The sun was blinding, and that was already a pretty big spit in the face considering the migraine she'd woken up with. Six pulled the brim of her stetson lower over her head to shield her eyes, the town of Goodsprings coming into focus. Doc Mitchell's house was on a hill that overlooked the town, for what little there was to look at. A few scattered homesteads, a dilapidated Poseidon Energy gas station, and two very old buildings that stood as the only non-residential structures in the town. If there was any illusion as to what the buildings were, their signs dispelled any such confusion with their bold and brazen plain description of what awaited inside: the Goodsprings General Store and the Prospector Saloon. Aside from this, she could see a few Bighorner ranches, a couple of small farms of whatever could grow in the Nevada soil, and lots and lots of dust. The Mojave Wasteland stretched in every direction as far as the eye can see, the skyline of New Vegas visible from here to the northwest.
It was a dusty dirt hole, and she wasn't sure what else she expected. She'd passed through a hundred just like it from Dallas to San Francisco, and it wouldn't be the last. They weren't complicated, they were simple places full of simple folk who wanted to do nothing but live their lives. There was peace in that, a peace that Six had long since forgotten what it was like to experience. Part of her wondered if she missed it. The rest of her hated herself because she didn't.
Six's boots crunched against the dehydrated earth as she walked down the hill towards the road. Or should she say roads. According to a crumbling and rusted sign that had been drawn over with new paint, this was the intersection of Nevada State Highways 160 and 161, just off of I-15 if she remembered her maps correctly. That confirmed she was just southwest of New Vegas, could be there in a few hours if she got a horse, several hours if she just walked. But New Vegas wasn't her destination. Her destination was the saloon, to find out where the fuck that checker coated yellow bellied coward went off to. She had a score to settle, after all. But she had no money, only six bullets, and no provisions. If she walked into the desert as she was, she wouldn't last long.
As her feet crunched on cracked pavement rather than sand she became aware of a sound other than the low and steady wind and creaks of the hinges on the rusty swinging sign that said 'Welcome to Goodsprings!' facing an empty and desolate wasteland. The sound of a wheel turning rapidly, the soft whir of machinery, and a low humming tune carried on the dry breeze of the Mojave. She turned her head to face it, the sounds coming from her right where a few homesteads with patchwork foundations and frames were laid out in a loose pattern. It was hard to miss the source of these strange noises, even if she were deaf. A robot, a model she didn't recognize. A large and broad robot, with a large rectangular body, shoulders blocky and protruding somewhat awkwardly from his chassis. Rather than treads, legs, or even a jet thruster for movement his body slimmed and tapered down to a single wheel that seemed entirely too small to properly carry the robot's weight, yet it did. His arms were tentacle-like, round and flexible, ending in three crooked metal claws for gripping. In the center of his torso, just above human height, was a TV screen that currently displayed a cartoon image of a winking and smoking cowboy, like the one on a bottle of Sunset Sarsaparilla or a pack of cigarettes. He looked friendly and approachable, like a wise and good-humored experienced man that everyone could trust and look up to.
She didn't buy it for a goddamn second. No one and nothing looked that approachable and trustworthy unless they were trying very hard to, and typically anything trying that hard to be trustworthy was most definitely not. She kept her hand hovering over the handle of her borrowed gun as the robot approached, that smiling image never changing. It rolled until coming just short of her, staring down at her with that bright welcoming grin and still smoking cigarette. "Howdy partner!" The robot said in a cartoonish Southern drawl, the kind of cowboy accent you would see in an old flick. "Might I say you're looking' fit as a fiddle!" It's voice came from some speakers just below the screen, and had that artificial tone to it, synthetic warmth injected into the forced friendly words. "Certainly a lot better than face up in a shallow grave. Glad to see you standin'!"
