[o daughter of babylon, who art to be destroyed; happy shall he be, that rewardeth thee as thou hast served us. happy shall he be, that taketh and dasheth thy little ones against the stones.]
psalm 137: 8-9
IT NEVER RAINED IN THE MOJAVE. Ever. Not once. Not even in the Capital Wasteland did it rain. So imagine her surprise when she woke up to see her entire backpack being drenched by a torrential downpour. "Fuck!" She shouted, snatching the bag out from the elements and under her cot. "Fuck! Fuck!" The curses spilled from her lips as she began dumping out her bag. One of her pistols clattered onto the makeshift bed, soaked. Next to it fell her book, the ink fading and blending together. "Goddamn it!" She hissed under her breath, picking up the soaked book and holding it in her hands. Her eyes shut tight as her hands curled into fists around the ruined book. This fucking place, she wanted to bark out. Fuck this whole fucking place.
"Is something wrong?" Follows-Chalk asked from his cot next to hers. His head attempts to peek out from behind the wool wall, look for what has upset her so deeply. But he sees nothing, just her bag sitting in front of her, half it's contents spilled out in her lap. His eyes focus against the morning sun to get a better look at what she keeps. He'd always been curious growing up and that had followed him into his teenage years. But recently he'd found himself growing restless, like he'd seen every inch of Zion there was. But the Mojave, now that was an adventure. And the woman next to him had seen it all. And her bag of secrets had intrigued him from the get-go. But from here, all he could see was some book and her gun. It looked a lot like the one Joshua carried, but he could barely make out the carving of a woman on the handle. But he'd never seen her use it. It remained in its holster, neglected but never forgotten.
"It's nothing." She muttered, dumping the rest of the bag's contents out onto her sleeping bag. That heavy chip glinted in the hazy morning sun, almost blinding those in its path. That small piece of metal had single-handedly ruined her life. Though maybe it had been ruined since her first breath. That would be very convenient, wouldn't it? That everything that had happened to her was part of some divine prophecy and not a result of her own actions. Her mind wandered back to Joshua and his own faith, the god that had forgiven him so easily. Forgiven him for atrocity upon atrocity. Sometimes she thinks about killing him, telling him that his god sent her as a messenger, a courier. That his god had never forgiven him and she would see him in Hell. But the thought was quickly washed away when she thought of him cleaning those guns with expert hands. He could probably gun her down before she'd even think about drawing. Not to mention, even if she could win, all of the Dead Horses that would come after her. So she let the thought remain a thought, unspoken.
Her eyes stare down at the ruined book and tears begin to build. Closing her eyes, she attempted to will away the stinging tears. But they were stubborn. Reminded her that Boone had probably given up waiting for her. Probably returned to Novac and written her off as dead. Grabbing the book and the red beret from her bag, she pushes herself out of her cot. "I'll be back." She mumbled before making her way out of the valley. Her boots sloshed against the river she walked through. Curses spilled from her lips. She'd get trench foot if she stayed here any longer.
The rain had lightened up, barely a sprinkle now. Her hand around the beret tightened. It was a sad fact of life that she missed New Vegas. She missed the starstruck looks the NCR grunts sent her as she waltzed past with Boone in tow. She missed having a Kings member run up to her to give her a token of the King's appreciation. She didn't like the strange looks the Dead Horses sent her. You talk about observing fear yet do you not see what you strike in the tribespeople, Joshua had said the day before. Did they really fear her? No one in the Mojave feared her. Not the Legion, nor the Fiends, nor Mr. House. None of them. The only time she'd seen someone afraid of her was Benny, on his knees begging for his life. She had planned on killing him, had told Boone the whole plan. But once she was there, his own gun pressed to his forehead, something inside her told her to stop. So she chickened out. She hated thinking about that night, about his fleeing form as Boone entered the room, confusion hardly hidden behind sunglasses. You let him go, it hadn't been a question, just an observation. She simply nodded, letting the gun clatter to the carpeted floor as she took a seat on the edge of the creaky bed. He could see the conflict in her, the sorrow she felt for her past self, for her future self. So he stayed by her side, silent and loyal.
She wanted nothing more than to go home in that moment. Vanish into the night and find some other way back to the Mojave. That might be best for all parties involved. But then she thinks of Follows-Chalk, of Many-Tears, of the younger women who looked at her with wonder. Not all of them were scared of her. And maybe that brought comfort to her. A small comfort but a comfort nonetheless. She wonders if any of her friends - companions - miss her. If they were bickering in that Lucky 38 suite, wishing she was there to mediate, wishing she could break the tension with her laughter. She wonders if anyone here in Zion would miss her if she died right now. If a cazador came around the corner and pierced her heart with its poisonous stinger.
"You seem conflicted." Fuck. The raspy voice catches her off guard. She almost pulled her gun out, but it caught on the latch of the holster. Part of her wishes it was a cazador rather than the bandaged man now a few feet behind her. She'd barely made it out of the valley, her boots still submerged in the river. She wants to spin around and curse him out, tell him to fuck off and mind his own business. But she knows better. Knows that he's an angry and formidable man. Knows that she probably doesn't stand a chance, knows that she probably wouldn't even put up a fight. "Is there something on your mind?" Ever the saint, she almost scoffs.
