Chapter 1: Job Rot Jig
The year is 2295. It has been thirteen years since the Second Battle of Hoover Dam came to a close and the Mojave Nation established itself, changing the power dynamics of the wasteland for generations. As the New World continues to evolve and establish itself, the Old World, even now, refuses to be forgotten. This refusal, to this day, curses the land and its people, binding them to a past unwillingly but inexorably. In such times, however, the opportunity persists for people to become heroes, and stories to become legends. Alas, this is not one of those stories, for there are none in it worthy of being called a hero.
The mountains of Aspen held a scene of unusual sentiment from the rest of the wasteland, that being that it was one of the few places wastelanders could expect to find snow, especially all year round. Some said much of it was due to the Long Cold that followed in the wake of the Great War, the autumnal fallout still clinging to the ground as light ash. At any rate, the cold would often force the inhabitants of the community inside for long stretches of time, not that those who took up residence of this area were of a mind to complain. With how expensive this place was, it was only fair that the residence enjoyed every luxury they had been afforded.
The hotel lobby was fairly ritzy, even if it was just by wasteland standards. Men wearing suits, women wearing a vague equivalence of designer glam, automated staff and otherwise waiting hand and foot on each and all of them. A collection of the biggest wasteland trade barons stretching from the Midwest to the Deep South, oligarchs of the Post-War, capitalist royalty ranging from petty barons to established dynasties. Each and all subservient to the dreaded Middle Management of the Rocky Mountain Exchange.
A greasy hand reached onto a platter as a protectron server shuffled across the floor, pulling out mirelurk bits as he sat in the middle of the party. Showing the meat inside his fuzz-coated maw, the man took a swig from his flask as he wiped an oil-covered sleeve across his mouth. Every now and then, some of the other patrons would shoot a confused or agitated look towards the stained coverall-wearing gate-crasher, were it not for where he was sitting. He was on the waiting list.
"Del, you fat greasy son of a bitch, I can smell you from here!" a man wearing a tuxedo snarled as he made his way onto the party floor, flanked by two guards wearing combat armor.
Del smiled as he forced his body off from the chair. "Levi, you pretentious asshole, this whole party vibe doesn't suit you."
The two men clasped their hands together, smiling through fake pleasantries as they tolerated the necessity of the man who stood across from them. Levi Glasser was easily the most feared Labor Broker this side of the Mississippi River, a man whose influence was second only to Abacus in many important ways. Del Oliveria was the most capable caravan runner in the Rocky Mountains, a veteran of hundreds of trips that felled many would-be rivals and competitors, thanks to his natural leadership, business and survival acumen, and other main killer advantage.
"So, we doing this meeting here or after the party?" Del asked.
"Get to my office. Brody, find a towel for our "friend" to sit on, would you?" Levi replied off-handedly.
The manager and caravan boss made their way through the guests. Levi took a long swig of something expensive, seeing as this whole charade was just more work for him. If he wanted a party, he'd just go down to the local bordello, tell Kathy he's ordering the usual, and end the day in front of his computer terminal watching his numbers go up. Del thought about how rich Levi was and how little it seemed to make him happy. If anything, there was an important lesson to be learned there. That Levi's money was better suited somewhere else; preferably with Del himself.
The two entered Levi's office on the fifth floor of the hotel, Levi's favorite antique seat positioned behind the desk and an office chair with a towel so delicately draped over it on the other side. Both men took their seats as Levi pulled out a handkerchief and began scrubbing his hand.
"Aw, I didn't ruin your suit, did I?" Del quietly cackled.
Levi turned to Del and smiled. "You don't get to my position without having a little blood on your hands. Now that we can stop pretending we like each other, I'm sure you're curious as to why I've pulled you down from your turf in the Rockies?"
"Same reason as ever. I'm cutting into your bottom line," Del replied, smugly. "So, what are you going to buy me out with this time? A new condo? Stake in your organization? Or are you finally just going to adopt me and write me into your will?"
Levi smiled. "You and I both know who is going to outlive who, Tubby. If your job doesn't kill you, your fantastic healthy lifestyle should finish the job. Anyways, I'm actually here to hire you."
"Surprise, surprise," Del yawned. "You could have told me that over the phone."
"Oh, I was saving my call for something a little more important," Levi grinned. "Tell me, how's Rowley and Haines these days?"
"They're your rivals, you tell me," Del looked at Levi. In truth, Rowley and Haines were Del's best clients, and the primary source of all this funding and supplies. They had set up their headquarters in Steamboat and Glenwood Springs, respectively, and had dabbled in everything from arms dealing, loaning, the forced labor trade, and other aspects of shipping and logistics.