Ah. So this was Victor, then. Her savior, her knight in shining armor. A stupid robot with a stupid gimmick and something to hide. Just her luck. "Six," she introduced cautiously, keeping her distance. "Why did you dig me up?" She had to know. She had to know why. If she owed Doc Mitchell the price of a saved life and a Pip Boy, then she owed Victor a very, very deep debt. The robot saved her life, and she had no real idea why. It made her cautious and suspicious. What had moved its cold binary heart to risk its own safety? Robots were logical, but that wasn't a logical decision. Not unless this was a rescue bot from before the Great War, but somehow she doubted it. It looked worn, but not that worn, like it had been truly only been used for about twenty years judging by the condition of its chassis. She had never met it before, didn't know it's master, had not even asked for help. So why? Why?! Goddammit fucking WHY?!
"I'm always happy to lend a hand to folks in need!" The robot declared cheerfully, only further irritating Six. "When I saw all them fellers up at the ol' bone orchard, well, I knew somethin' was goin' on. So I stayed just out of sight till they left, then I came on over to dig you up, see if you was still kickin'." The screen flickered for a moment before returning to the cartoon cowboy, and Victor held up one of his three fingered hands, as if in a peace offering. "Turns out you were, so I dragged you on over to the doc quick as a jackrabbit! Hope I didn't harm nothin'".
"Nothin' the dic didn't fix," Six had to admit, still eyeing the robot with suspicion, despite her life debt to it. "You recognize those fellas? The ones that shot me?" As the only other witness to her own murder, Victor's insights here could prove invaluable. She remembered their faces well. It was their names she was missing. All she needed was a name and that motherfucker would be eating supper with the devil before the next cycle of the moon.
"Sorry partner," the robot said sadly, a strange juxtaposition with its smiling cartoon face. "Can't say I'm familiar with the rascals. But I know they spent most of the night at the Prospector's Saloon, so checking there might be a good idea."
Huh. An actually useful robot. That was a surprise. Six tipped her hat at the cowboy robot, an action she assumed he would reciprocate if he was capable of it. "Thanks Victor," she said as she began to move past him, "I owe you for digging me up."
"Nah, don't mention it!" He said cheerily to her back, "Come 'round the shack if yer feelin' tired, I got a cot you can rest yer weary head on!"
The invitation was considered, but Six had no desire to impose on the hospitality of others. Not when it created the expectation of reciprocation, something she most definitely could not afford at the moment. But she had a lead to go on, and that was far from nothing. Seeing as the Prospector Saloon was one of two businesses in the town of Goodsprings it was not hard to find. The building was directly behind the welcome sign and had a wrap around porch, a set of swing doors keeping the dust of the desert out while a very old man sat next to the door in a rocking chair that looked almost as old as he was. His skin had been tanned to leather by the Mojave sun, his large and full beard as white as snow under his rattan cowboy hat, worn with age.
"Howdy!" he called out in a voice that had seen too much in this world as she tried to pass him. "You must be that courier, the one the doc has been patching up. Good to see you up and walkin'." Six didn't respond verbally, nodding and tipping her hat in greeting, pausing a moment. In a town this small, everyone knew everything there was to know about each other and everything in it. It might be worth engaging the old man in a little conversation, just to gauge what knowledge he might have worth providing. But she was content for him to speak next.
"Name's Pete," he drawled, tipping his hat right back to her, "but most folk 'round here call me Easy Pete." When she raised an eyebrow, he chuckled, smiling. "ON account of me takin' it easy these days. Used to be a prospector, now I just help with the Bighorners occasionally." Six cocked her head, suddenly quite interested.
"Prospector, huh? Ever get a good claim?" Prospector was a name for scavengers and salvagers used across the former Southwest, and it was no easy task. Raiders, mutants, tribals, mercs, and worst of all taxes all work together to keep prospectors from their big score, according to them at least. Six knew better. Prospectors weren't finding any good scores because there weren't any good scores left, the ruined corpse of America picked clean and its bones cracked open for the sweet marrow inside. But that just meant prospectors learned everything there was to know about the area.
