The Three R's [WIP]

Blood again, splattering onto the dirty sink, pain shooting through his chest as he coughed it up.

 

Unsurprising, completely expected, almost fated.

 

He wipes his hand across stained lips, painting his palm crimson, as he leaves the restroom. Every move seems sluggish, like his feet are weighed down by his very existence. Even the act of plopping into the chair by the window seems lethargic, accompanied by a weary sigh as he watches the small town bustle.

 

Goodsprings... it's gotten a bit busier of late.

 

NCR runs things now, the dam is theirs, and Legion doesn't really exist anymore. 1st Recon took care of that, word was that the greenest of 'em put down Caesar like a sick dog. Lanius was already gone, his broken mask put on display in Oliver's office, a relic of the past. He shuddered as the memory of Oliver's gleeful look when he brought him Lanius' head, the mask pushed concave into the cranium, and how damned happy he was when the troopers broke the mask off.

 

He stood up, shuffling over toward the kitchen, pulling open the fridge and pulling one of many bottles out. Tugging the cork, he downed a bit of the dark liquid, enjoying the burn as it settled in his empty stomach. He chuckled a bit, remembering his first taste of the liquor, and how he'd almost retched. Now he drank it wholesale, draining several bottles a night, usually heaving his guts up before passing out.

 

He'd just sat back down when a hand rapped against his door.

 

"Fuck off," he snapped angrily, glaring at the door.

 

No one ever bothered him anymore, not once in ten years had he gotten a visitor. He didn't want visitors, he wanted to sit, watch the town, and drink himself to hell. He'd been doing that for over ten years now, since she'd left, and he wasn't about to break his routine for some random asshole.

 

The knocks grew louder, continuing non-stop, each rap echoing through the house. He slammed the bottle down, the glass shattering and flying across the table as he stood. He ripped open the door, broken bottle still in hand, as he faced down the bastard who'd disturbed him.

 

She was young, in her teens, wearing this torn up leather jacket over fatigues and a white tee. Everything was patched up, from her boots to her own skin, and she had this fire in her eyes, just like...

 

"Are you him? I've been lookin' all over this damn desert, and a man sent me here from up north,"

 

Her tone was impatient, and only served to piss him off more.

 

"Maybe, who sent you, what was his name?" he growled at her, surprised she didn't flinch away.

 

"Said his name was Vargas, said he knew you once, and that if you weren't dead you'd be here,"

 

Goddammit Manny, why in the fuck would he tell some random girl where to find him? He knew, he fucking knew not to tell anyone, and he fucking blabbed his worthless hole at the first pretty face.

 

"You gonna let me in? Or do I gotta do something for you like the other guys?" she narrowed her eyes at him accusingly.

 

"Fuck no, who the hell are you girl?" he snapped at her, miffed at her statement.

 

She sighed, pulling a small square out of her back pocket and handing it to him. It was a holo-disk, probably just an audio log, but the crispness of it intrigued him. Walking back into the house, he went straight to his bedroom, pulling the nightstand open and tugging out a clunky silver wrist-brace. The pip-boy was old, taking more than a few seconds to boot up, and he found himself resisting the urge to grab a new bottle from the fridge before it's screen finally flickered on. Slipping the disk into a port, he queued up the only log file, and cranked up the volume.

 

"If you're listening to this, Christine made it, and you didn't shoot her,"

 

The voice was familiar, giddy tones still present after so many years, and he had to sit down to push back the tide of memories.

 

"Before I begin, yes she's mine, and I'd like her to remain in one piece if possible,"

 

The girl's followed him in, taking a beer from the fridge, and leans against the door frame watching him.

 

"I know this seems weird, that I'd send someone to contact you instead of myself, but at the moment I find myself quite busy. I've been working with things in the sink, and I found something. Something big as it were, and people took notice. I can't reveal too much, don't want to risk anything if Christine doesn't make it, but I left some stuff at the mountain for you. Stuff you might want to read. I won't lie, I'll probably be dead by the time you get this, and I want Christine to stay with you,"

 

Upon hearing the last bit, Christine drops the beer, the contents spilling across the floor.

 

"I know you don't like it, but she's safest with you. You can protect her, just like you used to protect us,"

 

The record ends, he sighs as he removes the log, and pushes the old tech back into the drawer.

