Chapter Text
A checkered jacket flashes in the crowd. For a split second, the Courier thinks it's him. The scrub-brush lowlife that tore out the memory from his brain with a nine millimetre bullet. But no. Benny lies under four feet of hot Mojave clay, facedown and fucked up beyond all recognition. The Courier's vision sharpens; it's only a raggedy flannel shirt, the dirty black-and-white pattern fading into the crowd as his attention to it wanes.
He needed a nap, that much was evident. No time for that, though; Bitter Springs had little to offer for non-NCR, and a courier's hustle never faded. However, a drink could be in order.
The place had changed, the Courier assumed, since he'd last tumbled through. Permanent shacks were scattered along the camp's outskirts, and fresh-looking wells were surrounded by throngs of people. Small shops had sprung up as well, but the Courier had his eye on one massive patchwork tent, with a half-assed wooden sign perched beside its flaps reading 'Barrel Cactus Taphouse'.
"I should get a Nuka-Cola. Or a whisky. Shit, or just plain water," he muttered. The Courier kept his voice low for good reason: the desert fatigues he wore had already attracted attention from the camp's occupants, and he was thankful for the lack of bravery required to voice them. At least he had scrubbed off the ink soaked into his helmet - although, the words 'Forgive Me' were still faintly visible. He supposed, though, they fit.
A fair amount of hustle and noise was coming from the tent - a pair of spoons clacked, and bubbles of laughter rose and fell in volume. When he pushed open the flaps, however, and stood up straight, the hubbub stopped dead. A decrepit ceiling fan creaked. Each soft-toed footstep and swish of his duster practically rang throughout the bar, and untrusting eyes settled heavily on his back. As he sat down at a long stretch of stained counter, the barkeep set down a freshly rinsed mug in front of him.
"I ain't never seen green eyes on a ranger's bucket before," she said with a slightly wary tone. "But then, you ain't no ranger, are you?"
"I'm not." He kept his tone crisp, but polite.
"Naw, he's House's gun boy... Ain't ya? You killed that Lanius guy, threw him off the Dam." The newcomer to the conversation was a scruffy wanderer type, with a warm bottle of sarsparilla in one hand. It was his other hand, however, that worried the Courier. It rested on a worn-out gecko holster, the thumbsnap undone and exposing the grip of the wanderer's .45 revolver. It was one hell of a gun, and the sight of it raised the Courier's hackles instantly.
"I did."
"Well, lemme buy a drink for ya, then. No sense in a war hero not being recognized." The wanderer snapped his fingers with a whistle, and waved the barkeep over with an impatient hand. "Two shots of bourbon, and make it snappy-like." Nevermind the gun, even the wanderer's tone of voice rubbed the Courier the wrong way.
"I don't drink." This, of course, was a heinous lie, and it hurt - just a little - to forgo that shiny bottle of liquid joy on the shelf. However, there was a point to be made, and those always came before booze.
"Bullshit. Any man who's worth his caps drinks."
"That's what this is about, then? Caps?" The Courier paused, running the conversation's possibilities through his head. He wasn't in any position to take on a new job, not the way he was travelling. Anything south of Bitter Springs wasn't going to happen. Anything terribly eastern was a no-go, as well. "You wanna hire me, is that it?"
As the barkeep set down the two shots in front of him, the wanderer smiled unpleasantly. "Now, what gave you that impression, pardner?"
"That's quite the gun you've got there, partner. And I'm not sure if I like where it's being pointed." The .45 was out of its holster by now, the barrel aimed towards the Courier.
"Well, y'see, I'm fixin' to take somebody out. Now, before you get your trenchcoat in a twist, I ain't fixin' to shoot ya. But considerin' that this here firearm is primed and ready to blast out your balls at the drop of a hat, I'd be recommendin' you listen."
So, that's what it was going to be.
A silence followed the wanderer's speech, then the Courier sighed. "Let me take my helmet off, then..."
"Yeah, you take a minute, you better hear me right-" His sentence was cut short, unfortunately, by the Courier's helmet whipping up and under his chin, sending an oozing chunk of bitten-off tongue flipping through the air. Dazed and disoriented, the wanderer scrambled for his gun, but the Courier had already snatched it from his slackened grip. Now, the .45 held the wobbling jowls of the wanderer's chin tight, as a disgusting slime of saliva and blood dripped from the corner of his swiftly swelling mouth.
"'I better hear you right'? Is that what I heard?" The wanderer's mouth twisted, and he attempted to spit, but failed as the Courier's open palm crashed against his face. "I will shoot you. And I will drag your stinking corpse out of this town, and dump it down a fire ant pit, am I clear? I will personally make sure that neither God nor the Devil himself will come for your shit-stain of a soul." The Courier pushed the barrel of the .45 inwards, eliciting a pitiful whine from the wanderer. "You got anything else on you, you piss-poor excuse of a greasy sumbitch?" The poor sap shook his head with a fervour, his hands flipping out pockets and coat folds with a panic. "That satchel, drop it. And the holster. You're gonna leave here with nothing but the cloth on your sorry ass, you understand?"
"Ye-yessir, of course, yeah." The leather goods fell to the ground with a dry thump, and the .45's grip was finally loosened. With a shove and a kick and a cry of 'Git!', the wanderer bolted through the tent flaps, stumbling heavily as he left.
The barkeep stared after him for a moment, arms slack at her sides. "...Thanks, man. That was a pretty good display you put on back there."
The Courier nodded, and knocked back both of the untouched bourbons before scooping up the wanderer's satchel. Opening the clasps, he rifled through the bag until he produced a small leather sack, full to the brim with caps. "Here."
The barkeep blinked, wide-eyed and contemplating the morality of this sudden windfall. "I- Sir, you don't have to..." She paused. "Thank you. Really, thanks." Anxious to continue past this turn of events, she swept the sack off the counter and tucked it into a small metal crate behind her. "You, uh, you got a name? Destination?"
The Courier stooped to pick up his helmet, then slung it back over his head. As the green lenses flashed to life, the internal speaker crackled and spit as his voice came through the modulator. "Name's Maddox.
And I'm going North."