Easy Pete guffawed, snorting with laughter. "Hell no, kid. Had a good claim once, over by the Colorado, but got chased off by the NCR years back." He shrugged. "Too dangerous, anyhow. Ever since the Legion showed up, you can't spit in eastern Vegas without hittin' a man in a skirt. Raidin' parties all over the place, what I hear."
A disappointing but not unexpected answer. Six nodded in acknowledgement of that, showing she was listening to the old man. But she also had her own goals. "You know anythin' 'bout the snakes that shot me?"
Easy Pete shrugged. "The one in the fancy suit seemed to be callin' the shots. He didn't give ole Pete the time of day, but I know a Vegas man when I see one." A Vegas man. Yes, Six had assumed the same. It didn't mean he was already back in the walled city, however. Far from it. Still. It was something. "Any idea where they went?" He shook his head. "Nope, sorry. They left in the middle of the night like the cowards they are, kid. But try Trudy. That woman knows everything there is to know in this town." Bartenders tended to, especially in a shithole like this. Six nodded. "Thanks, old timer."
"Keep your gun handy if you start poking your head through some of these old buildings," the old prospector warned as he slowly rocked in his chair, "like the schoolhouse. Critters like to come and nest up in dusty forgotten places."
Six would definitely keep that in mind when she needed to get some caps in her pocket. Tipping her hat in thanks again, she left Easy Pete behind and pushed open the swinging doors of the Prospector Saloon. It was a dusty little hole in the desert, divided into two sections. A bar and several booths on the left, facing the windows that let in dirty filtered sunlight through the dust crusted windows. A rusty ceiling fan squeaked and whined as it lazily spun in a circle, providing the bare minimum in the way of air circulation necessary for the Mojave heat. The right side was a billiards hall, or at least an homage to one. A pool table in the center, bar stools along a counter, a juke box currently playing Frank Sinatra's Blue Moon, it's jazzy swing tunes filling the saloon.
Blue moon, you saw me standing alone,
Without a dream in my heart,
Without a love of my own,
Blue moon, you knew just what I was there for,
You heard me saying a prayer for,
Someone I really could care for!
A real swanky song. Probably meant to keep the few customers here, as few as there were. A few dusty farmers and ranchers sitting at the bar, and a woman playing pool with a large German shepherd sleeping at her feet. An older woman wearing a plain set of settlers clothes, white and gray and pastel colors that looked washed out and worn, just like the woman. No doubt that was this Trudy, owner and proprietor of this dusty establishment. Six kicked the sand and dust off her boots at the door before entering, heading right for the bar.
She leaned against it, keeping her hat low on her head, waiting for the bartender's attention. It took about fifteen seconds for her to finish wiping the glass before setting behind the counter and turning to face the courier, a pleasant smile on her face. "So you're the one's got the town so riled up." She placed her hands on the bar as Six nodded, leaning against it. "I'm Trudy. I own the bar, and some people say the town too, but that don't make it true." Six raised an eyebrow, which made Trudy chuckle. "Lotsa folks call me the town mother these last seven years, 'cause I care for 'em. Goodsprings is a good town with good people, and I do what I can to help it stay that way." Six was pretty sure that just meant she was the best gossip with the most dirt and the most debts to call in. And didn't trust anyone that so casually mentions their social power.
"Six," she said simply, not eager to give her name out to everyone that she encountered. "Heard you might know somethin' 'bout those fellers that put me in a shallow grave." Six was certain that Trudy was a perfectly nice woman and the socialite of this town but she didn't really give two shits. She had a mission and a purpose, and nothing and no one was going to distract her from that. "You hear where they were headed, maybe catch a name?"
