No-Bark Noonan, noted social commentator and public safety watchdog, leaned back against the dank back-alley wall behind the Dino Dee-lite Motel in Novac, and sighed heavily as he finally managed to scratch the itch on his back that had been bothering him all day. Gyrating against the bricks rough, yet satisfying surface, he entered a state of nirvana known only to chemheads, and stray dogs who rubbed themselves up against the outhouse door at 2am in the morning when you're trying and failing to take a dump.
No-one was around to see. He could lose himself in this small, sinful pleasure. Eyes closed against the noonday sun; ears closed against the sounds of brahmin trekking up from the I-95. It was a perfect moment, untroubled by the outside world.
At least until a flash of blinding light illuminated the alley with a sharp crack of displaced air. No-Bark jumped two foot in the air, straight upwards, assisted by the fact that his knees had been bent at the time. With swift yet sure fingers he extracted his sticking knife, which wasn't just a sharpened wooden spoon, honest, and aimed it at the intruders upon his domain as if he would lay into them like a savage warrior, sharpened spoon rising and falling like the guillotine of the French Revolution, striking heads from their shoulders like a sword of vengeance.
Out of the light strode the Courier, decked out from head to foot in his Elite Ranger Armour, hair tied back underneath the folds of a headwrap, grey eyes concealed behind a pair of aviators. Next came a forbidding figure in full Chinese Dragoon Armour, wearing a leather jacket bearing the markings of the Capital Wasteland Chapter of the Tunnel Snakes, and behind them both, a blue-skinned alien unceremoniously crammed into a suit of combat armour one size too large for her. The helmet wouldn't fit over her fringe and kept migrating down over her eyes. Disoriented by the sudden teleportation and blinded by the light and her wayward helmet, she walked head first into a wall, rebounded into a dumpster and fell in.
The lid juddered and fell closed with a loud bang.
"Ye all right Lani?" The Courier enquired as the Wanderer cracked the lid of the dumpster open with his one free hand, Perforator held pointed skywards with the other.
"I'm fine," came the muffled reply, "This helmet is doing more to get me killed than it is to keep me safe."
"Don't suppose ye could smooth down those tentacles growin' out the back o' yer skull? Might help."
Lantaya hand came into view like the grasping fingers of the damned reaching out from the depths of Hades. It grasped the edge of the dumpster and was employed to leaver its owner into the standing position. She thrust the helmet into the Wanderer's chest, who unfortunately was under Omega Protocols at that moment. His programming forced him to let go of at least one object to grasp what was being proffered to him. It was a choice between the gun and the lid of the dumpster, and his programming precluded it from being the gun.
The lid of the dumpster came down like a hammer in a game of whack-a-mole, slapping Lani on top of her head and back down into the dumpster as the Wanderer's processor examined the helmet in his hand and came back with the designation of: Combat Armour Helmet Mk 1, Condition: Slightly Used.
"It is advisable that you wear your protective headgear while traversing the Wastelands," the Wanderer stated woodenly, "Unexpected injuries can be prevented by proper usage of rated protective gear."
He slung his rifle and cracked the dumpster lid, making the stream of Thessian curse words more audible to the outside world. "Acknowledge?"
A biotic throw launched him gently across the alley and into the opposing wall, as the dumpster lid closed yet again.
The Courier turned away from his two companions and regarded No-Bark, who blinked in surprise, realised who he was pointing his sticking knife at, and hid it hastily behind his back.
"No-Bark Noonan, as I live an' breath. How are ye, ya old reprobate!"
"Mighty fine, Six. Doin' mighty fine. Stock markets are up, the commies are down, and Mister Sheriff Vargas said last week that he'll be letting the traders come on through at a reduced traffic tax. Means they'll have more money to purchase my newspaper."
"Newspaper, is it?" Six enquired with curiosity, "I did 'na know ye had a newspaper, Noonan."
"Ohh yes Sir, only the finest scoops on the hidden truths that the one-world government wants to hide from you. Got myself sources, so I have," Noonan declared proudly.
"Well, what's the word on the streets nowadays then?"
"Them Followers of the Apocalypse up by Camp Golf are dumping chemicals into Lake Mead," Noonan uttered the words in a conspiratorial whisper, looking from side to side as if he were concerned about being overheard by someone other than the Courier. Presumably, No-Bark didn't care overmuch about being overheard by the Wanderer, who was assisting Lani out of the dumpster.
"Chemicals, aye? What're they dumpin' chemicals into Lake Mead for?" The Courier questioned.
"Chemicals are turning the Lakelurks into Lakelurks of a…." No-Bark winked slyly, "Homosexual persuasion."
The Courier stared at No-Bark, his finger occupied rolling a datura and tobacco cigarette. He rolled an extra one for Noonan, and they stood there, sharing a companionable silence until the Wanderer and Lani joined them, duly dishevelled by their activities.
