"Alright, Sparta. Your call."
Beside him, Pyrrha pressed her cheek against the stock of her weapon: a mechanical hybrid that morphed between a spear and a rifle. The stillness of the air, coupled with the absence of nary a breeze, made her steady breaths ridiculously audible to his ears.
Six kept his eyes glued to his binoculars, magnifying his view of the multiple steel targets he had set up across the side of the rugged cliff face half a mile away. Both had their bellies pressed against the gravel atop one of the many abandoned sniper's nests overlooking the vast expanse of desert this side of the Mojave. If there was one thing he could do to help these kids survive in the Wasteland (other than making them stomach the natural cuisine and go more than a day without bathing, both of which ended disappointingly), it was helping them improve their Remnant-based fighting capabilities with respect to Earth's rules.
This was one particular exercise. While seemingly redundant with regards to the person he was 'training,' it was not irrelevant. The redhead had good aim; it was just a matter of tweaking it further. And if he himself could nail a solid kill-shot at this distance with Medicine Stick, then he was sure Sparta could land—
POP!
Ping!
The Courier couldn't help but smile. Just below the chin. "Impressive."
Another steady breath is what he got in reply.
POP! POP! POP!
Ping! Ping! Pla-kang!
Damn. She's good. "You're not using your Aura or any of that Semblance stuff, right?"
Sparta briefly angled her head away from the end of her gun to flash him a meek (and minutely prideful) grin. "No."
I find that hard to believe. "Remnant must really be something if you're this good for your age."
"A lifetime of training and tournaments," she hastily replied, her focus now on the remaining six shaped metal sheets sticking out of the rocks five hundred meters away.
"Before Beacon?"
"Yes."
POP!
Pang!
"Got 'em," Six acknowledged pridefully. A bit more practice and she might give First Recon a run for their money. He had to admit, this level of accuracy at this distance was enough of a challenge for many of his contemporaries. Sparta was proving more and more adept at marksmanship than he had initially judged. Now he just had to get her accustomed to killing people...
No. They have to learn but they shouldn't have to do it unless they need to. Not just yet...
The Courier focused on Pyrrha hitting the rest her marks on the remaining targets without a single miss. Much less, a full reload. Come to think of it...
"What's your cartridge?"
"Hm?"
Six lifted himself off the ground to lean against the sandbags while Sparta readjusted herself to sit on one of the empty plastic beer cartons. "What's the caliber of your ammunition? Forty-seventy government? Three-oh-eight?"
"Oh, um...not those. They're actually Mistralian match grade Dust rounds."
Wait, what? "Say again?"
"Match grade bullets. For sharpshooting competitions and hunting Grimm."
"No, no, no. Before that. You said they're..."
"Mistralian Dust rounds."
Dust. Shit. "Did you retrieve the spent casings?"
"Yes. I always do."
"And...do you recycle your bullets?"
Sparta shrugged. "Well, not personally. Usually, we have the quartermaster at Beacon supply our ammunition..." She trailed off, confusion reining momentarily. Then realization. Her eyes were as wide as saucers the moment her hands dug into her pouch. "I...I think I'm low on Dust."
The Courier stared incredulously at her. Goddamn it.
The rest of Team JNPR-S (the 'S' added on after Syrup's induction into the group) idled by the campfire below the old sniper's nest, no doubt basking in the pride of their own champion who they faithfully believed could best the NCR's trained marksmen. Their cheers petered out when they noticed how cross Six looked in compliment to how apologetic Pyrrha seemed.
"So...did she beat you at your own game?" Jaune cautiously inquired after they had descended from the perch and huddled by the fire pit.
"Do any of you have any Dust on you?" the Courier demanded. "And I mean Remnant Dust."
"I've got enough to take down a whole fort!" Nora declared, raising Magnhild proudly over her head, the massive retractable super-sledge transforming into a sophisticated revolving six-shot grenade launcher.
Ren shook his head as he carefully fed large chunks of raw gecko meat into Syrup's waiting maw. Come to think of it, he was running low on ammunition for his akimbo... Oh. So that was why Six was asking. "I, uh, have about a hundred rounds left. Total."