Trudy shook her head. "The strange looking fellas in the leather jackets and horned helmets kept trying to talk about it with each other, but Mister Fancy Pants kept shushin' 'em. By the sounds of it though, they came in from the north. And didn't wanna go back through it again." Trudy shook her head, as if in disbelief. "Can't say I blame 'em, either. That whole stretch of I-15 is full of critters that just get mad when you shoot 'em. Traders avoid it like it's radioactive, which it could be for all I know." Fuck. Six should have known it wasn't gonna be that easy. The girl grunted, drumming her fingers on the top of the bar. When it came to conversation, oftentimes it was more prudent to remain silent. Natural human social dynamics determined that silence would be uncomfortable, that the answer provided would be determined insufficient, and must be expounded upon. All she had to do was wait.
It took four full seconds of silence before Trudy shifted about uncomfortably, rubbing the back of her neck. Six remained mute, waiting. Patiently. Finally Trudy coughed, clearing her throat uncomfortably. "Well," she said awkwardly to break the silence, "if a fella wanted to avoid that stretch and get back to Vegas, he'd need to go south. Take I-15 to the Mojave Outpost then take highway 95 north." Finally. Something she could actually fucking use. Six didn't smile, just tipped her hat. She had another question now, a very important one.
"What do I gotta do to get some caps in my pocket 'round here?" Towns like this always had something in need of doing. Ranching, repairs, hunting, maybe a missing daughter retrieved, whatever. Someone was always gonna need something, even in the post post apocalypse. Drifting place to place doing odd jobs for the people of small settlements had become her normal these last five years, and she wasn't expecting any kind of change now.
But just as Trudy opened her mouth again, the swinging doors were kicked open violently, making a loud bang that could be heard through the entire saloon. Six didn't look behind her, instead flicking her eyes to a mirror hanging on the wall, allowing her to see the entrance to the bar. Trudy pushed off from the counter, scowling at the men in her doorway, crossing her arms over her chest. "I thought I made it clear you aren't welcome here," the woman said with an edge to her tone that definitely defied her initial friendly demeanor. Six took notice of a still smoking half-smoked cigarette in a very dirty ashtray next to her, and picked it up between two fingers, not hesitating to suck on the end. She wasn't picky about her nicotine.
"I done told you," said a gruff male voice from behind her, along with the sound of boots stomping against the floor. She couldn't make out details, but she could see enough to get a sense of the leader. There were three men now entering the saloon and they were vastly different to the residents of Goodsprings. The one on the left was wearing a light blue button up shirt over a white undershirt, both ragged and dirty, the matching pants making him look almost unicolor. He was holding a cracked and worn baseball bat, loose in his hands. The one on the right was bare from the waist up save for an ammo belt slung across his torso, the shells on it belonging to the single-shot shotgun that he had a nervous twitchy grip on. The one in the center, the one who had spoken, had on a dark blue jacket uniform and body armor on his torso, front and back, making him look quite bulky. As he strolled in, she caught the glimpse of a revolver holstered on his hip. "I ain't leavin' till you give up Ringo."
Six exhaled a cloud of smoke and casually turned to only halfway lean on the bar, elbow on the surface, legs crossed over each other, hat kept low to obscure her face while still allowing her to see. She had a better look at the men now, especially the ringleader in the body armor. He had dark skin, a shaved head, goatee, and sour angry demeanor. His face was made for scowling as he was doing now, taking an aggressive stance in front of Trudy, who had stepped away from the counter to face him. He waved his finger in her face, growling at her. "I'm done playin' nice. If you don't hand Ringo over by sundown tonight, me and my friends are gonna burn this town to the ground." He pushed his face right into hers. "Got it?"
The atmosphere was tense, now. The few occupants of the saloon were starting to cloister behind Trudy, slowly trickling over. The brunette that had been playing pool exchanged her cue for a bolt action rifle, standing at the divide between the sections of the bar, and very loudly and very pointedly worked the bolt to chamber a round. Trudy didn't seem too fazed. "We'll keep that in mind." Six took note of a particular woman in a corner booth looking very distressed, loosening a cleaver from her pack to be ready. Trudy herself reached to her left behind the counter and came back with an over and under shotgun, clicking off the safety as she poked the barrel into his stomach. "Now if you ain't gonna buy somethin', get the hell out."