"…When was the last time you heard from either of them?" Levi asked as a smile crept onto his face.
"About a month ago, why'd you as-" Del's words stopped as the realization hit him. "…YOU BITCH-ASS MOTHERFUCKER, LEVI!" he screamed as he stood up and reached over the desk to throttle Levi.
"Careful, now, you don't want to lose your biggest living sponsor, now, do we?" Levi grinned. "That particular little maneuver was years in the making. Strong-arming you firmly under my thumb was just a happy little accident, and a very fortunate one at that. Now, if you don't want my guy going three-for-three, you'll let me go so I can give you some money, you big ungrateful bastard."
Del released the broker, who attempted to straighten out his bowtie before having second thoughts and discarding it entirely. "…Glad you can still see reasoning. Now, I have a job that you are well-suited to undertake."
Pulling out a remote, he activate a screen on a nearby eyebot. "You spend a lot of time in the Unclaimed Wastes?"
"I prefer the mountains," Del groused, still agitated over the loans his previous two employers had not paid him back on.
"Then this should be educational," Levi grinned as he clicked the remote and moved on to the next slide.
A good distance away from the hotel, at a reconverted ski lodge, a different sort of crowd was assembled. A vast array of killers, rogues, cutthroats, thugs, hustlers, mercenaries, whores, slavers, dealers, and other assorted scum drank up and laughed and fought as smoke and sweat hung in the air. As the bartenders ran up and down the line to accommodate for everyone they could, a small crowd was gathered around head of the counter as a man wearing wasteland leather sat atop it while a scantily clad girl sat on his lap and giggled.
"So there I was, fifteen Waste Wolves against me and my crew," the man began. "They all had pipe guns and clubs, and they'd already gotten the jump on Becker. As he laid on the floor and he bled out, I drew my own weapon," he said as he pulled out his long-barreled magnum, before dangling it on his finger by the trigger guard before dropping it. "Then I decided they weren't worth the ammo and figured I'd rather do things my way," he exclaimed as he pulled out his knife and held it to his companion's throat, causing her to giggle as the crowd stood enraptured.
The man then motioned swipes and slashes as he narrated each wound he inflicted upon his attackers. Those who listened knew that what would be a boastful exaggeration from most was not so in kind with this man. Enrique was the most feared knife-fighter in the Rocky Mountains, having proved his mettle against countless challengers. Legion, tribal, backwater thug, raider, it mattered little so long as the fight or pay was good.
"Really, the only challenge I had that day was deciding between the ears or fingers," Enrique laughed as his impromptu entourage goaded him on. He eventually took to spinning his companion on his lap around to face him, thinking of just taking her back to his room, getting her high, and partying until the day after tomorrow. This was the life. Money, power, pussy, everything a hedonistic killer-for-hire could possibly ask for. It felt good being the best Liquidator in the RMX.
The newcomer parted through the crowd, the partygoers giving him a wide berth. A few slavers sitting at the bar took notice of the latecomer, finished their drinks in a rush, and all but fled. The man took a seat and looked at the bartender.
"…The usual, Cade?" she asked. Cade did not respond. The bartender pulled out a clear pitcher and poured water into the waiting glass. The black-hatted gunslinger nodded as he took a sip, paying little attention to the smoldering glare from the man sitting close to him.
Enrique's eyes began to twitch as he remembered his single biggest issue. That being that he was the SECOND best Liquidator in the RMX, as Levi and others in Middle Management had seen fit to remind him ever since he lost out on the Darby contract to that man. Shoving off the girl, Enrique strolled up to the gunslinger as he nursed his cup. As the ex-raider leaned against the counter, Cade did not move his eyes to meet him.
"…What do you want, Enrique?"
"…So, Levi got you on his personal errands, eh, Cade?" Enrique smiled. "Must be a pretty paycheck for you at the end of the day. A guy like you should really learn to enjoy the fruit of their labors every now and then. Tell you what, I got this girl, a real freak, the two of you can enjoy a little something-something, and then what do you say, we team up!"
"I don't need a sidekick," Cade replied.
"I was thinking partner," Enrique replied through gritted teeth.
Cade looked at the ex-raider up and down. He was a tall man of a fairly muscular build who towered over the gunslinger, with a wild-looking mohawk and a Fu Manchu-style beard wearing pot-marked combat armor covered in bandoliers of various knives and gear, and Cade knew he often toted an LMG for when his dumbass knife-fighting gimmick inevitably backfired on him.
"…Had anyone in mind?" Cade asked rhetorically, taking a sip from his mug to hide his smile. Right as he set the glass down on the counter, a knife was suddenly buried a mere inch away from Cade's knuckles.