"Are those Dust-based?" followed Six.
"Yes."
"So are mine," Nora added.
"I guess we have a...shortage?" Pyrrha shakily concluded.
"What shortage?" Jaune's confusion only skyrocketed with the mix of looks that came his way. "What?"
The Courier narrowed his eyes at him. "Does your sword double as a gun, Knight-boy?"
"Uh, no."
"Any ranged weapons you have?"
The blond scratched the back of his head, still unbelievably unable to grasp the severity of the problem much less the problem itself. "I can throw my sword...but then I'd have to get it back."
"Ooh! Ooh!" flailed Nora. "Are we going to learn about Earth weapons now? Can we get to blow up stuff now!?"
Six released a long, pained sigh. "Yes, Pancake."
Thank fuck Hyper ain't here. Who knows what fresh hell was going to happen if Ruby ever managed gain entry into the Gun Runners facility. It was stressful enough just keeping her from breaking the fence to get in. He hoped that with all the recent upgrades, Victor should be keeping a good eye and a solid leash on team RWBY while he was away training team JNPR.
"We're going gun shopping," he announced. "You're all on a budget so don't be picky."
"Awesome!"
"Well, I guess it won't hurt to have a little extra punch in case of emergencies," Jaune intoned.
The Courier huffed—finally, the kid understands!—and reached over to take in his share of their lunch. "Just don't shoot yourself in the foot."
"Authenticate caller."
"Caller Charlie Sierra India X-ray. Requesting supply drop. Over."
"Authorized. Nature of content?"
"Assorted ammunition. Standard package. Limited explosives. Over."
"Acknowledged, Charlie Sierra India X-ray. Coordinates to be forwarded. Out."
Six tucked the NCR emergency radio back into his satchel then checked his Pip-Boy for the designated drop zone. Going to be another long walk. "Pack up! We're heading north, kids!"
An hour later, team JNPR (excluding Syrup) were reequipped with an array of salvaged Californian firearms and their respective ammunition. To their credit, they were eager to try and learn them. Unfortunately, in their zeal, Jaune accidentally depressed the trigger to his shotgun, sending a beanbag round into Six's unguarded crotch. It would become the first of many non-lethal misfires that would plague the next several hours of impromptu weapons training.
Thankfully, the only person to get hurt from all that was the Courier. Damn kids and their damn Aura. And it was not like he was seriously injured; he had survived far worse. Twelve-gauge beanbags, forty-millimeter grenades, and three-oh-eight full metal jackets were nothing serious when the necessary precautions were taken. Well, except for the three-oh-eights. Goddamn Sparta. 'It was an accident,' she says. 'It ricocheted off the plate,' she says. Tell that to the brand new hole in my ass! Walking never hurt this goddamn bad...
By nightfall, they had detoured to the clinic of the Followers Of The Apocalypse outside the walls of New Vegas to extract whatever shrapnel was still left in his body. At least the kids chipped in to pay for half the treatment.
"My, you've got quite the litter," remarked Doctor Keiko Usanagi as she tightened the gauze around his forearm, covering up half the scars all over it. "I don't mean any offense but I didn't know you had this big of a family."
Six raised his brow. "What?"
"Fathering eight children. That must have been quite the challenge. I can understand why you had to keep them out of the Mojave until now."
Oh, shit. "... Right." Goddamn rumor mill. Where did you hear that bullshit from? "They're not really..."
"Don't worry. You can always count on us to safeguard them," Usanagi said with a warm smile.
"Doc, they're not my—"
"Is daddy okay?"
The Courier blinked. What. His mouth hung agape at team JNPR peaking their heads around the door frame. The. Pancake was on the verge of crocodile tears. Flying. Shaolin, Sparta, Knight-boy, and even Syrup (how is that little demon even smiling!?) all sported very convincing looks of innocent, infantile concern. Fuck.
"Don't worry, Nora," cooed Pyrrha. "Dad is going to be fine. Right, doctor?"