"Took ye long 'nough," the Courier commented, blowing a smoke ring that drifted lazily off into the middle distance, until an even smaller ring blown by No-Bark slipped right through its centre. No-Bark grinned in answer to the Couriers visibly impressed nod of acknowledgement.
"Apologies," Lani said sheepishly, holding her helmet in her free hand as she cradled the assault carbine the Courier had provided her out of his personal armoury aboard the Zeta, "It's been some time since I went on an operation of a military nature, and in the old days we huntresses seldom used gear that wasn't custom made."
"Sure, lass, ye use what ye can get yer hands on in the wastelands. Look at No-Bark here for example," the Courier slapped a giant hand down on No-Bark's shoulder, making the CEO of No Bark, More Bite Publications Ltd stagger under the weight of his arm, "With only a humble sharpened wooden spoon, he was willin' an' waitin' to pick a fight with me, the Wanderer and yourself at a moment's notice."
Lantaya blinked at the scruffy looking human next to the Courier, who stared in turn at her blue skin in shock. "You," Noonan jabbed a finger at her and holding his rolled cigarette away as if she would reach and grab it from him, "You was kidnapped by aliens, weren't you?!"
Lantaya jumped, startled by the sudden accusation. "Umm…. yes, how did you know?"
No-Bark nodded and tapped the side of his nose knowingly. "Them aliens took me back in '78. Tried to probe me, see? But they couldn't get the probe in, on account of me having wonderglue'd it closed before bed. Ain't never been the same since."
Another look from side to side, then Noonan leaned in to within an inch of her face and looked her straight in the eyes. Lantaya leaned back, said eyes opening as wide as dinner plates at the sudden invasion of her personal space. "Was they the ones that painted you blue?" No-Bark asked, in complete seriousness.
The Courier pulled No-Bark away as Lantaya stuttered out various denials and gibberish as she tried to wrap her mind around the question. "Well, No-Bark, 'Twas a pleasure as always. I'll head up to Camp Golf some point, ask the Followers 'bout those chemicals for ye. If they are doin' somethin' out o' line, I'll set 'em straight."
No-Bark watched the odd group as they walked away, puffing on his cigarette with a considering eye. Lani glanced back over her shoulder at the odd human, and then sideways and up, at the Courier who strode beside her with his rifle unslung and propped against his shoulder like a spear. "Is….is he alright?"
"Who, Noonan?" The Courier asked, scratching his beard idly. At her answering nod he directed his gazed skywards and shrugged. "Occasionally."
The three of them wandered out of the alley into traffic, the Courier in front, Lantaya in the middle, and the Wanderer bringing up the rear. They endeavoured to stick close to one another, for the Novac of even several years ago was vastly different from the Novac of today.
With Legion raiding parties no longer crossing the Colorado River raping, enslaving, crucifying, and burning as they went, trade routes had returned to levels that they had occupied after the first battle at Boulder City, when the Legion had been so decisively defeated by the NCR. Perhaps even a step further.
Streams of travellers between the Independent territories of the Mojave, trade caravans, brahmin herders taking their livestock out into the Wastelands to graze. Vendors shouting offers from the roadside, gesticulating wildly with their wares. And throughout all, dotted here and there within the mass of bodies, the rolling forms of Mk-II Securitrons, screens displaying the unforgiving image of US soldiers wearing combat helmets very similar to Lantaya's.
Most of the pedestrians and marketgoers were too absorbed in confusion and the clamour to pay much attention to the three newcomers, but some did notice.
Mercenaries and guards, well acquainted with the more violent players in the Mojave, immediately recognised the Courier's hulking form towering amidst the crowd and nudged their fellows with knowing nods and surreptitious glances. Some shopkeepers visibly perked up and redoubled their efforts to catch the attention of the crowd, wanting to distinguish themselves before the eyes of the highest power in the land.
Others pulled messengers or guards aside and sent them shouldering through the crowd to set certain things in order just in case they were the reason behind their monarchs unforeseen presence.
Even those who didn't know the Courier on sight gave the group of three a wide birth. Six had the Survivalists Rifle in his hands, an Anti-Material Rifle on his back that seemed near to normal-sized when compared to his own formidable stature, and numerous other weapons on his belts and combat webbing, including his helmet.
The Wanderer, meanwhile, was almost an unknown entity in the Mojave, but the armour-plated Dragoon stealth suit, complete with full face helmet and his own panoply of threatening armaments made him equally intimidating. His Perforator, with its heavy silencer and long-range optic, marked him out as either a serious mercenary, or one of the trouble-shooters for the rich and influential of the New Vegas elite. And on his back, the iconic weapon his predecessor had carried throughout the Battle for the Purifier in the ruins of DC, a heavily modified AER9 laser rifle.
Beside these two, Lantaya, with her unusual pigmentation and appearance, was only a slight oddity. At least next to Ghouls, Securitrons, the occasional Jacobstown Mutant, and the many other oddities of the Wastes. For her own part, she gazed around at the xeno-anthropologists' wet dream around her with rapturous intent. Her companions allowed this lapse in attention readily. After all, with the Omega's cybernetic eyes scanning everything and everyone within its line of sight, all of its processing capacity and available memory laser focused upon the one, singular function of combat, there were few individual beings capable of getting the drop on it.