 

"T-That's stupid! I'm not staying here!!"

 

She turns to leave, picking up a discarded backpack on her way to the door.

 

"You won't make it far," his voice rings out, stopping her dead in her tracks.

 

"You worked with her I bet, two of you together at that facility, no one else to share time with. She always hated working with people, more content to be left in a room toying incessantly with anything piqueing her curiosity. Whoever they are know this, and more than likely took her the second you left,"

 

He exited the room, pulling a new bottle of liquor from the fridge, and taking two glasses from a shelf. He motioned for her to sit at the kitchen table, filling the glasses before pushing one toward her.

 

"She sent you away because she loved you, just like a mother should, and now she means for me to be your father or something. I don't agree with it, I don't like the trust she puts in me, but I won't throw you out,"

 

She watches him down the glass without stopping, refilling it casually before continuing.

 

"I need to leave for a while, gotta go talk to some people, and I need you to understand that if you're gonna come, you can't say anything to anyone,"

 

She takes a sip of the liquid, regretting it immediately as the liquor blazes a trail down her throat.

 

"So you are him, the man that killed the Legate and won the Dam? Courier Six?"

 

He sighs, the reminder of his moniker almost paining him to hear.

 

"I was, it's just Nick now. That's what I want you to call me,"

 

- - -

 

It was dark; Christine was sleeping in his bed, not like he usually made it there in his drunken state anyway. Though he didn't drink tonight, no, tonight he crept out of the house. He went round back, small key clenched in one hand as he struggled to open a rusty lock. Eventually it gave way, and he made his way to the basement. Everything was dusty, left to neglect over years of peace, and he coughed as he dusted off the desk.

 

It’s filled with aging books, audio logs, and even a few souvenirs from way back. He doesn’t look at it long, instead he pulls open a drawer and reaches in, hands clamping around the familiar rattlesnake-skin grip. It’s his light, slightly diminished now, but serviceable all the same. He immediately regrets not stashing liquor down in the basement because now there’s nothing to push back those memories, and he’s forced to relive them.

 

-   -   -

 

It was raining, these thick heavy drops that splattered on the rock, and they ran from it. It’d soaked the duo through as they dove into the cave, and he clicked the pip-boy’s torch function on to light the way in deeper. They found a small encampment near the back of the cavern consisting of a bedroll and computer along with a few boxes of scrap all laid out like it damn house. He got a fire going pretty fast though, using spare clothes along with some scrap brush near the entrance to start a nice fire to keep them warm.

 

She was wandering around the entire time, too excited over the rain to sit still, and eventually she’d found the small grotto. The water was clean, pip-boy accounted for that, and before he could even speak she was taking her clothes off. Her rattan cowboy hat smacked him in the face as she exposed herself before him, and he was awestruck by the sight of her nude form as she dove into the water.

 

She’d never been like this with him, he’d tried, but she’d always push him away. Claiming she wasn’t no woman for him, and he deserved better. He persisted though, every time, and been rewarded a few nights with surprise visits from her. Eventually she’d even stopped her ‘loose’ ways, though she never said why, and tonight she made the reason apparent.

 

She dragged him in with her, no words spoken as she pressed her chapped lips against his, and they lost themselves in each other. That night wasn’t those lustful visits, it was love. Their first true time together, and she’d been his ever since.

 

Zion awakened them both it seemed, and he was thankful for it.

 

-  -  -

 

When the memories ebbed, he noticed the pistol had made its way to his temple, his finger curled around the trigger. He almost threw the damn gun across the room, cursing the very thought of keeping it out a moment longer. He set it down on the desk, running both hands over his bald scalp, ignoring the tears falling down his cheeks. He sighed heavily, as he turned back toward the stairs.

 

“You can come out, ain’t like you’re the quietest thing around,”

 

Christine poked her head out, throwing him a cautious look before stepping fully into sight. He knew she’d been there for a while, poor girl couldn’t keep quiet for the life of her, but then again he still had good hearing for his age. She stepped warily into the room, eyes flying over the multitudes of lockers and cabinets in childish glee.

 

“I-I’m sorry I followed you, just though you mi-,”

 

“Thought I was runnin’ out on ya, I understand, and I’m not mad at you girl. You share your mother’s enthusiasm,”

 

His chuckle echoed through the room, easing the tension a bit.