Being the caring physician, Usanagi was quick to offer them her concern in the manner that one would address worried relatives."Yes, dear. Your father is not seriously injured. But he has to stay here for the night. His body needs to rest. And so should you four. You've all been out in the sun too long."
"So...does that mean we can watch over our daddy?" Nora prattled.
"Sure. We can spare a couple extra beds for you."
The moment the doctor turned her back, Six caught the thumbs up from Nora and the other teens nervously pointing at her. Of course. Leave it to the hyperactive ginger to start shit like this.
'It was her idea,' lipped Jaune to which Pyrrha and Ren nodded a little too enthusiastically.
Six was speechless. Complete and utter disbelief. His mind was still trying to comprehend the fact that people in New Vegas—no, the whole damn Mojave—were thinking that these brats were his own flesh and blood. The rest of his brain was either sputtering like rusted cogs or screaming gibberish at the sky. All he could do was gawk, jaw practically hanging off his head, unable to neither glare nor smirk. God-fucking-damn it.
He would rather get shot in the head right now.
"Blondie!" greeted Swank. "How're you doin', doll?"
Yang, emboldened by her revealing party dress, swayed her hips after she closed the doors to the man's penthouse suite behind her. She slid onto one of the stools lining the man's personal bar with a wink and a disarming grin. "Swell! I got a really good feeling about tonight."
The head of the Chairmen raised a curious brow, replacing the glass he was cleaning back onto the rack. This girl had assets, was technically legal, but put him off for behaving more like a whiny child than a responsible adult. Also because she was the 'daughter' of one of the most terrifying people in the whole Mojave.
"Feelin' fancy, eh?" Swank sniggered. "Ring-a-ding, this ain't the Ultra Luxe but I'm flattered."
"Just feel like dressing up, you know?"
"You're pulling my strings, baby. Got another couple needin' some alone time?" After all, for what other reason did this busty teenaged-yet-technically-legal bombshell go through all the trouble to visit him in his private paradise at the top of the Tops?
"Nope. Not tonight. Something different." She traced her finger across the marble bar top, leaning a bit close and letting her conveniently exposed cleavage encase his attention.
Swank leaned over as well, curiosity hiding behind his trademark smirk. "Oh? Might cost 'ya."
On cue, Blake rounded the Chairman to slide a whole stack of neatly-wrapped NCR bills across the tabletop. The slip running down her long black maxi revealed the pommel of the serrated combat knife tucked against her thigh. Constant visits to the casinos made it easy for the girls to learn how to smuggle contraband passed security—a good workaround to having to leave their signature weapons back at the Lucky Thirty-Eight. As to how he had not seen her enter, he chalked it up to the black-haired girl being that slick. Uncomfortably slick. Seriously, it freaked him out how she just materialized out of his right flank like that.
"There's more where that came from," teased Yang, her bare arm squeezing an empty glass and showing how much muscle she actually packed.
Swank, for his part, was good at looking smug if not amused. Or unnerved. "I'm guessin' your sister and her girlfriend's hangin' 'round in the back, eh?"
"We are not in that kind of relationship, mind you," retorted Weiss in her elegant white pouf, suddenly waltzing out from his own bedroom, what the fuck. Ruby silently followed after her in a more modest crimson dress, her cheeks slightly flushed while she awkwardly tried to smooth out the hems and not trip on her own heels. Damn, seriously, how the hell did they get in through there? They were on the top floor!
The Chairman chief stayed put behind his own bar now appearing more reserved than concerned. "The whole gang's here. To what do I owe this lovely audience?"
"A little harmless gossip," Yang replied, her intimidatingly charming smile never once faltering.
For a moment, Swank remained silent. Four teenaged girls—four dangerous teenaged girls—had wormed their way into his private quarters, somehow slipping past security, maybe even climbed up the side of the building, squeezing through the damn windows to get in, and most likely cornered him like a rat in a cage, trapped behind his own cocktail lounge. Even without their hardware, he was smart enough not to test their patience.