The Courier was in his own element, senses in tune with the world around him, smelling everything, feeling the vibrations in the ground, hearing each unique sound, picking what was relevant out from the sea of signals, his supernaturally acute senses working overtime to make this possible.
Passing by a Securitron, he stuck out an arm that halted the robot in its singular track. It regarded him, registering his identity as soon as the onboard scanners took in his facial structure. "Mister Six, Sir. Good to see the Commander-in-Chief out in the field."
"'Tis where I belong, soldier," the Courier grinned in greeting his cigarette burnt down to a stub that still wafted the occasional puff of smoke, "Need to 'ave a chat with Yes Man. Get him down here, now."
"I'll pass it up the chain, Sir," the robot acknowledged the order in its harsh, computerized voice, "Wait one."
And they waited, the Securitron standing stock still, impassive face staring out of its monitor as the crowd flowed around them.
"Who is Yes Man," Lantaya enquired, "Is he the engineer we're here to recruit?"
"Nah, lass. You'll be seein' a second."
They waited, and Lantaya blinked at the Securitron in bemusement. "Should it not be going to do something?"
As if on cue, the screen was overwhelmed with a burst of static for a split second, and when the picture was restored, instead of a soldiers face, a wide smile and cartoonish eyes had replaced it. "Ohh," a surprisingly airy and happy voice burst from the speakers, making passers-by stop and stare, "Hey Boss, old buddy old pal, how are you doing? Golly, it's been a while since you've been back in Vegas! How've you been? The rest of the gang have been by asking for you!"
"Keepin' well Yes Man, an' yerself?"
"Busy, busy, busy Six! Always busy! Keeping New Vegas running is a fulltime job, as I'm sure you know. Miss Veronica and Miss Cassidy help me out as much as they can, but they're no tireless automaton with access to thousands of individual physical forms. How could they be!"
The cheerful face seemed to eye the Wanderer and Lantaya up and down with interest. "Well how do you do; I don't think we've been introduced! My name is Yes Man! I'm a friend of the Couriers. It's so amazingly nice to meet you. Since you're with the Courier, you must be friends of mine too! I always like to take time out of my schedule to make new friends!"
Lantaya smiled to the odd robot, being as polite as possible even if she wasn't sure if this robot was sentient in the strictest sense of the word, "It is nice to meet you as well. I'm Matriarch Lantaya T'Rali. I, too, am always pleased to make new friends."
"Gosh, that's a really impressive-sounding name," Yes Man chirruped, "And really pretty too, just like you. I hope you enjoy your time in the Mojave. It's really safe nowadays. We hardly ever get folks shot, burnt, eviscerated, crucified, or raped anymore! At least, only the ones that deserve it!"
Lantaya's expression became somewhat more rigid with each successive descriptor. She nodded weakly. "That is… good to hear!" She replied, now worried that if she didn't match the robots good humour, her name might get written to the list entitled 'Those Who Deserve It'.
"And who are you, friend! I don't believe I caught your name!"
The Wanderer tore his gaze away from the flow of pedestrians that surrounded them on all sides and stared at him. "I am the Lone Wanderer," he stated, simply.
"That sounds mighty lonely. I hope you feel better now that we're all here to be your friends," Yes Man replied, unaffected by the cold, mechanical eyes that attempted to pierce his armoured body with their gaze.
"So, did you need some help Six? I would be happy to help in any way I can!"
"Need ye to find some lads and ladies, Yes Man. Put out some feelers and send 'em my way, at the Lucky 38."
"Well sure, Six. Anything for you!"
"Emily Ortal, Dean Domino, an' Follows-Chalk. Ye got that?"
"Sure do!"
"An' can ye tell me where the rest o' my old crew are? Cass an' Vicky are at the 38?"
"They sure are," Yes Man confirmed, "Mister Raul is in Westside at the moment, dealing with some not very nice people who were being very impolite to Miss Pretty Sarah. Rex and Roxie are on the ground floor of the Lucky 38 and being quite rambunctious! Mister Boone and ED-E are here in Novac, and both Mister Domino and Mister Chalk are currently at the Tops!"
"Fuckin' Domino and Chalk are at the Tops? What're those feckers doin' there? An' Boones' here?"
"Yes! They'll be so happy to see you! Mister Chalk and Mister Domino are performing at the Tops today, and Mister Boone is here to have a drink with Sheriff Vargas. Would you like me to occupy one of the other Securitrons and get him for you? He should be at Andy's Bar at the moment."
"Sure, it wouldn't hurt Yes Man. An' pop on over to the Big Empty after yer done. Tell the Brains I'll be sendin' a list o' instructions their way. An' one more thing!"