While his lackeys began to sweat and start to back towards the swinging doors, the ringleader just guffawed, rearing back and not retreating a centimeter. "All you yokels are the same," he mocked, "too scared to stand on your own." He cast his gaze around everyone in the room, holding out his arms wide. "Are any of y'all brave? Ain't we got a hero among you? Or do you only do your fightin' in mobs?"
"I'm your huckleberry," Six responded coolly and calmly from the bar, taking the last drag of her stolen cigarette before putting it out in the tray on the counter. She lazily cast her gaze over to the bragging brute of a man, just barely allowing him to see her eyes underneath the brim of her black hat. "That sounds like just my game."
He just stared at her, disbelieving. "You gotta be shittin' me," he scoffed after a moment, laughing mockingly and loudly, "really, kid? You really wanna showdown, huh, cowgirl?" Six didn't respond to the taunting, not giving him the satisfaction of a reaction. She didn't give much of a shit who this guy was, getting rid of him was going to repay her debt to the people of Goodsprings. She knew what the letters on his body armor's chestplate meant. NCRCF. New California Republic Correctional Facility. Unless the prison guards were doing some aggressive fundraising, she doubted he had the NCR's permission to wear their armor. These three were cons on the run, and she knew the moment an inch was given, a goddamn mile was taken. This was just pest control.
The man crossed his arms over his chest, trying to stare her down, use his superior height to his advantage here. It wasn't working very well. Six just regarded him with the same level of interest she would have towards a bug on the ground, barely even aware of his presence at all, and only slightly more invested in it. That really pissed him off, as it was designed to. "You tryna scare me, kid? You know who you're fuckin' with?!" She raised an eyebrow and shrugged, and that sent him into a frothing rage. "Joe motherfucking Cobb, that's who! And if you think the Powder Gangers are gonna let you disrespect me like that, you don't know my friends."
She pushed her hat up on her head half an inch, making sure they made eye contact now. A little half-smile appeared on her face, a mocking smirk that she knew was sure to decimate his masculine pride. But not as much as her words were about to. "Now look who's hidin' behind a mob."
"That's it!" He roared and went for the gun at his side, only for the woman with the rifle to lift it up, the townies doing the same, backing up Six, who didn't even move. Joe looked around him and knew the odds weren't in his favor, so he just kept his hand on the handle of the revolver without actually drawing it. At least not yet. "Alright," he said after a moment, slowly, carefully, "you're right kid. You wanna settle this like men? At sundown?"
Six shrugged. "Seems as good a time as any. Just you and me, in front of the saloon at sundown." There was a glint in her eyes then, a kind of satisfaction that as of yet had not appeared there, breaking the storm clouds to show the steel underneath. "Just like the good ole days. Hope your shootin' iron barks as loud as you do, Cobb."
The song on the radio filtered out, the saloon filled with tension, broken by the sound of the disc jockey giving his speal. While the smooth-talking gravelly cowboy Mr. New Vegas spoke, Cobb and Six stared each other in the eyes, as if daring the other to flinch. Neither did.
This is Mister New Vegas, here to bring you tunes and news and good feelings, not in that order. I receive letters from you fine, fine listeners every day asking for updates on the situation along the Long 15. Well, ladies and gentlemen, I finally have one for you. Ambassador Crocker of the NCR has personally assured me that Republic troopers are en route from California to patrol along Ivanpah Lake, and protect everyone there. To celebrate and say thanks to those troops risking their lives, here's the Battle Hymn of the Republic.
Patriotic music filled the saloon, and Joe scowled deeper. "I'll be seeing you at sundown, kiddo. Hope they got a plot for you picked out."