NOTE: I write what I know. Forgive me for my ignorance. Also, some of you might find some of the content in this chapter a mite bit too weird for your tastes.
Weiss tilted her head in surprise. "You're not mad?"
Six sighed. "I am. I just don't think it ain't worth yellin' in your face, is all."
"Well then," the heiress exhaled, letting her hands sweep back down to her sides after being primly clasped together to keep up with the formality of the apology she delivered to the Courier in his own suite at the top of the Jacobstown lodge on an afternoon. "It seems we're back on good terms."
"Not so fast, Snowball. Just 'cause I didn't rip your head off don't mean you're off the hook. You now owe me for these here brand new holes I got in my arm."
Weiss grimaced upon seeing the aforementioned injury held up to the light. Night-stalker bites apparently ran quite deep. As far as she knew, it was short of a miracle that Six managed to survive a crippling injury, much more the lethal venom of the mutant. Had it not been for a quick thinking, quicker reflexes, and a quickly-applied tourniquet, the Courier would have been in much worse condition. And that made the heiress feel all the more guilty than she already was for it.
Six then used his perforated arm to drag a pail out from under his bed, turning it over and checking for holes. "For that, I gotta ask. Can you make ice?"
"Pardon?"
"Can you make ice? Like, uh, when you do your glyph thingies and ice comes out."
"Oh. Actually, those were all manifestations of the potent energies of the Ice Dust crystals that—"
The Courier frowned. "Shit. Dust. Really? So all them Frosty-the-Snowman bullshit was all Dust?"
"Pretty much. Unfortunately, and as I assume you know very well, we are down to our final reserves." She paused to ruminate for a moment. "... Come to think of it, I don't even know how we are even able to use them given that the atmosphere in this world is...different from our own."
Probably something I might get those eggheads at the Big MT to look into...if I can somehow get back to them. Goodness knows, it had been a long while since he last visited the Think Tank. And knowing those brainiacs, they might actually figure something out underneath all the horse shit they usually come up with. Better ask them about the possibility of inter-dimensional shifts, too. Either they know something about Remnant bleeding into Earth or... Shit. What if they had a part in it? What if they actually caused it? Damn. I really should stop putting off that transportalponder project under the Lucky 38...
"Six?"
He blinked back up at her. "Right. How about this... Can you create ice...without Dust?"
She blinked in return. "I...I don't think I've been able to before..."
"Have you tried?"
"When I first unlocked my Semblance, yes. But they were largely futile."
"Largely. So some margin for success in there."
Weiss appeared unconvinced. "I can't consider that. I mean, I was probably using Dust at the time and I didn't notice."
"Well," Six intoned, scraping the bucket off the floor. "Since you're bound to run out of the stuff soon, might as well see if you can replicate the effects without them."
"I'm not so sure I can. That's not how my Semblance works..."
"You can't be too sure of your limitations, Snowball." He gestured to empty scabbard on her hip. "Your sword. Myrtenaster."
"Oh, wow. You finally said it's name right."
Probably 'cause I'm sober. "You can start practicing with that. See if you can actually create ice without Dust."
The heiress raised her brow. "You can't be serious."
"Do I look like I'm joking?" He raised his perforated arm. "You owe me for this."
"Is that wound...debilitating?"
Shrug. "Hurts like a bitch but I can still fight. I can still shoot, I can still swing a stick, and I can damn well sock you in the stomach right now for getting me bit in the first place."
She backed up towards the door. "Alright, alright. Um, I just don't think I could..."
"Give it a shot, kid. You may never know what might come out."
"But I—"
"Weiss," he echoed, resting his hand on her shoulder. "You showed me how hard you've been working to master the art of conjuring up some walking ice sculpture with a big-ass sword. Now, I don't know what that thing is made of, probably magic or some kind of mysterious molecular structure that defies the laws of the physics, but I can feel that it's close to ice."
"I don't think it's made of ice."
"Did you check?"
"... No? Check how? I don't—"
"Then you can't be sure that it's made of ice. Hell, it probably doesn't have to be ice. As long as it can make the air around it colder than the peak of Mount Charleston at midnight, then that's good enough for me." He patted her and shuffled past. "Try it when you got the time, kid. Think of it as...mastering your skillset."
