Where?" Ulysses questioned
"Sniper support." Six produced a camouflaged sniper rifle from the duffle bag, the Gobi Campaign scout rifle, a silencer that mirrored the rifle's camouflage was screwed on to the end of the barrel, resulting in the rifle being silent as the night whenever it decided to spit out a bullet or take off some poor man's head.
Six continued, "The rooftops are all connected, I'll be able to manoeuvre quite well. I'll probably end up lying by the end of the street though, so I can get a better view of the street you're on."
"We can sneak outta here when night falls and be there by midnight, as long as we don't run into too much trouble in the forest." Six finished
"A sound plan," Ulysses said, "But we should be looking into munitions depots to restock our ammunition and acquire the appropriate tools to service our weapons."
"The school's got a whole damn armoury, we can use that for repairs. Ammo will be something to look into though." Six replied, Ulysses nodded, and Joshua Graham stood from his bed, brown medical bag in hand along with multiple wraps of bandages.
He slipped into the bathroom and silently clicked the door shut. He slid down the face of the door, eventually seating himself in front of it. He let out a long, heaved sigh, wind rushing from his lungs as a feeling of sudden pain overcame him.
At the moment, Joshua feared for his own health. His bandages hadn't been changed in an entire day and he feared the risk of infection. It always hurt when he replaced them. The wounds burnt with a pain that fire elicited from his body when he was set alight and tossed from the heights of the Grand Canyon, yet he went through with the process anyway. As he had told the Courier before, "it is better to be clean than comfortable".
His uncanny resistance to chems made this daily routine of his a temporary hell, unable to rid himself of the pain when he stripped the old bandages from his skin and replaced them with fresh counterparts. But perhaps his resistance to chems worked in his favour. It worked to strengthen him, strengthen his mind, and prevent any possible addiction. Though he was fortunate enough to find safe haven in stimpacks, probably the only reason he was still alive.
He diverted his mind as he replaced his bandages, instead showing an emotion he rarely ever showed. Envy.
He envied the fact that the people of this place had grown up in paradise. He was sure they each had their own personal issues to resolve, especially living in such an urban and civilised environment, but these people had it so much better than the people of the wastes did. A wastelander would give up anything for a fresh, warm meal and clean water, even if just for one day.
He almost hated them for being lucky enough to have such pure lives, having nothing to worry about, no regrets – if so, only minor regrets and moronic regrets – no pain, no violence.
But he was also lucky to have come across this place, to have met Courier Six and to have not been killed by the hands of the courier whom he expected to be killed by in Zion, only to have a different courier appear.
Yet he wasn't keen on adapting to such a civilised lifestyle, he had lived in a pit of hell for his entire life, eyes on the watch for Legion assassins each and every day, waiting for another to come and kill him, living with that constant fear of death - and hatred of those who had wronged him, Caesar.
He had found his place amongst the tribes of Zion, a place where he was welcome, a place where he banished Caesars influence, a place that he helped. Not this place, not civilisation.
Ulysses sat back reflecting on his life. His whole life he had one single purpose, to kill the courier that had awoken the sleeping giants, to kill the courier who had no recollection of ever creating the Divide.
He had led himself to believe that it was the Courier that had brought upon him the creation of the Divide, the destruction of Hopeville. Being the only unmutated survivor of the disaster at the Divide, Ulysses drove himself to believe in the impact a single person can have on history.
Yet even then the Courier had managed to twist his words in such a way that twisted Ulysses' mind.
Since then, he had walked the streets of the Divide with a tattered jacket and an Old World flag etched across his back. He remained there as punishment for the scars he left on the wastes, and a reminder of a history he could not forget.
But yet again the Courier returned, his words twisted the fellow courier's mind, and they set off to find a better hope for themselves, along with Joshua Graham, a man who had earned his life. They all walked away from the invisible fires of the Mojave, the crushing vice grip of the East and West, each shattered by a rain of nuclear fire the courier had set upon them both, perhaps as revenge or a punishment for being what Ulysses believed was a "flag carried by a tribe of children".
The Courier's action against the Bear and Bull had surprised Ulysses, the Courier showing himself to bear a hatred for both the Bear and the Bull.
After walking what he thought was his final road, Ulysses found himself walking another road alongside the Courier and Joshua Graham, a road to prosperity, but not a road to happiness. A road to a new land, abiding a promise that had sprouted from the destruction of the Bear and Bull.
Though he had an overriding feeling that none of them would find what they were looking for in this place. This place bore the mark of the Old World, a world before wars. But war would quickly find its place, and this place would be reduced to nothing more than a book and a sword.
Courier Six felt lost. He had found himself in a world where everything was perfect. The Grimm were hardly an issue, crime had not shown itself during the days he had been present, and everyone was perfect. Yet here he stood, a killer with a rifle in his hands, ready to shoot the next person he sees only to steal more ammo from that person just so he can kill more human beings.
He found himself in a world so pure and clean that everyone greeted each other as they skipped joyously down the streets. Not a world where guns were pointed at one another.
The only expense he found was the faunus, humans with animalistic traits, each subjected to racial abuse, often leading to physical abuse and even death at the hands of humans.
Yet no human would compare to himself, no human was a cold-blooded murderer who pulled his trigger just for the sake of shooting bullets – or even, at worse times, having fun. No human here would compare to the atrocities that Courier Six had committed.
His figure even imposed this. His hellish attire just spoke 'murderer' out to anyone who stared long enough. And anyone who stared long enough was sure to find a bullet in their brain, whether it be immediate or the next day. He was dressed to kill and that was all he did.
He had always been aware of his infamous nature, his desire to kill. But he just called it instinctive, called it survival. Only now had it become so painfully apparent to him, when he sat himself down on the cold concrete rooftop of a school of children fighting against the forces of pure evil to protect whatever lives they had, whatever lives they had lost. When he was surrounded by good-hearted people, each rivalling the things he had done, even though none of them knew of it, he finally realised what he had become.
He killed General Lee Oliver, killed Caesar, murdered Mister House, took over the Mojave and New Vegas, and he rained nuclear fire down upon the NCR and the legion.
Whatever hellish apparition had twisted him into such a ruthless monster, he almost wanted to thank it. He wanted to thank whatever had done this to him because it helped him realise the true nature of the world and why he existed.
He looked down to his crossed legs as he sat on the roof of beacon Academy, his body enveloped by the setting sun's rays. He gripped his rifle firmly in his hands and heaved his chest in and out, passing air through his lungs. He felt as if he would break the rifle and cursed himself for what he had allowed the Mojave to do to him.
Whatever humanity he had left would surely be lost here, whether or not he would throw it away or if this place would wrench it from him was still unclear, but he knew it would part from him some way or another.
He stood to his feet and set himself upon the edge of the rooftop.
He heard footsteps behind him, light footsteps, and he spun to face the source.