The Courier grabbed Yes Man's robotic arm in a grip so harsh it bent the metal inwards, finger joints cracking with the strain. "If Raul leaves those cunts who dared fuckin' mess with Pretty Sarah alive, ye find Boxcars an' Rotface and tell them to pay those lads a visit. I want their legs smashed into the finest powder there ever was," the Courier commanded, in a relatively even tone, peering over the top of his aviators.
"Alrighty then," Yes Man agreed cheerfully, "That sounds like just what the doctor ordered! I'll get right on that!"
"Good man, off with ye then."
The monitor flickered briefly and was once more replaced with the helmeted head of the soldier, puffing sternly on his cigarette. The Courier spat out what little remained of own roll-up, managing to arc it neatly between two groups of passers-by and into a discarded tin can sitting on the crumbling sidewalk. "As ye were, soldier."
He turned away and beckoned his two companions to follow him as he shouldered once more through the crowd, sending a few wastelanders who had stopped to observe the spectacle skurrying away with a glance. "That robot was…very interesting. Quite friendly too," Lantaya commented as the three of them worked their way slowly towards the garage at Novac's main intersection, "In a terrifying sort of way."
"Aye, ain't he just a treasure," the Courier agreed, with what seemed a more sincere smile than usual from him. "Yes Man is a sound man. Sure, he nearly got me killed an' I still like him."
Lantaya glanced at the Courier in surprise, moving slightly to the side to let a human with some manner of horrible skin condition walk by. She grimaced, wondering what manner of affliction made a human look as if they had only recently been scorched like a cut of meat, flesh and skin bubbling under the flames. He, she assumed it was a 'he' from its build and height, scowled at her and shoved its middle finger into the air in greeting. She had been around the Courier long enough to know this was not a polite gesture.
Before she had made up her mind as to which line of enquiry to pursue, they had arrived at their destination.
A dilapidated garage stood at the intersection, surrounded by barriers and various robotic security, patrolling in-between rows and rows of salvaged junk and detritus. Old automobiles that lay half-disassembled for parts in the sandy breeze, freezers with their coolant units removed to salvage the liquid nitrogen from their internals, robotic servants that had been massacred by wasters somewhere out in the vastness of the Mojave only to be dragged back, sometimes for miles in the beating sun to the nearest settlement for salvage.
Poking upwards out of the scarp were the remains of the fuel pumps, that at one time fed thousands of vehicles that run up and down the I-95 in and out of Las Vegas. Now stripped of all parts that could be removed with hand tools, they were little more than faded memories of the Old World, surrounded by the New. Background noise against the tumult.
Towering above it all, the sign that had once played host to the titanic outlay of pre-war gas prices, now held in place by several tethers to secure it against the occasional Mojave sandstorm. A ladder was still leaned up against it, upon which another of the humans with scorched skin stood rearranging the plastic sheets that spelled out the name of this little mechanical refuge.
"Saint Christopher's," Lantaya read aloud, "Todays special: Air Conditioning Units, 299 caps."
"Sure, might need to pick up one myself," the Courier commented. He strode up to the sign and gazed upwards, laying his rifle across his shoulders, and hooking his arms over the stock and muzzle. "Oi, ghoul!"
The Ghoul rearranging the letters on the sign glanced downwards and upon spying the Courier at the bottom of the ladder, dropped one of the plastic sheets in astonishment. It fell neatly into the Couriers hand, which had vacated its resting position on the rifle in the time it took most people to blink. They all looked at it. It had been caught with the displayed character in the perfect orientation for reading and was visible to all three of them from where the Courier held it. It displayed the number Six.
"Ye know where Haversam is, lad?" he asked, still staring at the plastic sheet with calculating eyes. The Ghoul, climbing hurriedly down the ladder to retrieve his lost sheet, eyed the Courier and his two companions with a fair degree of hesitation. It wasn't every day that the King of New Vegas showed up on your doorstep and started asking for your boss, after all.
"He's in the back, smoothskin," the guttural sound of gravel on industrial sandpaper emerged from between the ghouls ground-beef lips in the shape of comprehensible words, "Want me to show you in?"
"Nah, I know my way around. I'll be grand. Thankin' ye," Six replied, grinning at the uncomfortable ghoul. He handed back the sheet of plastic, which the ghoul took gratefully. As they turned away, Lantaya noticed the ghoul separating a circular metal object from the back of the sheet and looking at the Couriers broad back with considerably more approval that before.
They strode on in the Couriers wake, as he drifted through the veritable junkyard at the front of the shop, absentmindedly pushing aside more ghoul mechanics that all looked around to protest the intrusion. The protests died on their lips the second their brains registered who was doing the pushing. The occasional Mister Handy only offered the ubiquitous polite apology and followed suit.