Weiss watched him stroll down the corridor, mulling the possibilities. It would be another day before Doctor Henry would let declare them physically fit to leave so she had all the time to practice. Then she realized...she almost forgot.
"Thank you for the cake!" she called.
Six lazily waved back before disappearing around the corner.
The heiress was left to stand in the doorway, gazing at her palm and manifesting a small spinning glyph. Slowly, a small, shimmering armored arm emerged gripping a tiny but razor-sharp edge. Come to think of it, her summons did feel a quite cold to the touch.
After spending nearly a week at the secluded chilly peaks of Mount Charleston, the searing heat of the Mojave basin felt a little homely. Then again, it was searing hot so it also felt like they were walking back into a massive oven. Which meant their bodies had to acclimate again.
"I'm starting to miss the snow," groused Yang as they trudged along the broken asphalt of the interstate running from the northwest into Clark County.
"Couldn't we have just, like, you know, asked them to drop us off at Westside instead?" Ruby whinnied.
"Three armored cars equipped with high-caliber machine-guns and automatic grenade launchers and driven by super-mutants riding into New Vegas where people aren't very friendly to super-mutants," Weiss droned. "I wonder how that would turn out."
"At least it's better than walking," mumbled Blake.
"Eh, cheer up, guys," Velvet huffed. "It's not so bad."
The four girls eyed her. Then they eyed their sister team who was following up the rear. Jaune and Ren were drenched in sweat, huffing and puffing from the weight of their rucksacks which had been laden with nearly half of everyone else's stuff including food, ammunition, and medical supplies. Pyrrha and Nora walked beside their partners, equally supporting them in whatever way they could. Even Syrup had to nudge the boys ahead every now and then...by literally pushing its head against their keisters whenever they seemed like they were lagging behind.
A few paces ahead, the Courier soldiered on in his usual gait, unfazed by the travel.
Because he was a courier. A mailman. Deliveryman. Ferryman. People like him were used to hoofing it across the wastes because it was their job. And they were reasonably experienced, well-armed, and capable of self-sufficiency in the outdoors. At least, that was in the job description for anyone applying for the Mojave Express...or any courier service out here.
"We're almost there, kids," Six announced. "Hack it a bit more and maybe I'll get you all some nice, refreshing, ice-cold desserts from Etienne at the Westside Co-op."
The two teams stared at each other.
Unless they were either at the Strip or in the more prosperous areas of New Vegas, the Courier almost never offered to treat them to anything special. But for now, they decided not to question the incentive and roll with it. After all, with how blistering hot it was, they could sure use some frosted vegetable smoothies at the end of this journey.
The smoothies were actually really good.
As her friends and teammates suckled on their frozen treats with reasonable gusto—the Mojave heat had been very unbearable today—Weiss decided to take Six up on his suggestion.
"You okay there, Ice Queen?" Yang chirped.
"Excuse me?"
"You've been staring at your cup like there's a bug in it." The blonde's smile quickly faded. "Wait. Is there?"
"No, no. Just thinking." The heiress held her palm under the base of the cup that held her dessert. "I'm going to try something."
A small glyph appeared over her palm. And from it slowly emerged an equally small pair of hands. Hands that clasped the base of the cup, pulling it down and then wrapping around it in a soft hug. This time, Weiss paid attention to what her fingertips were feeling...
...and Six was right.
It was feeling a little cold. A substitute to ice. A substitute that did not melt and was cold enough to disperse nearby heat.
"Whoa," drawled Yang. "That...that looks...that looks really cool."
Both the hands and the glyph immediately dissipated as the heiress gave her teammate a flat look. "Was that a pun?"
The blonde grinned back at her. "Wasn't meant to be but thanks for giving me a bunch of new ideas."
"Ugh."
"You gotta show this to everybody," Yang chirped.
"I'm not sure yet—"
"Hey guys! Weiss just did something pretty awesome!"
Weiss nearly facepalmed into her own smoothie. "Damn it, Yang."
Courier Six eyed the medical clinic down the street. Situated on the westernmost end of Westside, it was manned by 'volunteer specialists' from California. And unlike most clinics that usually closed up shop a few hours after sundown, this one remained open well into the night; it was twenty-two hundred hours and the lights were still on.
"So far, they've been keeping to themselves," quipped one of the ghetto's militiamen. "Not doing much of anything other than patching up those who needed to be patched up."