"You really think I'd tell you if there was?" She asks without turning around. The heavy tears still sting her eyes and she refused to let him see. Refused to show any weakness to him. But she's worried that her voice may soon betray her strength. Her voice always gave out right before she cried. It happened with Arcade, it happened after Benny, it happened sometimes around Doc Mitchell. It was embarrassing just around those she trusted with her life, those who had seen her cashing in her check at Death's door. To show that vulnerability to him would mean certain death.
"I suppose not." He answered simply. His boots crunched against the dirt on the side of the river. And she wonders what it was like to get his bandages wet. If they clung to his charred skin and stung. She tries to imagine herself avoiding water at all costs. Her eyes moved down to her boots completely submerged. She'd be doing a lousy job if she were him. "But sometimes it helps to have company when your mind is clouded."
She turns at that, takes in his form in the hazy morning light. His hands rest on his hips, his eyes dart between her and the water in front of him. Is he scared of it? She can't tell from here, from the few feet away she is. But she can see his apprehension from here. "Then come over here." Her own words shock her and him. His eyes are completely on her now. They narrow. "You wanna join me or watch me or whatever, then you have to come to me. Water and all." Even from here, she can see his jaw clench, his eyes narrow into slits. He's trying to figure her out, if she's joking, what her game is. But her poker face is decent, too many nights spent in Vegas, getting dragged out by her collar by Rex and Raul, Arcade too busy trying to convince the bodyguards not to ban them.
He stepped forward, his snakeskin boots submerging into the river. To say she was surprised would be an understatement. What the hell was so interesting about her that he'd walk through water for? She could see the discomfort in his eyes. His poker face wasn't too good. Guilt had begun to creep its way up as he drew closer. She hadn't expected him to actually do it. It was a bluff. But here he was, now directly in front of her, staring at her expectantly, almost defiantly. Like he was mentally telling her checkmate. A soft sigh escaped her lips as she nodded. "Fine, but don't talk." Whether he was obeying her order or not entertaining her, she didn't know but he remained silent as he turned to follow her.
They weren't in the water too long as she made her way up a tall hill. She vaguely recognized the area, specifically the area around the southern passage she'd come from. It reeked of death. The bodies of the caravan crew and the dead White Legs that had attacked them were still there, rotting in the Zion sun. Her fingers pinch the bridge of her nose as she continues to climb the hill that leads up to a bridge. The Red Gate, she remembered a map reading. The hazy morning sun had begun to grow brighter, less hazy and more heavy. At least the Capital Wasteland got cold. It seemed like the Mojave never dropped below 80. Sweat had begun to grow around her hairline, threatening to drip into her eyes. But her grip around the beret remained tight, refused to let go. Maybe a small part of her feared losing the last remnants of one of her only friends. There was that word again: friend. She wished she was better at discussing her feelings, she'd tell Boone that she appreciated everything he did for her, all of the times that he'd stepped in front of her to gun down whoever fired at them, or all of the times he'd made sure she got home safe after a night of too much drinking and too much gambling. Though he'd probably hate that. Would tell her to fuck off and keep her eyes ahead. And maybe she preferred that to some sappy heart to heart. Because then she wasn't being looked down upon, pitied. There was nothing more she hated than pity. What a useless fucking emotion, she thought to herself.
Reaching the top of the hill, she took a seat against a log. The bandaged man followed her movements, repeating them. She could feel his gaze on her, measuring her, watching for her next move. But, for the most part, she didn't feel threatened. Not like she had when she'd first met him. "There's this place in the Mojave," she started, a small smile playing on her lips, "it's called Jacobstown. Ever heard of it?" The man next to her shook his head. Relief flooded her, grateful that him and his terrorist buddies hadn't caught wind of it. "Good. It's a town of mutants, Nightkin and Super alike. All run by this guy named Marcus. That's one of two places I've been that's as beautiful as this place. The place is surrounded by snow-covered mountains. And the air up there is just... crisp. It's not heavy like in New Vegas. I love that place. Might retire up there, who knows."
The man remained quiet next to her for a fleeting moment. His eyes remained on her, drinking her in like the last water source in a desert. So desperately did he want to figure her out, discover what makes her tick. "What was the other one?" He finally asked, his eyes remaining glued to her. She turned to look at him, her eyebrows furrowed in confusion. "You said one of two. May I ask what the second one is?"