For crying out loud, they lodged with Courier Six; and the big man almost never lodged with anybody unless it was for a job. And now with these kids—the big man's supposed offspring—sleeping in the most cushioned up beds in the Lucky Thirty-Eight, it made sense that he taught them how to rip a man's head off his shoulders with their bare hands. They were his kids, after all. Right? Most likely adopted or otherwise illegitimate but his kids nonetheless. Yeah, definitely adopted. Miss Xiao Long right here had tried to pair up two of her own 'siblings' in one of their suites.
Said blonde readjusted herself on the bar, offering a wider view of her (technically legal) cleavage over the marble countertop. "What's the matter, Swanky?"
Right. He had been quietly stewing behind his own drinking space. Salvaging his air with a light huff, he said, "Runnin' the numbers, doll. Now why'd you come to me for something Mister New Vegas yammers over the air?"
"Oh, the air's a bit thick recently. Not everyone knows what's going on. Besides, Six has...secrets. Secrets that matter," Ruby finally intoned, the adorable little kid trying to look serious.
"What do I know then?" Swank deflected. "The Chairmen run things around here. Omertas and White Glove do their own thing but we keep the balance."
"Not much of a balance if your net balance is greater than what is considered acceptable," snorted Weiss.
"We know where your money comes from," Blake added. "We traced your paper trails, tracked your sources. It's not that hard to do."
"Been skimming off the pot too much, Swanky," Yang cooed. "Not a very Chairman-like thing to do, eh?"
Holy shit. Swank's poker face stayed strong. "Are you calling me a fink, doll?"
Miss Schnee harrumphed. "We're not making any accusations. It's just odd that the NCR hasn't caught on yet. After all, I doubt they would in any way be too pleased to discover of a few unsanctioned incentives being diverted elsewhere."
"Much less some of their hardware stolen," Miss Belladonna threw in.
Miss Xiao Long snickered. "Or making arrangements to whack a few cops. Now that's not just going to piss off the NCR; that's not going to make Six happy either."
"We did our homework," Miss Rose concluded. "So is there anything else we missed?"
The leader of the Chairmen took the next moment to rein in the rapid beating in his chest. Intimidated? Yes. Frightened? More than that. Panicky? Most definitely. "Girls, girls, you're all comin' at me way too hard, give a man room to breathe. Are you sure you can afford what you're askin'?"
"We have the money and we have the means," Weiss countered with an icy glare while Ruby forwarded another stack of NCR bills.
So it seemed like they were taking after their dad now. Swank started to laugh. "Ring-a-ding, baby dolls, what can the chairman of the Chairmen do for you fine ladies?"
"Six has got quite the reputation, don't you think?" Yang started. "Pretty big name around here. Way too big to be some run-of-the-mill NCR war hero, if you ask me."
Another chuckle. Of course. Daddy didn't tell his little girls what he'd really been up to out here. As the timeless adage goes: what goes on in Vegas stays in Vegas. Then again, some things never really stay in Vegas. On the bright side, at least he was being paid for information instead of the usual fist to the gut or bullet to the brain box.
"Wasn't that big a name until a couple years ago," Swank began. "Ever heard of Mister House?"
NOTE (March 2, 2018): Looks like team RWBY's doing a little harmless digging. They may or may not like what they find. And who's to say their sources aren't exactly legitimate? ;)
Hope you guys like it so far. I appreciate the communication in the reviews.
-~oOo~-
And now, my conversations with the guest reviews (March 2, 2018):
Breacher: That's...an ideal ending. I've only played about three hours of Fallout 4 and made it up until the first deathclaw in the game so I can't really grasp the entire 'Peaceful Minutemen Ending' (and I have looked it up) but I do understand the general idea. As lovely as it is, I'd have to make a pass since this fic takes place aftermost of the other head honchos have been "dealt with." Also, it's a bit too romanticised for the general theme going on here. Sorry. But I'll keep that in mind for any future scenarios.
