(no subject)

[yourantiher0]

A Fallout 2 Fan Fic - Title Undecided

________CHAPTER 1________
TAKOKUJIN OF SAN-FRANCISCO

I would often have nightmares about that place. In the nightmares, I would awake from a deep sleep. Strange how realistic and stirring a dream about waking can be. I would strain my eyes, trying to make sense of the amorphous shapes past the thick green haze before me. I floated, unable to move. Air was forced into my lungs. A terrifying feeling, to be forced to live. To not have even the most basic of human freedoms. It wasn’t a desire for death that made me dislike the feeling, but an impossibility of its occurrence. There should at least be a chance.
I awoke with a start. Taking a moment to collect myself, I looked over my surroundings to make sure I was truly awake. Outside the open window, I could see the streets of San Francisco. A cool breeze floated around the room. The streets were quiet. It must have been very late at night. I drew my hands up to my sweating face and fell back onto the thick pile of mats and blankets. I stared up at the low wooden ceiling above me.
“What’s the matter Tak?” Miaya. My sudden movement had pulled her from her slumber.
“Nothing. Just a bad dream.” I said to her. I stared blankly out the window, into the barren wasteland on the eastern horizon. The wasteland. I had such mixed feelings about it.
The sun was just rising; it was later than I thought.
“Well…” Miaya said, seductively, “…now that we’re both up…” She sat up and put her hand on my neck, leaned in to my ear, then licked my cheek. “How about a little more?”
I cracked a little smile.
“Well… if you insist…”

Walking out of a person’s house while they’re still asleep is always strange. I never knew how to do it right. Do you leave a note? Wake them up? I felt awkward doing it, without saying goodbye, but Miaya understood. We had been in this position a few times before. Still.
A jet-black dog that was sleeping by the doorway snapped to attention. It looked up at me. Its ears pricked up, it’s tail wagged. It let out a half growl. He was well groomed and taken care of. His eyes had a certain intelligent glow, and looking into them, you could almost hear the gears turning in his head.
“I know. You’re hungry.” I reached into my rucksack in search of a little food to give him. The dog was always hungry. I’m willing to believe that dog has some sort of parasite living in him. That requires at least twice his body weight in food to survive. My hand emerged from my rucksack with a piece of Brahmin jerky I had been keeping in a burlap pouch.
The dog sat up on its hind legs.
I thought of what to make him do to work for it. I gave him a hand signal.
'Intimidate.'
Like suddenly struck by some unseen force, the dog fell back to all fours. He arched his back and all his fur stood on end. He began to quiver slightly. The dog began frothing at the mouth, and trembled terribly like it was being assaulted on all sides by a thousand clubs. His eyes burned with an unnatural fire. They were bottomless, like the eyes of the dead. A sound so terrifying that it could stir the dead from their graves emanated from deep within the quaking throat of this transformed beast.
I tossed him the jerky. Instantly, like turning off a switch, the dog seemed to exorcise the demon that had possessed it. He snapped the jerky out of the air and began to chew it happily. I thought to myself: Better. But he needs improvement.

We began to walk down the street.