"You think you're hot shit, don't you?" Enrique snarled.
"Relatively," Cade responded.
"Relative to what?" Enrique asked.
"Relative to you? Seems like it," Cade answered.
Enrique grabbed Cade by the collar. "ADMIT IT! YOU'RE SCARED OF ME! YOU KNOW I'M THE MAN WHO'S GOING TO TAKE THAT CROWN OFF YOUR HEAD AND WILL BE THE NEXT, NEW NUMBER ONE!
Cade blinked slowly. "…You sound like such a tool."
Enrique stared at the obstacle standing between him and all he felt he deserved. Removing Cade would open up every door this world owed him, bestow upon him all the respect held back from him. All his work, all his climbing and scheming, every body and secret buried, every betrayal, it would all pan out if this shifty little bastard would just do him a favor and DIE!
"…You want to duel?" Cade whispered, just softly enough so that only Enrique would hear it. "I'm ready if you are."
Enrique slammed Cade back onto his stool and stormed out of the bar, his mood ruined. The gunslinger merely took up his mug once again and took a sip, grateful that the nuisance had left to bother someone else. Enrique's strategy had once again failed. As usual, Enrique had tried to find a way to rattle Cade, and as usual, Enrique was the one who ended up rattled. Because that idiot was downright certain that if he could anger Cade, he could make him vulnerable. Cade scoffed to himself as the bartender refilled his glass
.
"…And about a month back, our tech guys verified everything," Levi explained as he cycled through another image of the former southwest of the United States of America, now going by the moniker of the Unclaimed Wastes.
Del rubbed his eyes. This was downright fantastical, it had to be a hoax were it not coming from a guy who would have brushed it off as such unless given absolutely no other alternative. He hated Levi, but Del knew he could trust him on issues like this. This was nothing short of a treasure trove.
"…Fucking Enclave is the gift that keeps on giving," Del muttered to himself as he brushed his hands down his beard.
"Too right. I am so glad that they are finally dead and gone," Levi said as he looked above to any higher power that might be listening, "and more importantly left so much of their good shit behind."
As a result of an ambitious NCR prospector project in the Unclaimed Wastes, a major company had stumbled onto what was eventually revealed to be an Enclave storage bunker, one of a series of connected units dotted likely throughout the Southwest, and likely even further. The NCR had kept its cards as close to its chest as it could, so naturally the information had leaked and sparked a gold rush between multiple interested parties. Local prospectors and scavengers, either independent or backed by major powers, had taken to the desert and began trying to decipher coordinates and steal information from their rivals. It really wouldn't take long for the situation to turn ugly, and when it did, Levi was committed to making sure everyone had a fair chance, so long as they bought from him. But until then, he had his own stake that needed to be taken care of as soon as possible.
"I have a team that secured a bunker just outside Taos, a little bit south of here. They haven't managed to breech it yet and even then they don't have the means to extract the materials inside, so that's where you come in."
"I'm not fighting a war for you," Del growled. "No amount of money you can pay me is worth taking a bullet on your behalf."
"I'm not paying to get shot. If that happens, that's on you," Levi sniffed. "What I am paying for is a guaranteed win on my behalf. While the rest of the wasteland keeps killing themselves over some Pre-war trinkets from a bygone era, I will quickly and quietly collect my stake."
"…Quietly?" Del asked.
"…You're not flying my colors," Levi sneered, elaborating his meaning. "As far as the rest of the world is concerned, the Rocky Mountain Exchange doesn't exist outside of the Rocky Mountains, and it's going to stay that way until I deem otherwise. Till then, you are just a contractor."
Del snorted. "…What's the pay?"
"…Enough," Levi replied.
"…Where do I sign up?"
Enrique stormed through the resort and fumed. That cocky little shit showed him up, again. That cowboy wannabe had the whole Liquidations department eating out of the palm of his hand, and what did he do with it? Nothing. That was what infuriated Enrique more than anything. When one amasses everything there is to gain from being the top assassin of an organization that is always looking for them, you enjoy the perks. In Enrique's mind, Cade should be hooking up with a new party girl every night in his big bedroom in his even bigger mansion filled with loot and trophies, unmistakable indications of his success in the most competitive field imaginable. Cade was successful, but he was being successful the wrong way, with his austerity and his meager lifestyle. He was hiding something, Enrique thought to himself. That has to be it.