Six remained in the obsidian shadow of the alleyway, careful not to fully expose himself to whatever eyes the NCR had here. "You sure about that?"
The guard dragged long on his cigarette before answering. "I wish I could give you some dirt on them but they haven't really done anything too bad. Sure they got guns—way better than ours—but the only time they shot somebody is when some drugged up junkies from the sewers tried to stage a heist. Man, what a mess that was. And we had to clean it up for them. Pricks."
"Right. Anything else?"
"Doctor Kemp still won't slash his fees," he snorted. "In fact, he just raised the prices on some of his meds. Greedy bastard's milking us harder since the NCR can't tax us. Fuck, I wish the Followers would've just stayed. Sucks that they had to pull out their only guy here and send 'em somewhere else 'cause they ain't got enough people."
The Courier grunted. The Followers of the Apocalypse had a presence here; too bad, they were muscled out by the NCR. He had to hand it to Governor Crocker, though. That bald son of a bitch was smart: grant communities like Westside 'autonomous status' to keep the illusion of independence alive even though the whole of Clark County was now part of the Republic. While the stipulations of that autonomy included immunity from taxation, there were other ways for the NCR to get their money out of these people.
The cigarette burned out and was quickly snuffed under a boot. "Hey, man. I gotta get back to my shift."
"Go on. We never spoke."
"Hard to lie these days, sir."
Six handed him a few neatly-taped rolls of bottle caps. It quickly disappeared into the guard's pocket who walked back out onto the street, having conveniently forgotten about the conversation he just had with someone in the back alley.
The Courier then slinked deeper into the darkness, using the low light filter on his visor to avoid rustling against garbage before slipping through the backdoor of the boarded-up apartment that was supposedly abandoned because it was too damp and too rat-infested for the locals to use as a permanent residence.
"You heard enough, Kit?" Six called.
Blake dropped down from the hole in the ceiling with a clear sneer. "Okay, seriously. How do you do that? How do you always figure out where I am?"
"You're obvious."
"No, I'm not."
"Yes, you are."
She tilted her head. "Not even the others could see me."
"Because they're not smart enough to look for the places where cats like you usually hide," he dismissed. "You done eavesdropping?"
"I wasn't eavesdropping."
"Really now. What were you doing up on the third floor for the past ten minutes?"
Blake mimicked a fish out of water, coming out with no feasible explanation as to why she had indeed been up on the third floor, eavesdropping on Six in the alleyway for ten minutes. She sighed in defeat. "Fine... I was looking for you."
"Why?"
"It's Ruby. She's bleeding."
His eyes immediately snapped up to her. "What?" Why the fuck did you wait fucking ten minutes before telling me!?
"She's bleeding," the cat faunus reiterated. For some reason, she seemed less concerned than she needed to be.
Immediately, the Courier began pacing towards the exit. "Shit. Where is she?"
"Casa Madrid. Look, we just need to—hey, Six, wait. Wait! Six, hold up!"
Six tuned her out as he hurried out onto the street and headed straight for the Casa Madrid Apartments, the den of iniquity in the whole of Westside and, debatably, one of the few safest places in the whole ghetto. Goddamn it, Hyper. You just had to get yourself injured so much that your Aura breaks and you're fucking bleeding!
His mind began churning through what medical treatment he could administer with what he had on him: some mild painkillers and some chems to slow hemorrhaging. There was some extra gauze in his field kit and he made sure that any surgical tools he carried had been sterilized recently. But first, he needed to assess the situation...up until he saw fresh spatters of blood on the pavement.
Shit. I'm coming, Hyper!
"Six, wait!" Blake called.
Six barged in, one hand on his holster and the other digging through the satchels on his person for the rolls of gauze he anticipated he would need. His strides thundered harder over the filthy carpets, brushing past patrons, hookers, and the local pimp Pretty Sarah who almost dropped the box she was holding with how hard he shoulder-checked her in his rush to find Ruby.
Blood trail's getting thicker. And it led further upstairs. To the third floor. To an unassuming room that was locked. He banged on the door.
"Kids!"
The noises he was hearing were indiscernible with the moans and shouts echoing from the other rooms in this sex den. He pounded his fists on the oak again.
"Hyper! Ruby! You in there?"