***

It was nice coming back home. It soothed me, it was familiar, and I felt like I belonged here. Granted, I didn’t look like anyone else here. Or even talk like anyone else here. Except for perhaps, the Tanker Vagrants, or some of the Hubologists. But the Vagrants were always… I don’t know. Not my type of people. Rude. And as for the Hubologists, I could talk at length about them. Let’s just say I dislike religious fanatics. Especially when they take advantage of people the way they do.
But despite the slight sense of alienation, (which I had been dealing with in spades since I was young,) it was great. These pilgrimages of mine… they were keeping me sane. There’s just something about that wasteland. It does things to you. You see things. Things you wish you could un-see.
We approached my front door. Or rather, I should say, Dr. Fung’s front door, since I didn’t live there anymore. I had moved out years ago.
The door was open and the light was on. I predicted that Dr. Fung would be at his desk, in his white coat, with his head buried in his work like an ostrich’s into the ground. I was right, for the most part. His head was more like that of a tick. Buried up to the shoulders.
His voice intercepted me from beneath his pile of papers.
“Don’t worry Takokujin. You’re only about eight hours late. No big deal.” The casualty with which he said this was where the humor lay. Dr. Fung’s heavy Chinese accent made me feel even more at home than on the streets.
I smirked. “Sorry. I was on business.”
Dr. Fung let out a short, focused burst of laughter. “Ohhh… business. I see. Where was this business of yours?” ‘Biz-a-nesse’ I loved that accent. I really wished I had one.
“Here and there.” I responded. I knew what was coming.
“Well… it certainly was not ‘here’. But if by ‘there’ you mean with a pretty girl, then you’re only half lying to me.” For eighty years old he sure was on the ball.
I smiled as I dropped my rucksack. It landed with a boom on the hardwood floor of Dr. Fung’s office. Here we go.
“Who was it this time, Takokujin? Seru? Kyosko?”
“Miaya.” I said. You could hear the smile on my face.
The doctor paused. He had his head still firmly planted in the papers on his desk.
Dr. Fung spoke up, still a little humor left in his voice. “You know what I used to have you do in this situation.”
“50 knuckle push-ups.” I replied. I remembered that well.
“You should probably get to bed, Takokujin. You wouldn’t want to miss the caravan in the morning.” He still looked straight down onto his desk, simultaneously talking to me and diagnosing patients. I always wondered how he did that. Split his concentration like that. Still, despite his humorous tone, I detected a bit of sadness in his voice. I’ve always been good at divining the emotions of others. Call it a gift. I would have been a great therapist.
His sadness was at least justified. I couldn’t ever stay for long. And when I did I usually just spent my time elsewhere in San Francisco. And not enough time as I probably should with him. Whenever I left, he could never really be sure if I’d come back again. He tries to hide it. He often has a joke or prank to say goodbye with. But underneath the act he can’t bear to see me go. After all, I’m the closest thing he had to a son. When I first wandered into the town, no one would have anything to do with me. I was wounded. I was incoherent. Naked. Starving. The townspeople shooed me. But not Dr. Fung. He took me in. He clothed me. Bathed me. Fed me. Took care of my wounds. Gave me a name. Takokujin meant 'the lost one.' That was nearly ten years ago

I made my way back through the house, to my old room.

A memory suddenly shot into my head. An unpleasant one. I remembered falling, blind, and hitting a cold metal floor. I was terrified. My muscles ached and my lungs were on fire. I coughed up a thick, green liquid, viscous and filled with small metallic specks. It only made the burning in my lungs worse. I cried. Laying there on the steel tiles. The room was dark, besides a dim red glow emitted by a flashing computer panel. That was my very first memory. Or rather, I should say, experience. At that time I had a wealth of knowledge. I could speak, stand, and identify objects. Wall, book, chair. Things like that. But I was a clean slate in terms of experience. I had the body of a thirteen-year-old. It was some time before I even saw my own face.
I snapped out of my trance. I hate those memories. Those nightmares. I contemplated whether or not I should even go to sleep. I didn’t want to chance it, but I was exhausted. Miaya was not the only girl I’d visited that night, and if Dr. Fung had known that, I probably would have had to do those push-ups after all. My dog had curled up into his pile of rags in the corner, already snoring loudly. He was the only dog I had ever known to snore.
Good idea, I though to myself. I walked over to the bed to lie down, and sleep came quickly. A dreamless one, thankfully.