A blinding flash of light stunned him as he stopped. Shielding his eyes, he turned to see the vague outline of a massive shape, roughly the size of a building. Eventually, the lights began to dim, and Enrique's eyes began to adjust. Before him stood a massive armored vehicle, covered in steel plating and various grates. Upon the hood rested a massive horned skull, which any wastelander would not fail to recognize as a deathclaw. As exhaust spewed from the pipes surrounding the cabin, a lean and wiry individual climbed out of the vehicle as he continued to scan the condition of the vessel.
"…DAMMIT, OCKTAIN, YOU ALMOST BURNED MY EYES OUT!" Enrique snarled. The man in a welding mask turned to look at the welching hitman, cocked his head to the side, and then returned to his business.
"…What the hell are you doing in town, anyway?" Enrique continued as he began to calm down. "I thought you were banned."
Ocktain continued looking at some electronic diagnostic device as he assessed the state of the vessel.
"…I've had enough with the silent treatment, today," Enrique growled. "So for once, give me a straight answer before I plant five knives in you before your carcass hits the ground!"
Ocktain turned around, pulling an electric circular handsaw from his belt. He held it in front of him, bringing his other hand up alongside it, the prosthetic fingers all held up as he non-vocally intoned his threat.
"OCKTAIN, STOP FUCKING AROUND WITH THE LOCALS, WE GOT HIRED," Del loudly complained as he trudged his way through the bleak snow. "Oh, sup Enrique? How's life as number 2?"
Enrique gritted his teeth until he realized something. "Someone hired you for a job?"
"Levi did, and since his number one took care of my other options, I don't have much of a choice. We're going down south to pick up some hot cargo, and I ain't complaining about a milk run," Del responded as he looked to Ocktain, who replied by giving him his only natural thumb up.
"Levi gave you this job? You talked to him personally?" Enrique asked. Del nodded as Ocktain climbed inside the cabin.
"…This must be top priority…" Enrique stroked his facial hair. "…You two need some security?"
Del snorted. "Why don't you check in the back and then you tell me?"
"Are you really going to turn down free help?" Enrique asked.
"Say what you will about the bots, but at least they don't… wait, did you say free?" Del lifted the goggles from his eyes as he stared at Enrique.
"…I am offering my services… pro bono," Enrique stated. "On the condition that we split my supplies and expenses fifty-fifty AND a cut of whatever loot we come across, I will waive my hiring fee and salary. But trust me, you're going to need me a lot more than I need you two," Enrique grinned.
Del eyes him skeptically. "…So, I take on a free security guard and I get me an extra mouth to feed?"
"You GET the single best killer the Liquidations Department has to offer," Enrique counterproposed.
Del was about to snark back but held his tongue. …Well, getting the silver medalist for free isn't anything to scoff at, he told himself. "…Alright, you got yourself a deal," Del grinned as he took his hand and spat in it. Enrique took a look at the hand, took out a knife, and cut the back of his hand, rubbing the wound in the palm of his other before taking that palm and meeting Del's.
"…I thought you were supposed to cut your palm seal the deal?" Del asked.
"Not if your life depends on holding stuff like knives and guns," Enrique countered.
Del shrugged and they broke the shake, neither wanting to talk about how squeamish the experience was for themselves. The two of them climbed into the cabin, Ocktain already sitting in shotgun which forced Enrique into the sleeper while Del started up the engine and began pulling out of the resort. Despite all his cynicism, a part of Del felt giddy. He realized that what he was about to embark on could very well be an honest-to-God treasure hunt, and that alone spoke to the little boy in him. He knew, full well, that this was more than a job. It was an adventure, the kind that could make him a wasteland legend if he played all his cards right, and he knew how to gamble. Because he was at the helm of a multi-ton armored behemoth, and he was ready, willing, and downright fucking eager to roll over any dumb son-of-a-bitch who was too stupid to get out of the way!
The firefight grew closer to the camp. Tents burned as the defenders tried to rally some kind of counter-attack. The noxious green smoke burned into Travis's lungs as he made his way to the headquarters of his camp, a semi-permanent building established by his bosses to relay messages to the Los Cabos Salvage Company. He and his men had only signed onto this job because the hazard pay was five times what they typically made in a year, but they had also signed on because their company made security guarantees that he should have realized were fraudulent, he thought too late as his supervisor erupted into an explosion of dissolved glowing plasma.