"Six?" someone replied.
"Six, wait! Don't—"
Damn it. Ruby's hemorrhaging right now and these kids don't know how to fix it! "I'm coming in!"
One solid kick tore the door off its hinges. Before the splinters landed on the floor, he was already four steps inside.
"Alright, kids! What's going oOouoafffucking shit!"
The Courier immediately swiveled on his heels as four reasonably startled girls screeched at him and tried to cover up what he had already seen.
"Six!"
"What the hell!?"
"Don't you ever knock!?"
He grit his teeth, mentally rebuking himself for never even considering that spatters of blood was not always indicative of a life or death situation. But still, come the fuck on! Goddamn it, Theo! You stupid, stupid, stupid son of a bitch! You dumb fuck, you should've known this was a thing.
"It's that time of the month, isn't it?" he seethed.
"Really, I wonder how you figured that out," drawled Blake who now showed up with the local pimp Pretty Sarah.
"So all that blood—"
"Oh, you mean the cranberry sauce?" Blondie interjected.
"Cranberry sauce?" Etienne's selling cranberry sauce? Where the fuck did he even cranberries? Shit, are they farming cranberries here now? How have I not seen that?
"A gift from the co-op for helping the farmers a few weeks ago," Snowball clarified. "We may have spilled some in our haste to secure some privacy after we noticed the blood."
"No offense, Six," Velvet intoned as modestly as she could. "But unless you're here to help, please leave."
He was about to. Then Ruby squeaked out, "Stop! Wait."
Six stopped under the doorframe and planted his hands on his hips, keeping his gaze solely on the wall of the corridor outside. "What, Hyper?"
"Uh...is there, um...does Miguel sell, um, uh..."
"Say it. What is it?"
"Tampons," Yang answered dryly. "Does Miguel sell tampons?"
The Courier blinked. "Tampons?"
Weiss sighed. "Sanitary napkins, menstrual cups, anything relatively clean to soak up our—"
"I don't know," he barked. Goddamn it, really? "Maybe. I didn't ask."
"Could you ask him?" Blake requested. "That's why I was looking for you. Other than Miguel or the physicians at the NCR clinic down the road, we were wondering if you knew anyone else here in Westside who can—"
Son of a walnut-chasing Ice Age squirrel on a spit-roast. "Fine," he growled exasperatedly. "Stay here. I'm going over to the pawn shop."
He could have gone down to the clinic instead and asked Doctor Kemp but that would mean shaking up the NCR beehive and Six was paranoid that some Ranger battalion was stationed nearby ready to pounce on his ass the moment he so much as walked in front of the damn building. That and Doctor Kemp was too fucking expensive and too damn patriotic.
Where the hell can you find tampons out here in the Mojave?
Incidentally, the Courier saw team JNPR-S moseying on out of Miguel's Pawn Shop with some brand new trinkets of their own...including a jar of dirt. Which was not too eye-catching because it was overshadowed by another jar, this time filled with formaldehyde and housing a...horse penis. Definitely a horse penis. A very hairy, circumcised horse penis. Wait. Who would circumcise a horse?
What in the flying fuck? Six clapped Jaune on the shoulder and yanked him over. "Tampons."
"Um, what?"
The Courier jerked a thumb at the pawn shop. "You see any tampons in there?"
Team JNPR-S eyed each other, perplexed.
Six sighed. "Menstrual shit. Like napkins, sponges, pads, all that stuff. Is Miguel selling any?"
Nora tilted her head, holding that severed horse-dick-in-a-bottle under her arm. "Hold up, who's bleeding?"
"Was it Ruby?" Pyrrha raised with definite concern. "She's the most likely to..."
"Yes," Six hissed. "Don't embarrass her. She's up at the Casa Madrid with her teammates."
Pancake made a noise. "The whorehouse, huh. Well, I guess better to bleed there than in most places around here."
"Tampons," the Courier repeated impatiently.
After a moment of looking at each other and looking around, they shrugged.
"I don't recall seeing any," Ren answered.
"Yeah, nada," Jaune quipped.
"Sorry," Pyrrha apologized.
"Eh, it's Ruby," Nora dismissed. "She'll be fine. She's got her teammates with her."