***

When I awoke, Dr. Fung's door was closed. He must have stayed up a little later than I did. I hastily prepared my things. The dog rolled over onto its back, still far away in his slumber. For a one-hundred and eighty pound monster of a dog, he slept (and generally behaved) like a puppy. His tongue hung out of his mouth, nearly in his eye. His legs kicked gently. He was dreaming. I sort of envied that. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I still have good dreams every once and a while, but the dog never worries if he will or not. Just one of those little things.
I cleaned up using Dr. Fung’s shower, a luxury. He even had soap, which was one of the advantages of being in the medical profession. Lots of money to be made.
After I had gone through the contents of my rucksack, (and had made absolutely certain that everything in my black bag was in order,) I woke up the dog.
I considered waking up Dr. Fung… but I hated to wake people up. It seemed so… impolite. So I wrote him a note instead. I was going to catch hell for it later, but I just couldn't bring myself to wake him up and tell him goodbye. Maybe part of it was that I didn’t want to see him upset over my leaving. I wrote a particularly sappy note, too. Thanking him for everything. Current hospitalities and past. And I thanked him for being such a good father to me. I’m pretty sure it was the first time I had called him my ‘father’. Any anger he felt for me leaving like this should be quelled with that. I left the note on his pile of papers, where I was sure he would find it.
With that, I walked through the door. Once again into the wastes.

Waiting outside the city gates for the caravan, I had moved onto an entirely different subject in my mind. I stretched my legs and arms. Popped my neck. Loosened up a bit. Thought of what I would do when I got to the Den. The dog sat beside me, viciously scratching his neck with his hind leg.
The caravan came a bit earlier than I expected. It was a pretty standard caravan. There were two Brahmin pulling the cart, which was fashioned from the back of a beforetimes car. It was stacked with goods. Various boxes and containers covered with a tarp. The caravan master, who I had never seen before, had a scowl that as far as I could tell, was permanent. He looked like he was new at this. You could tell by the leather on the cushion that he sat on. Leather was not a material that agreed well with wasteland travel. (Unless you were wearing it to avoid getting stabbed, like I was.) There was the usual band of roughnecks and rogues sitting on top of the load. I knew all of them. They were seasoned, despite their questionable appearance, and were good at what they did. They knew me as soon as they saw me, but said nothing. So was caravan etiquette. You were not allowed to have opinion. They could have very easily have said ‘There he is. That’s Takokujin.’ But unless asked directly, escorts were just weapons. As the wagon pulled up next to me, the caravan master spoke:
“We’re looking for a Taukokookao-jin. Know anybody around here by that name?”
I hardened my expression. “Do you mean Takokujin, Sir?”
“Yes I suppose. You’re not him, are you son?”
“Yes sir.” I was such a freakin’ professional. “I am Takokujin. If you are Wallace Mattingly, then I was hired by the Crimson Caravan to accompany your stock through the desert, sir." I looked straight ahead, not making eye contact.
“That’s a Shi name, isn’t it? You certainly don’t look Shi. You look more like normal folk.”
The way he said that made me want to punch him in the face. I WAS Shi. Bigot sonuvabitch. ‘Normal Folk’. The concept made me laugh on the inside.
“Yes sir. That’s a Shi name. If it pleases you, you can call me Tak.”
“Sure… why the hell not. Tak. Well, get on Tak. We gotta get outt’a this hole if we want to make it to the Den before the 23rd. We went a long way out of our way to get you. I was told you’d be worth it.”
I threw my rucksack onto the cart. ‘Get outt’a this hole’ ‘make it to the Den’. If you knew the Den, you knew how ironic this statement was. The Den was the biggest hole there was. I decided. As soon as I get paid, I’m going to throw him through something hard. Like a wall or something.
“Yes sir. I’ve been told I’m the best if you can forgive my arrogance.”
I threw my rucksack into the back, nodding to Dylan, an escort I was particularly familiar with. My dog hopped up quickly into the cart with me. He loved to travel. The caravan turned around, and started to move.