And don't worry about Syrup. Nora's going to make sure the little deathclaw grows up with her wherever, whenever. :D
Guest: Thank you. I don't plan on involving much of the DLCs but I will hint at Six having already done his dues there. As for Winter in the Think Tank, though... I might have to play through the game again to be able to jog my memory and get the feel of the Big MT again. It's been a long while. And likewise, have a good day. :)
Self-governance: Thanks. I'll look it up when I could spare the time. :)
Review dude: You're getting there. Six is indeed securing his position in the Mojave (you gotta do what you gotta do to survive). I'll...leave it at that. I'd be spoiling too much if I say anymore. ;)
Qrow's coming soon, that I can be sure of. As to how he's going to make his 'grand entrance,' I'm still divided on that. There are so many possible scenarios (including the Gomorrah one) for him to enter the story. And there's the possibility that Qrow might catch on to the Courier's motives and...things might go south real fast. Cass, on the other hand... I wanted to put her in early on but the inclusion of such a colorful character make it difficult to maintain the dynamic or the continuum of the story. I'm currently on the fence about bringing in the New Vegas followers. It's already a challenge maintaining this big a cast (Six, RWBY, JNPR, Raul, Hsu).
Also, I've completely forgotten about the Thorn. Thanks for bringing that up. While it would be fun to see Yang duke it out against mutants (and enrich Six because he knows she'll win with her Aura and Semblance), note that at this point in the fic, Yang has yet to embrace the idea of personally killing other humans (much less actually take another person's life). And the Thorn has human combatants (Fiends, raiders, etc.) most likely drugged, kidnapped, and enslaved to fight gladiatorial matches to earn their promised (crossed-fingers) freedom. I don't want to crack her psyche just yet. (It would be amusing to see Six trying to keep Red Lucy off Yang. :P)
-~oOo~-
Here's a little extra that I almost deleted from this chapter. I think this is what you might call an "omake" (or whatever that means).
Shortly beforehand...
"Is it that far in there?"
"Whoa. That's a deep hole."
"I'm sorry, Six. I really am."
"That's okay, Pyrrha. So how do we pull it out?"
Would you goddamn kids shut the fuck up!? Six grimaced as he pushed himself off the ground, his derriere both damp with blood and numb from the crumpled full metal jacket lodged above his sphincter. Wincing and growling, he limped past the kids to pick up the rest of their equipment, along the way, passing the sheet metal targets bearing the dents from which a stray round from Pyrrha's Garand bounced off and literally tore him a brand new anus. Today's marksmanship lesson had officially ended.
"You still alright there?"
"I can walk," the Courier spat bitterly, his awkward gait made more difficult by Syrup's constant attempts to lick his backside clean to which the little shit got a solid slap to the head.
"I'm sorry."
Shut up, Sparta. "We're done here. Let's get moving," he ordered between grimaces.
"You sure you can walk straight? You're still bleeding."
"Six, you should sit down. We could help—"
"I'm fine, kids." Like hell am I letting you do surgery on my ass!
Pyrrha whimpered a little. "Um, I could use my Semblance...to extract the bullet..."
Oh hell no! The Courier felt his brows rise, having already seen her break apart any metallic thing through the sheer magnetism coming from her bare hands. And given his situation, electromagnetic shielding be damned, it was not the safest method at all. Are you even thinking, Sparta!? The shrapnel's going to rip through my colon! As such, he was about to savagely tear her offer apart until Jaune placed a hand over hers.
"Um, I think that would do more damage than anything," Knight-boy said.
"So..." Nora drawled, picking up the pace. "... When are we learning field stripping?"
A round of chokes echoed from the rest of the teenagers, eliciting a vexed groan from the limping veteran wastelander. Context, Pancake. Goddamn context. "Not today."
"Aww, but I was really excited to strip!"
Son of a bitch. "Nora."
"Yes, Six?"
Shut the hell up. "Be quiet."
"Okay!" she lied.
ORIGINALLY DRAFTED: February 25, 2018
LAST EDITED: April 30, 2023
INITIALLY UPLOADED: March 2, 2018