Useless pieces of... With a growl, Six brushed past them and walked into Miguel's Pawn Shop. Unfortunately, Miguel did not sell any of the menstrual products he was looking for. Annoyingly, the vendor informed him that the best place to find them was at the NCR clinic. Fortunately, the Courier didn't need to go there. Because as soon as he stepped back outside, he bumped into Ruby wearing a pair of baggy trousers. Very, baggy trousers. So baggy that if she fell from the sky, she would have used that as a parachute.
The little reaper told him that she was fine, that Pretty Sarah, the local Westside pimp based at the Casa Madrid, had a cache of menstrual management materials that she kept on hand in case any of her younger 'talents' reached that time of the month again.
"Sorry you had to see, uh, th-th-that," the reaper apologized timidly.
"It's fine, Hyper. It's fine. It was my bad. It's fine," Six groaned, the images of period blood running down Ruby's bare legs still fresh in his mind. "You good now?"
"Yeah! Uh, just that for the next few days..."
"I know, I know. I get it." And this is just Hyper... Shit. "Uh, what about your sister? Your teammates?"
"Oh, the girls?" Ruby twiddled her thumbs. "They can handle themselves. I mean, we're girls."
"And two boys and a deathclaw."
"Right. But we're Huntresses, too! So we can manage."
Six stared at her deadpan. "... Just...just give me a heads-up when it's that time of the month, okay?"
"You got it. And, uh, please, no kicking down doors?"
"I'll try not to."
"Great! By the way, Yang's coming up next. Her or Weiss. Blake's usually the last. Not too sure about Nora and Pyrrha though. Uh, just a heads up, after all. Not like you're a doctor or anything..."
"Hyper," the Courier breathed tiredly. "I'm not a gynecologist."
The reaper perked up. "Oh! I didn't mean that. It's just that...in case this happens again, um...it gets really serious and...there's no doctor around..."
He pinched the bridge of his nose while he let out a long breathe through his teeth. You can't be serious, woman.
"I mean," Ruby prattled disjointedly. "You have better medical training than...any of us and, um..."
"Ruby. You come from a Huntsman Academy," he worded. "A place that, according to you, trains 'guardians of humanity.' And before that, a damn combat school that, according to you, teaches you the basics of combat. Did they not teach you anything medical outside of first aid or weren't you listening to the instructors?"
Little Miss Rose shrunk under his glare. "... Both?"
Six felt the urge to massage his temples if only to stave off a headache that he was expecting.
"Spotters have got a fix on Charlie-Sierra in Westside," reported Lieutenant Carrie Boyd.
General James Hsu sifted through the report, glancing over the grainy photographs taken by the Ranger team he had stationed on overwatch in one of the high-rise ruins east of the Strip. While not on par with the vaunted Tier One 'Black Armor' veterans, they were at least less liable to bend to the Courier's whims...being that these specialists he was bringing up from California were fresh out of Ranger school and were, to the best of his knowledge, solid against the corruption plaguing his forces here in southern Nevada.
"Positive ID on Romeo-One and Juliet-One as well," Boyd continued. "Intel suggests they came in from the north, northwest."
"He's intercepted them and keeping them from reporting in," Hsu mused. "Status report on Westside?"
"All quiet at the moment. Progress on winning over the locals is abysmally slow and general sentiment remains towards us is largely the same."
"And our forces there?"
"Hasn't changed since last year. Very minimal presence compared to the rest of our outposts in Clark County. One squadron—in plainclothes with light arms—manning Doctor Kemp's clinic over there. Another squadron serving as back-up stationed at South Cistern east of there, currently patrolling the surrounding area. Uniformed, equipped with the standard kits. Additionally, they have one heavy machine gun and a small cache of handheld explosives."
"Are they requesting for reinforcements?"
"Not at the moment. Doc Kemp's sent in another requisition form for medical supplies, though."
"Give me the form. Assign two squadrons to ferry the supplies. They are to maintain a separate presence outside of Westside, preferably occupy one of sturdier to buildings there. Have them at maximum readiness. And have the Rangers continue monitoring Charlie-Sierra and friends."
"Yes, sir."
"Is there anything else?"
Boyd flipped the page on her clipboard. "We have a problem with our supply chain, sir,"
Hsu was unsurprised, so much so that he didn't bother to look up from his desk as he skimmed over Doctor Kemp's requisition form. "What is it this time?"