As they approached the door into the main building, the Courier held out an arm and turned around to face them. "I'll head on in. You two stay here for now, 'tis best if I speak with Haversam alone. We have a history. Lani," he said, capturing the Asari Matriarchs attention, "Wanderer's focus is elsewhere, spirits all adrift. If some talkin' needs to be done, ye'll have to do it for him. An' if ye see a man with a long rifle, red hat an' a floatin' robot, flag the bastard down an' have him wait here with ya. That'll be Boone."
Without another word or a backwards glance, the Courier shouldered his way through the door and vanished out of the sun to the darkness within.
Lantaya stood there for all of a minute before the realisation that she had been left to her own devices in the middle of an alien scrapyard finally dawned on her. Taking care not to stray too far from the Wanderer's ever-vigilant form, she slung her assault carbine and made a beeline for the nearest mechanic. She had so many questions.
Inside, the well-maintained hum of functioning air-conditioning droned on in the background, masking the Courier's footsteps as he walked through the front office into the back. A ghoul looked up from the front desk, a somewhat androgenous figure past all the scarring. The Courier sniffed the air, and past the scent of chemicals and oil, he determined that it was likely a 'she' after all. Hard to tell for sure, even for his mutated and overdeveloped senses.
He nodded at her and continued on walking. She wisely chose not to pry, looking silently back down at her inventory ledger, within which concealed a Grognak the Barbarian comic if his brief glimpse of the illustrations were anything to go by.
The Courier did see her brush the underside of the front counter, and he faintly heard the whine of electrical current passing through the walls. A fainter staccato beeping made him aware that Chris had been notified that someone was here, possibly to make trouble.
So the Courier was not at all surprised when the door to the back workshop flew open and Chris burst into the front office area with murder in his eyes and an overcharged plasma rifle loaded for yao guai. He pulled up short upon sighting the Courier, who gave a jaunty wave. "Saint Christopher Haversam! How are ye, lad? Keepin' well?"
"Fuck," Chris muttered in his gravelly voice, "You again."
"Aye, 'tis me alright."
Chris made the energy weapon safe with a practised flick of the power switch and brought it to the resting position against his shoulder as the green glow faded away. He didn't look pleased. "What the hell are you doing, coming in here and scaring my receptionist, Six?"
All he received was a look of sincere confusion, one that Chris didn't buy for a second. "Scarin'?" Six looked at the receptionist who eyed him like a terrified deer illuminated in the headlights of a fast approaching twelve-wheeler, that was about to liquify her and toss her bleeding body high into the air. "Were ya scared, now?"
No reply was forthcoming. Before Chris could cut in, the Courier whipped off his headwrap and aviators in a smooth motion and clutched them to his breast, face composed in a satire of grave self-importance.
"Well, we can't be havin' that, now can we? Lass, as a token o' my sincerest apology, anyone you wish, I'll kill 'em for ye. My treat."
The receptionist fled in the general direction of the restrooms. Amusingly enough, she had the presence of mind to take good-old Grognak with her. The Courier raised an eyebrow. Funny what people focused on when terrified out of their minds.
"God damn it, Six," Chris grumbled, "This is why I don't like it when you come here. First it was the business at REPCONN with all the Super Mutants and smoothskins, next it was opening day at the garage when you sabotaged my sign, then the sale on Protectrons when you reactivated the unit without its combat inhibitor. You're a walking disaster area!"
"Ye can't be blamin' me 'bout the sign Saint Christopher, ye fuckin' kept it after all."
"Don't call me that," Haversam growled through gritted teeth, slamming his plasma rifle down on the reception desk and signing into the terminal, clearly to pick up where the receptionist left off, before being scared away by the new visitor. "I kept it because people kept telling me to put it back up whenever I took it down. It attracts business, that's all."
"Load o' shite, Chris," the Courier snorted mockingly, once again holding his rifle across his shoulders in a relaxed posture, "Yer the voice o' a spirit now. The Saint of Jason's Brotherhood. Mean's somethin' too ye, even now. 'Tis why ya kept the sign, 'tis why you keep givin' ghouls jobs when no-one else will, tis why ye set up shop here in Novac less than five years ago, and now yer runnin' the biggest salvagin' business in the Mojave. Yer livin' a charmed life. Spirits got ye in their grasp."
"Spare me the spiritualistic bullshit, Courier," Haversam spat a wad of spittle onto the floor to demonstrate his disdain, "I built this. Not some spirit. Not Jason, or for his memory. I built it for me! For my people! It's mine, my own!"
"Sure, we are the sum o' our spirits," the Courier countered idly, "An' ye did build all this. Hold it up, proud. Tis yours, and no-one else's. But while ye hold that up as proof o' yer worth, I think you could be more."
Haversam rolled his eyes, fingers tapping on the terminal keyboard. The Courier, perceptive as he was, noticed that not all of what Chris was typing made sense. He was listening harder than he wanted the Courier to know. A guileful spirit took hold of the Courier's tongue, aiding him, giving his words a little extra decisive weight. "Ye launched the Bright Brotherhood into the great unknown, on their Great Journey, Christopher. Ye did alone, what the Nations o' the Old World struggled to do for centuries. For all their power, for all their might, they struggled to do what ye managed in less than a lifetime, with nothin' but bones pulled from their wreckage."