 

“So what is this place? I’ve never seen so many gun lockers in my life,”

 

She crossed over to a locker, pulling it open to play with an old service rifle.

 

“It used to be my stash room, haven’t been here much anymore. No need for any of this stuff,”

 

She didn’t respond, dropping the rifle in exchange for a matte-black metallic pole. She passed it from hand to hand for a few seconds, trying to figure out what it was. He said nothing as he took it from her, twisting a section of the pole, causing the two rods to slip out near the tip, and a pale purple corona of energy ignited between them.

 

“Wow...” she commented, eyes fixed on the purple light.

 

“It’s called a proton axe, dangerous to people, more so to robots. Scrambles their circuitry,”

 

He twisted the section again, energy crackling as it dissipates, and rods flipping back to their neutral state.. She’s like a child, eyes full of glee as she bounces from the axe to several other pieces of technology left hanging around. Most are simple, laser weaponry, but some are mere prototypes that never got finished. Stuff like the compact flamethrower and his failed attempt at a pulse blade.

 

He smiles, a chuckle escaping his mouth, and everything feels okay for a second. Only a second though, before he catches a glimmer from the pistol, and remembers there’s business to attend to.

 

“Alright, quit playing and gather up your stuff from upstairs. We’re leaving,”

 

Reluctantly putting down a knife, Christine heads for the stairway, only to be stopped at the doorway.

 

“We travel light, nothing more than absolutely needed,”

 

She nods again, leaving him to gather what he needs from the basement.

 

He starts with the suit, pulling the fatigues on, and tightening the ballistic plates. Several weapons find their holsters, several modifications having been made over the years to allow more firepower, and magazines are stuffed into pockets as he catches a whiff of a pungent stench still apparent despite how long it’s been.

 

-   -  -

 

This place doesn’t forgive ignorance, and a few near-death experiences taught him that quick.

 

He’s crawling amongst the rubble, gripping the improvised spear tight as he makes his way to the tower, and he can’t help but feel more paranoid by the second. It’s the noises in the corners that make him jump. The ragged breathing that sounds as if they’re right behind you, but when you turn to stare them down, they aren’t there. They’re always hidden, bodies crammed into the smallest places, and somehow they’re always watching.

 

How?

 

They aren’t human anymore, no, can’t call them that after what you have to do to keep ‘em down.

 

He’s sure his knuckles are white under the gloves, the wood shaft serving as his anchor to the realm of sanity as he creeps up the stairs. His eyes shoot back and forth when he steps into the courtyard. Trying in vain to catch a glimpse of them befo-

 

Oh hell, they’re here.

 

It’s almost deafening, the strange crunching/grinding noise they make before they attack, but it’s a welcome respite from the normal silence.

 

There’s only three, sprinting out from the second floor, clambering over the guard rail and leaping at him.

Bracing himself, he takes the tackle full on, using the beast’s momentum to throw him over his shoulder. He doesn’t turn to check on the tumbling form, the sickening crunch of breaking bones causing him to wince, instead moving to deflect the second’s haphazard thrust. The beast stumbles in surprise (he guesses) and the young man takes the opportunity to drive the tip of the spear-blade into the hunched over form. The blade makes contact, piercing the thick suit, and it lets out this horrific screech as the green gas pour out of the hole.

 

The way it spasms on the ground intrigues him, and he fails to remember that there were three of them. The third of the beasts notices this, and takes the opening given. The spear cuts into his side, bright crimson splashing against the cobblestone, and he cries out in pain as he spins to engage the last of them. His side swing is ducked, the beast leaping back and preparing another thrust.

 

Its final thrust is never made, the boy’s anger has been sparked, and he dives at the bastard. He tears at him with bare hands, punching the writhing form under him in a desperate attempt to end its wheezing breath. His beating has no rhythm, no cohesion, fists raining down onto the beast below him anywhere they decide to land. Eventually the visor cracks and the boy’s screams mimic the beasts.

 

Its face is mangled, completely unrecognizable from years of exposure to whatever the gas is, and it horrifies him.

 

The face would stay with him for a while, making its appearance in his dreams, and fueling late night alcohol binges.