"We're missing a few important items on the general manifest this week."
"Aren't we always?"
"This is something we can't let go, sir."
He grunted. "I decide what we can't let go. What is it that we're missing?"
The lieutenant flipped over the papers on the clipboard in her hand. "Vital components for the thermic lances that the engineers over at the OSS use to do their jobs."
"How does this affect us?"
"Progress on Operation Chainsaw, Operation Dragline, and Project Fragment has stalled."
The general raised his head. Operation Chainsaw and Operation Dragline could risk the delays—they had all the time in the world to dissect the advanced technology and wartime relics of New Vegas. But not Project Fragment. Especially not now. "Have Sergeant Daniel Contreras brought to my office. Now."
Boyd smiled. "Yes, sir."
Qrow squinted his eyes.
Then he rubbed them clean of any dirt.
He squinted again.
And rubbed them again.
Then he held up the photocopy of the classified NCR report to the light to make sure that he wasn't seeing things.
Sure enough, he wasn't just seeing things. It wasn't the searing Mojave heat, or the exhaustion, or the lack of sleep, or the lack of alcohol, or the combined odors of a dozen people's sweat, piss, and shit getting to his brain. And while it was not the information he was expecting to find, it was about as welcoming as it was alarming.
"Son of a bitch," he muttered to himself. "Shit just got crazier."
The Imperium Americana had discovered a new god.
And Qrow Branwen knew that this new 'god' was the same arrogant son of a bitch who had been instrumental in the Fall of Beacon and the destruction of Vale. And probably was either involved somehow or knew something about the blending of their worlds and the mass displacement of men and materiel between Earth and Remnant.
Rustling and footsteps.
The veteran Huntsman quickly tucked away his copies of the files, replaced them in the drawer, and slipped into the shadows behind the wall of junk crammed into the back of the NCR command tent here at Fort Mead. Seconds later, Colonel Joseph Polatli stomped inside with his cadre of aides.
"Sir, I am telling you," pleaded one of his subordinates, a marksman wearing a crimson beret. "Someone has infiltrated the camp."
"Not just once," added another, a technician assigned to monitoring the radio calls between the NCR facilities across Clark County. "But multiple times, sir."
"And until I can provide evidence of that to the brass, we can't do anything about it," Polatli countered angrily. "I'm aware of this 'shadow man' that our Remnant friends have been meeting with in secret."
"Sir, you don't think—"
"I'm pretty sure. 'Cause I saw him leave Miss Schnee's tent."
Qrow mentally cursed himself as he continued to listen in from behind the file cabinet. Tight as it was, at least there was enough space for an unassuming bird to move around in.
"Black hair, unkempt beard, red cloak, lanky, tall. And pretty damn slick. One minute he's there, the next he's gone like the wind." Polatli rounded over to his desk. "I want a thorough review of the last patrol. I also want an evaluation of our perimeter with every single weakness highlighted. I want every inch of this Fort secured, understood?"
The other officers saluted affirmatives and departed.
Qrow watched Polatli take his seat in front of his desk before gesturing at the technician manning the comm station in the corner.
"Sir," she called, pressing her headphones to her ears. "We are clear on channel ten."
"Good. Are Miss Schnee and Miss Goodwitch audible enough?"
The Huntsman's eyes went wide. Then he mentally rebuked himself for being too busy running errands for Contreras that he had failed to notice that the NCR had bugged the tent that Winter and Glynda were living in.
Sergeant Reyes replied, "Affirmative, sir. Though I still have to manage the other—"
"I know. I'll be assigning you aides to focus solely on monitoring our lovely guests. Prepare for daily transcripts. We should have something to give to McCarran if they finally take us seriously with this."
"Understood, sir."
Qrow lingered a bit longer, picking up even more bits and pieces of information, until he was able to exfiltrate the NCR command tent. He then circled around the Fort for good measure, his natural color blending in with the night sky. To his surprise, Colonel Polatli exited the tent...and brought up a pair of binoculars to track him.
The strange red-eyed crow immediately flew westwards towards McCarran Headquarters.
Omake
"Hey, Six?"
"What?"
"Why do we still have all these eggs?"