The Courier paced in front of the reception counter, whispering honeyed words into cynical ears. And while Chris Haversam put on a contemptuous face for the Courier's benefit, contemptuous of the words spoken and their meaning, the Courier noticed that the sound of keystrokes had died away. The only sound was the faint ticking of a refurbished clock on the wall, and the cries and metallic crashing and banging from the mechanics outside.
"Not to make light o' what ye built, of course," he continued, "'Tis a fine thing. Yer a pillar of your community. A man o' substance. I hear your name all the way from the top o' the Lucky 38. The work o' yer hands on half o' Vegas. But others could run this place. Ya probably have a few in mind, to take over when ye no longer want to run it yerself. But there are a few things ye could do with yer time, that no-one else could."
"And what would those be," Chris asked. He tried to keep his tone scornful, but it was clear that he was interested to know the answer despite himself. "Don't just walk in here, scare off my receptionist and start waterboarding me with philosophical brahmin-shit, Six. If you have a point, get too it. What do you want, and what are you going to give me for it?"
The Courier grinned broadly, tapping the side of his nose knowingly with an index finger.
"Ye know what Chris, I've always admired you for yer good fiscal sense, ye know that?"
"Six!" Chris snapped, now getting somewhat impatient.
"Alright now, no need to bite my bloody head off," Six replied in mock hurt, "First off, a whole raft o' caps that'll set ye up 'til yer kids are old an' grey. Ye know me and ye know my word can be trusted. The wealth o' Vegas is at by disposal, and I'll fill ye to burstin' with as much finery as the heart o' man could ever desire."
Chris shrugged, as if money was no object. In reality, it really wasn't. He had built a good life for himself in Novac. Setting up shop on the I-95 into Vegas at the exact same time that the floodgates had cranked open, sending a wash of traders and travellers up and down that particular route like the cleansing flood after a seasonal monsoon, he had cleaned up nicely.
He'd taken ownership of the garage not long after the business at REPCONN had been concluded. In a year he had a shop with several employees. In two he had a fleet of repairmen and operators who made regular trips to the other settlements and towns in the Mojave, selling their services. In three he had bought out the nearby Gibson Scrapyard after Old Lady Gibson retired, renovating it from the ground upwards into the best salvaging service in the region. Today, five years after REPCONN, it was a locally known truism that if you wanted reliable electronics or machinery in the Mojave territories, you went to Saint Christopher's in Novac.
He was somewhat resentful over the quip regarding 'kids', however. Despite his success, he still had not managed to make any progress in that particular department.
"An' if that ain't enough," the Courier continued, knowing full-well that he would need something a bit more substantial to tempt Haversam with than mere riches, "How 'bout a chance to challenge yerself, doin' things that no-one save you can do? Think on that. Sure, not many opportunities to be practisin' rocket science in the Wastelands, is there?"
"I am not a rocket scientist," Chris cut in gruffly, "I am an aerospace engineer."
The Courier waved away the objection flippantly, "Ahh muttfruit, mutfruit. 'Tis beside the point. Only reason yer not more than ye already are, Chris, is 'cause yer skills ain't matched to the jobs available to ya. But I have a job that only ye can do, an' when all's said an' done, I'll make sure everyone knows it. An' yer name will go down in History as the man who gave humanity the stars."
Chris settled backwards in his seat, now with an openly interested expression of extreme intrigue on his face. His eyebrows climbed ambitiously towards his balding pate as if they could make the long trek over the deserted span to re-join their fellows on the other side. "Give them the stars?" He questioned sceptically, eyes narrowed suspiciously, "What are you planning, Six?"
"Myself," the Courier leaned in, dropping his rifle off of his shoulders and propping it up against the counter so that he could lean in conspiratorially and whisper the next words directly into Haversam's ear, "An' a collection o' likeminded and influential lads and lasses, are gettin' an expedition under way. An' expedition with a lot more advantages than Jason an' his lads had when they shot off to try their luck in the great beyond. For one, we'll not be ridin' out towards the sun on glorified fireworks," he said, with a sly wink, "But, o' 'course, I'm limited on what I can be tellin' ye without your actually bein' on the roster as one o' us."
He straightened up and looked enquiringly at Chris, asking without words if his pitch had interested him enough to sign his name on the figurative dotted line. Haversam licked his lips thoughtfully, smoothing what lonely whisps of brown hair he had still clinging to the top of his head down with an idle hand. The Courier had him firmly on the fence, and it could go either way. So the Courier went for broke and offered the one thing he knew would clinch the deal.
"Ya know, you an' I left some business unfinished at REPCONN," the Courier noted casually.
"And what would that be?" Chris asked, his gravelly voice no longer disguising anything of his interest.