Stumbling inside the building, he propped a chair against the door and avoided the windows as he belly-crawled to the radio. Reaching the desk, he leaned his back against it as his hand reached up and fished for the receiver. "…NCR, this is LCSC, please respond!" he hissed just over the static. "We are under attack from a number of unknown hostiles. Heavy casualties. The attackers are carrying energy weapons and-"
The door was kicked in. Travis peeked around the corner to see a figure darting inside. Standing to his feet, Travis pulled out his revolver and squeezed off every last shot he could manage. The figure darted beside him and dragged a blade across his stomach before slicing off his right hand. As the eviscerated prospector fell to his knees, the intruder took the receiver in his hand and spoke into it. "…We'll let a few of them live to tell the story. Next guys you send over won't be as lucky. Oh, and thanks for telling the whole fucking wasteland about the Enclave caches over your unsecured comms. We'll get right on it," and then he set down the receiver and plugged a plasma charge into the radio.
"Dumbasses," the man muttered. He looked over to the man on the ground, trying to keep his entrails inside as he choked on his own blood. "Yes, I'm talking to you. What did you people expect, coming out here, meddling in business that isn't yours, did you think there was a prize at the end of this?" the man scoffed.
"I've been fighting for decades, and you know what I learned in that time, at my ripe old age? Violence doesn't need a reason, violence IS the point! Everyone looking at me and asking "Why, Dalton, why would you do this?" Well fuck you, that's my reason! It's generosity! A lifetime of being told to eat shit and suddenly when I try to share, I'm a monster? Well, I guess I am, but I'm the monster you asked for, the one you needed! So if anyone who has a problem with me wants to do something about it, well, guess what? I'm not that great at hiding! You got another hand, champ, so go on, bring that gun up to my head and squeeze the fucking trigger. C'MON, DO IT!" Dalton shrieked, unaware that Prospector Travis had already bled out halfway through his rant.
"…Wuss," Dalton muttered, miffed.
Before long, an old man wearing a tattered military overcoat with a plasma pistol on one side of his hip and a legionary gladius on the other strolled out of the headquarters while his men stood and saluted him as he passed. "FOR THE LEGATUM SAEVA!" they all cried out.
"Yup," Dalton nodded as he looked over the files he absconded with. The Enclave had almost been as paranoid as they had been arrogant. Well over a century of planning, only to be undermined by a tribal blowing up their oil rig and another wastelander out east destroying their other bunkers. Still, having been defeated before they could resituate the wasteland to their liking had left a bunch of unclaimed goodies just waiting to be claimed by its rightful owner. Normally, wasteland 101 indicated that "finders-keepers" was the universal law, but Dalton had something most others didn't.
When Dalton was born on the Poseidon Oil Rig, when he was scarcely clean of his mother's blood, his DNA had been taken and filed into the Enclave's database. No doubt he was expected to act as an agent for the exiled government upon their reclamation of America, once he came of age. That day never came, but his file was never deleted. The NCR and Brotherhood, for all their enthusiasm for exterminating his people, could not have fathomed how deep the Enclave could bury its secrets. But Dalton could.
"Master Dalton, we've found the door," a man named Valruk bowed to him as he approached.
"Sweet," Dalton nodded as he followed him down. It soon became apparent that after a lengthy expedition, the prospectors had indeed stumbled upon an Enclave supply cache that had been buried in the years preceding the Great War. Next to the doorway was an electronic keypad, apocalypse-proofed to the best of Pre-war America's ability.
Dalton flipped open the panel and saw the thumb reader. Shrugging, he figured what was there to risk and pressed his thumb against the pad, only for it to retract and jab him in the digit with a needle.
"YEOWCH!" Dalton flinched back and pressed his thumb into his mouth, grateful his followers were too lost in their worship of him to judge. "…I really hope that needle was sterile," he groused.
"DNA on register," the automated voice announced. "Welcome back, fellow patriot, and God bless America," is finished before the doorway opened. Dalton turned back to look at his followers before stepping inside the dark interior. Fifteen minutes passed as his men waited. When he returned, a feature not normally seen on the old man's face was especially pronounced.
"…Boys," Dalton beamed. "I think we just made a major windfall. Get in there and grab anything you fancy, we're going after the other caches."
"Sir, there's no way we can cover that much distance," Sheol respectfully objected.
"That was the case. Not anymore," Dalton grinned. "Now get your asses in there and start looting. I got some reading to do," he said as he pulled out an aviation booklet.
A/N: Yeah, I know, this is the third time I've walked back on the whole "ran out of stories to tell in the tab," but I really thought I was out of inspiration. At least that was the case until I ran into the best new Fallout game of the 2020's. A little indie game called Dustland Delivery, an Oregan Trail-style driving simulator that just hits the Fallout spot in that special kind of way. Because the wasteland needs more semi-truck-driving couriers, dammit!
And for those of you keeping score, or at least up with the date, this story takes place thirteen years after Lucky Dragon and about eleven years before Lone Star Expedition. Expect references, but nothing particularly binding. I'll try to be especially sure to be gentle to any new readers.