The Courier looked up from the workbench in the corner of Miguel's Pawn Shop. Yang stood uncomfortably beside him, trying her best not to look too disgusted by the fact that she was shouldering a large bag packed to the brim with incubated cazador eggs that Ruby swore were pulsating on their own.
"Because we still need them," he answered tersely.
"Yeah, but..." The blonde twiddled her fingers. "... But why though?"
"I got a buyer."
"Oh. Um, how much are they offering?"
"Enough to cover expenses." Go away, Blondie. I'm busy making bullets for all of us.
"Okay... Who's the buyer?"
Damn it. She's not going away. "Someone I know."
"Scientist? Or, maybe, collector? Chef? Not that I'm saying I don't want to eat, um, err, I mean, not that I want to see these on a dish or something but..."
"An associate." Seriously, Yang. Go bother someone else.
"Oh. Right. Um, I don't want to sound complaining here but, uh..."
Goddamn it, Blondie. "What? Just say it."
"Uh... I think one of the eggs...hatched?"
The Courier stopped his work to glare at her. "Say again?"
Yang, who was now sweating and looking far too nervous, fidgeted and stuttered for a bit longer before Six gestured at her to turn around. And when she did, sure enough, he saw a large wet stain building up around the lower section of her backpack: the leather was soaked through and through. Which meant that some of the eggs had, indeed, spoiled throughout the journey and, unfortunately, split open.
"Ah, shit," he hissed.
"Is it bad?"
"Eh, don't move around so much. You might get the larvae all over you."
At this, the blonde brawler froze up. "Wh-wh-what do you m-mean?"
The Courier unbuttoned the flap and extracted some of the still intact eggs. And at the bottom of the pile, he saw it: a white pool of maggots crawling all around. "Hey, Blondie?"
"Y-y-yeah?"
"You wouldn't mind a little white in your hair, right?"
Normally, Yang would erupt into righteous flames at the minutest defilement of her glorious mane. But, right now? Nah, she could control herself. Besides, she needed context. "Wh-what do you mean wh-white?"
"You ain't gonna freak out or anything, are you?"
She gulped. "I'll try not to."
"Well...it's going to take me a while but...you might want to hold still."
Yang gripped onto the nearest solid object within reach—rather, she hugged a mannequin bolted to the floor. So much so that her knuckles were white. "Holding still."
"Good. Wouldn't want these little fuckers to explode all over your hair now, wouldn't you?"
Hell to the no. "Can I just use my Semblance and burn 'em all up?"
Seems fucking stupid but I guess I haven't been cutting these girls some slack. I think they know better by now. Blondie's probably got better control of her fire compared to last time. "You know what? That don't sound like a bad idea."
"Really?"
"Yeah. Let's give it a go. See if it works." I'm trusting you, kid.
"Um, you won't get mad?"
"Just don't go overboard."
Five minutes later, Westside's water brigade responded admirably to a conflagration that almost ate up the empty apartment across from Miguel's Pawn Shop. Yang did apologize to the locals for it but they forgave her...without any catches or strings attached or anything. This was largely because she and the other Vegas Wonder Kids were very popular. And not really because of Six's 'small monetary donations' to the community.
On the bright side, the larvae were all gone. And the Courier, after downing an ice-cold bottle of Nuka Cola to cool his head, forced Yang to shoulder another sack of eggs. Gecko eggs, this time.
ORIGINALLY DRAFTED: October 30, 2020
LAST EDITED: November 10, 2020
INITIALLY UPLOADED: November 10, 2020
NOTE: When I was in high school, one of the girls in my class started getting cramps (dysmenorrhea). It was apparently so painful that she couldn't get through the rest of the day. When that started happening, all the other girls suddenly turned into professional nurses and crowded around her, making sure that we boys didn't interfere while they helped her out before the nurse came. And...we boys had no idea what was going on. We thought she had a stomach flu or some kind of food poisoning. Yeah. At the time, we didn't know. Some of us knew but had no idea how to properly deal with it.
Also, in the early chapters of this story, I posited putting up the discarded drafts/early versions of the story's individual chapters. A sort of 'director's cut.' A reviewer recently brought it up and, after looking at how many discarded drafts I have, I figured I might as well put it up.
So the next chapter will the Director's Cut of this chapter. It'll be like an omake except it will not be part of this story's plot and be considered a sort of tangent/divergent timeline.