"Well," the Courier continued in a considering tone, "I've always wondered what happened to Jason and the rest o' them ghouls we sent up. If they made it wherever they were set on goin'? That Great Journey o' theirs was a fierce road to walk, dangerous. Don't ye ever wonder whether they made it to the end o' their Road? Or whether the wreckage o' that rocket o' theirs is buried in the sand on some shitehole o' a rock, driftin' out there in the blackness?"
Haversam clenched his teeth together, the memories of the times he had spent with the Brotherhood: With Jason Bright. The bittersweet recollection of all they shared, tainted with the recollection of eventual betrayal. The way they had tricked him, led him onwards by playing on his delusions and loneliness. It took him a while to muster the energy to circumvent the lump that was beginning to form in his throat. Despite his mixed feelings on the matter, the thought of Jason Bright and the rest of the Brotherhood having died in transit, or upon arrival upset him greatly. "They left me here," he said, voice overcome with unresolved emotion, even more coarse and gravelly than usual.
The Courier leaned in, and placed his massive hand on Chris' shoulder, locking eyes with him to add weight to his parting words. "They made you a saint."
Haversam looked away, unwilling to let anyone see the tears that threatened to spill down his face. The Courier took back his hand and picked up his rifle, slinging it on his shoulder. "I'll give ye a day to be makin' up yer mind with. I have a bunch o' others I have to see 'fore then, an' that'll give ye time to get your affairs in order. If ye even want to come, that is. Send a message to the Lucky 38 if the answer is yay or come yerself. If not, be seein' ya, Chris."
Haversam couldn't bring himself to look up to watch the Courier leave, just ducked his head lower behind the counter to conceal it when the tears finally began to fall, pattering gently upon the worn wooden surface.
Courier Six exited the building and into the light, retrieving his headwrap and aviators from where he had unceremoniously shoved them, in one of his many inside pockets of his duster. The Wanderer's solitary form stood near the door, cybernetic eyes compiling the outside world into streams of binary data, processed, and filtered thoroughly before being discarded. And above the Wanderers head floated a familiar Eyebot that chirruped and squawked as it caught sight of its Master, darting forwards to bob excitedly from side-to-side in front of the Courier's head.
"Allo there, ED-E," the Courier grinned as he reached forward and straightened one of the Eyebots antennae that had become slightly lopsided. The Eyebot burbled happily, brushing his metal exterior against the Couriers hand affectionately. The affection was readily returned. "Craig don't take ye out unless he's goin' huntin' and needs a spotter. Where'd ye go?"
The robot beeped and booped a long and convoluted string of sounds at the Courier, who nodded. "Fair few makin' their way out the Divide nowadays. Fair dues to ya. Come with me now, little man. Let's be seein' what the adults are up to."
ED-E warbled an assent and bobbed along behind the Courier as he strode off towards the familiar form of Craig Boone, red beret standing out amidst the earthy brown and scavenged metal like a beacon in the fog. Still the same Boone as the day the two of them met. Quiet, methodical, closed-off from those around him aside from the occasional insightful comment. The sharpshooters eyes scanned the surrounding crowds almost as religiously as the Wanderers, marksman rifle held in a cradle carry, waiting for the moment that might require him to use it with the deadly efficiency attributed to all NCR First Recon.
"Craig," the traditional greeting between the two of them began, accompanying a simple nod of acknowledgement.
"Six," Boone returned the nod.
"Got ourselves some work, Craig. The dangerous an' insane sort. Ye want to come along?"
Craig Boone considered the Courier for a moment, then just nodded slowly as he fingered the picatinny railing on the All-American's barrel. "Sure. Where we headed?"
"Space," the Courier stated.
"Never been," Boone replied, after a moment of consideration.
"Sure, you'll love it an' we're flyin' in style. I'm bringin' a bunch o' lads together at the 38. We'll head there…"
The Courier frowned, turning this way and that in search of the alien who was conspicuously absent from the spot he had left her. "Ye happen to see a blue alien lass on yer way here, Craig."
"Front gate, speaking with a bunch of ghouls," the ever-perceptive sniper recalled immediately, "She's an alien?"
"Aye. We're takin' her back home. Kidnapped, see?"
Boone blinked, shrugged, and motioned for the Courier to lead the way. He glanced warily at the Wanderer, who trailed on after them with the Perforator held in both hands, one swift motion away from the ready position.
"Don't mind yer man with the black eyes. He's with us," the reassuring words came drifting back over the Courier's shoulder without a backwards glance at his friend. Boone blinked owlishly behind his shades, muscular arms resettling themselves on his rifle to mirror the Wanderer's readiness. He tried to evaluate the Wanderer, but their companion was inscrutable. Heavy armed and armoured was his conclusion. He left the matter alone, and instead focused on the Courier's broad back as his friend made a beeline towards the blue alien who chatted animatedly with a ghoul at the front entrance to Saint Christopher's compound.