"Oh," she chuckled quietly, darting her gaze back to the scenery ahead of her, "place called Oasis, back in the Capital. Used to be Washington, D.C. Never seen a place with so much green, even here. Well, maybe Vault 22 but that's different." Her shoulders shrugged as she smiled up at the sky. "There's a guy there, - though, I'd use 'guy' very loosely - his name's Harold. He's part tree." Even from underneath the bandages, she could see his face contort in confusion. That gave her a chuckle. "I'm being serious. He had a tree start growing out of his head when he got exposed to FEV a long time ago. He's the whole reason I'm here - well, in California, I guess. Had never even heard of it until he told me about it. He's from there." Parts of her almost wanted to cry for Harold and for Bob. There were times where she'd find a funny comic and wish she could read it to him. Or she'd stumble on a landmark he'd told her to visit. He was probably dead by now. Or maybe Bob had taken over him completely. Maybe the Treeminders mourned him, treated him more like a god than ever before. He'd hate that. "The tree grew from him, completely consumed him. By the time we met, you could only see his face and maybe an arm. He asked me to kill him, but I told him I couldn't. I stayed for a few days, just talked to him and the others. He was nice... optimistic for someone in his shoes - or roots, I guess. Most importantly, though, he was funny. Every chance he could, he was making jokes. And I think I was jealous. I can only hope to be so funny in that kind of situation." Her eyes fell shut as she let her head rest against the rock behind her. Wherever he was, she hoped Harold was happy.
"It sounds like you cared deeply for him." Joshua spoke after a moment of silence. He hadn't been sure what to say, but her emotions were clear. Even if others couldn't see it, even if she couldn't see it, he could see that she had a big heart. One that loved too deeply, too strongly. It's why she closed herself off the way she did. Kept to herself. He saw it in the way she spoke to Follows-Chalk or the way she told stories around the fire to the Dead Horses, them hanging from her every word. This courier was caring, through and through. She was more human than anyone he'd met.
From his right, she snorted. "Yeah, I guess you could say that." It wasn't something she'd put much thought into, how much Harold really had meant to her. But when she really thought about it, the man next to her was right. Harold was the whole reason she made the trek to California. All of the stories he'd told her, everything he told her to see and visit. It all pushed her out here. Her hands tightened around the beret she forgot she was holding. It was a nuisance, how much she cared. She wished she could close herself off, cut herself off from everyone. It'd be much easier that way. If she died, no one would need to bury her. No one would care. But now she had her fingers in so many pies that her death would be an inconvenience. That was the last thing she needed. "Did you have anyone like that? Anyone pushing you to go somewhere, do something?" Her eyes opened and her head lifted from the rock to look at him.
His eyes moved to look across the landscape. Edward popped into his mind. The man who'd led him down this path. His father had never wanted him to do missionary work, wanted him to stay at home and become a preacher. His mother had wanted him to find a good girl to settle down with. His brothers never cared one way or another what he did. The only one who seemed to care was Edward. "My father wanted me to become a preacher." He finally answered, stepping around the land mine that is Edward. "He'd have me recite chapters at a time from the Bible to make sure I was actually reading it. I'm more thankful to him now than I was then. I suppose hindsight is a blessing and a curse."
She slowly nodded, looking back down at the beret. He couldn't help but feel his own eyes drawn to the item. It would be a lie to say he wasn't curious. It was no secret that she was NCR, but she didn't strike him as a sniper. And she hadn't been around long enough to be recruited into the First Recon. A friend, perhaps? Or maybe a lover? If he could, he might've blushed at the thought. The thought of her in the arms of another man. "Parents have a funny way of doing that, huh? Always being right." She broke the silence and ripped him from his thoughts. Part of him was thankful to her for that. "My parents always knew I'd go out traveling. In my own rebellious way, I became a homebody. Now look at me."
"It's difficult to imagine you staying in one place for too long."
She smiled at that. But the smile was short-lived as images of her ex-husband began to appear in her mind. How happy the two had been for so long. How he refused to look her in the face after their daughter. How she felt nothing when she'd slipped out in the middle of the night. "Yeah," she whispered, leaning forward with her elbows resting on her knees. Her fucking daughter. Jesus, that was gonna keep rearing it's ugly head here, wasn't it? Her hand reached up to pinch the bridge of her nose. "I, uh... I didn't see any kids around here."
"They've all been evacuated," he responded, his eyes glued to her with curiosity, "along with our sick and elderly." Part of him wondered where that had come from. When had she thought of the children here? What had prompted that question? Did she have children of her own? It was difficult to imagine her with a child. She was a bit... prickly in nature. Or maybe that was all an act, one that he'd fallen for. Maybe she was kind and loving. That's what he saw when she spoke of Jacobstown or this Harold. A small frown twitched across his lips as he thought of the children of the Dead Horses. How this camp had once been filled with laughter and shouting. How it seemed so deathly quiet now. He hadn't realized how glum things had become since the White Legs had arrived. "Do you have children?" He finally asked.
Shaking her head, her grip on the beret tightening. The heavy tears returned, stinging her eyes. Don't you dare fucking cry, she told herself. Her eyes shut tight, silently willing away the memories that came along with her tears. Her daughter's bright smile, how she rarely cried, her bubbly laugh. How much she had really looked like her mother. Her purple face when Joan had woken up one morning to feed and change her. Fuck. Pushing herself up to her feet, she refused to look at the man to her left. "Follows-Chalk and I are going out to look for the walkie-talkies today. I don't know when we'll be back." As soon as the words left her lips, she made her way down the hill, never sparing a glance back at him.
He stared in bewilderment. Had he struck a nerve? Asked the wrong question? His eyes remained glued to the spot she'd stood in before he looked up towards the sky, silently asking the Lord to keep her and Follows-Chalk safe on their journey.