As they neared the pair, strands of the conversation become audible through the clanger of industrial labour surrounding them. "…Wouldn't know, Blueskin. Everything was easier before the War," the ghoul said thoughtfully, "Less human, maybe. No-one really cared about one another, just their job, their car, their house. It was all about things. But the comforts of life," he said wistfully, gravelly voice running softer at the pleasurable recollections of a time long past, "Working plumbing, hot water, and cold water whenever you wanted. Food in the fridge, that you didn't have to hunt and kill yourself. I never knew how to work a rifle before the Great War. You don't see much of that nowadays."
The Ghoul inclined his head towards the crowd, making Lani pay attention to the many men and women who went about their daily business armed. Rifles, pistols, and even knives of all shapes and descriptions. Armed guards and Securitrons parting the crowd like icebreakers through the Arctic ocean.
"Wasn't that way before the War. And I miss not looking like ground-beef, of course." The ghoul rolled up his sleeve and regarded his hideously scorched arm, bare muscle and translucent skin that left his blood-vessels visible for all to see.
"Then again," he chuckled like a sandblaster set to full power, "I was an ugly bastard to begin with. Being a ghoul might even have helped in the long run. Sure, other guys might look better than me, but in seventy years they'll be dead, and I'll still be around. Got my first wife that way. And the ghoulettes don't mind how you look, just that your parts still work."
Lantaya blinked at the ambiguous intonation behind the word 'parts' and felt compelled to ask despite herself. "I'm not all that familiar with human male reproductive organs, or with the human reproductive process in general. Could you describe it to me?"
The Ghoul's jaw dropped like an anvil, and what was left of his eyebrows sought refuge in his deformed skin folds of his forehead as his brain tried to decide if this was a genuine question or the weirdest come-on in the history of flirting. Lantaya's curious and intent expression threw him for a loop.
"Down girl," the Courier forced out between a hearty session of sniggering, inserting himself into the conversation hurriedly before Lantaya unwittingly volunteered herself for something she might regret, and sparing the poor ghouls feelings, "Apologies for my friend here. She ain't what ye might call, aware o' the rules. Come on now, Lani," he said as he guided her away.
"Hey, smoothskin," the ghoul queried the Courier before he could turn away. "She really an alien?"
"Aye," the Courier confirmed with a grin.
"Like, from space?" The ghoul pressed.
"Nah," the Courier replied, his natural inclination towards obfuscation kicking in with full force, "She's from Mexico."
The ghoul blinked, mystified by the response. "Is that right," he hazarded, turning away from the small group of heavily armed men and one apparently blue-skinned Mexican mutant, "Maybe I should move."
"My apologies," Lantaya provided once the ghoul had left and she realised how her query might have been construed, "I was so engrossed in the conversation I didn't properly consider how my comment could be misinterpreted. I beg your pardon."
"Sure, just do it in front o' a camera next time. Once ye get him into bed we'll hawk it off in Reno for a tidy sum," the Courier snickered in his typical off-colour manner. They were back to forging their way through the crowd once more, Boone and the Wanderer bringing up the rear while the Courier used his massive hulking form to part the crowds like a battering ram. ED-E bobbed far above all of them, whistling happily as he bobbed and made playful divebombing lunges through the pedestrians like a seaside bird might dip below the waves to catch fish.
"He enlightened me on many different areas of enquiry, however," Lani continued on, her mind obviously still caught up with the joy of new fields of study to embark upon now that the initial embarrassment was past. "He was the only one there who was willing to speak with me. The others clearly believed I wasn't in my right mind. Once I explained that I was an alien, they seemed utterly convinced I was somewhat deranged," Lantaya explained, "Rightfully so, of course. But he had a remarkable capacity for the suspension of disbelief."
"Sure, if he were a pre-war ghoul, they've seen some shite. Few hundred years o' watchin' the world turn into the wastelands will give ye some perspective," the Courier confirmed. He ducked back into the alleyway behind the Dino Dee-lite Motel main office. No-Bark Noonan had clearly vacated the alley not long after they'd left, the conspicuous absence of his fidgety self, loitering by the dumpsters somewhat of a disappointment to the Courier.
"Gather 'round all o' ye," he motioned them in closer so that he could fiddle with his Pip-Boy and input a series of coordinates. As he did so the three earthbound members of the ground crowded in in-front of the towering wastelander, weapons stowed. ED-E floated down from on high, hovering over the Courier's head, so close that his laser barrel almost caught on his headwrap.
"Hold on now," the Courier commanded, "Don't be leavin' nothin' behind. 'Specially not any limbs."
Drawing the Transportalponder from the depths of his duster, he linked it to his Pip-Boy and waited until it had synced the coordinates. It confirmed the destination with a sharp, loud beep of confirmation. He depressed the trigger, and the group vanished from the alleyway in a blinding flash of light.
The dumpster lid cracked open, revealing the head of No-Bark Noonan to the world. He sniffed shrewishly, almost palpably offended by the empty spot where the small group had stood moments before, "Wormholes ain't what they used to be, no sirree bob."
His head vanished, and the lid clanged shut once more.