***

A caravan trip can be one of two things. One outcome, nothing happens. Escorts are just dead weight. I always like this outcome. It gives me time to reflect, meditate. The wastelands, even for their ugliness, can have their moments. Like the sunrise for example. I haven’t the words to describe the myriad of colors that you can see over a desert horizon. They shift and change, like a fire gecko’s skin. Reds and oranges. Burgundy. Maroon. Sometimes even blue if the sun catches the contours of the sand just right. It’s one of those moments in which you can only sit, and admire. No thoughts on your mind but the next brilliant transition of color. Occasionally you’ll pass a mountain or bluff, and the light casts wonderful shadows, like the ink writing of some giant. And night in the wastes, is the most absolute darkness that one can experience. The darkness of the night camp is almost too soothing for me. I often stay up the whole night, far from the bonfire, letting the blackness devour me.
Caravans never traveled at night, for the plain fact that you can’t see the ground in front of you. Sometimes caravans will bring lights or burn torches for short trips. But that’s impractical and sometimes dangerous. Most caravan shipments are weapons related, and burning, falling embers don't mix well with guns. Batteries for lights are nearly impossible to find. But are becoming more common.
Radscorpions are another big problem. They hunt at night, and travel in huge packs during the day. I've never seen one sleep. (I used to know a scientist from the Broken Hills who said they do, but they have two brains, and they alternate between being conscious. Weird.) Well, maybe they're not a 'big' problem. They only prey on specific types of animals, humans, luckily, are not on the menu. Every once and a while they'll take a Brahmin in the middle of the night. Make the rest of the trip a hassle. The only reason that they're a problem, though, is that they're hyper-aggressive. They defend their young and their kills with zealous devotion. God forbid you stumble into one of their caves.
So when they grab a Brahmin on the trail, it's best just to let 'em have it. I heard a rumor that before the war 'scorpions' used to be tiny. Small enough to fit in your shoe. There's not much around that's tiny anymore. Anyway, I'm getting off subject.

Outcome two. Conflict. I must say that I enjoy this more than outcome one.

There are a host of dangers for caravans. Raiders, tribals, the aforementioned Radscorpions, not to mention a bunch of other bizarre wasteland scourge. That’s what the escort is for. To see to it that said dangers do not affect the shipment.

“RAIDERS!” One of the escorts called. He struggled to give us more information through his binoculars. “Looks like… ten or, like twelve… I don’t know…”
Speaking of conflict...
I stood up, and looked out into the desert.
“There’s thirteen. Vipers. Six rifles between them. Shotguns and pistols on the rest. Except for one. It looks like he has some sort of… Flamethrower or something.” I jumped off of the now halted caravan. My dog looked as if he was about to explode with excitement.
Raiders would often employ the use of a horrible device, called a steel death, to move across the desert. I had heard somewhere that in beforetimes, they were called ‘bicycles’, and they were for children to play with. Except without the spikes and blades and various human souvenirs decorating them. It was taboo to be riding one of the things, and they were pretty much specific only to the Raiders.
“Should we start shooting now, Tak?” Dylan asked, nervously.
I considered. “No. Put your guns away. They’d nail us at this range. Except for you. Uh… what was your name again?” My relative calmness seemed to be stupefying. Even with a crew this experienced, the survival rate against Raiders in these parts was not good. Even if you weren’t out-manned and out-gunned. As we were.
“Your name.”
“Stanley!” He sputtered.
“That’s right.” I remembered. “From Modoc. Anyway, look, do you think you can hit a mark with that rifle of yours from about… say… sixty feet?” I motioned to his gun.
“Y…yes… I guess so.” He said, panicked.
“Okay… I need you to calm down and lay down underneath the cart. Keep your sight on me. When you see me make this hand signal, start plugging raiders, okay? The ugliest one first. Can you do that?” I stuck my hand out, and spread my fingers wide.
“Yeah. Yeah I can do that.” He seemed to be gaining a bit more confidence. He laid down under the cart and I put the tarp over his gun scope, from a distance it looked like it just fell off.
“Okay…” The Raiders were coming in fast. “Dylan. Take this pistol and put it on your belt. In the back.” We only had one pistol, and it was the only thing that wouldn't blow our cover.
“Yeah… but… 10mm?… will that…”
I cut him off. “Penetrate his armor? Yes. At the range we’ll be at.”
Dylan’s face whitened. I put the pistol in his belt for him.
“You two…” I looked at the other two escorts. All you have to do is pick the weapons off the ground when this thing starts. Can you handle that?” They nodded. They seemed a bit more relaxed than the relatively younger Dylan and Stanley, although equally confused.
The master looked as though he was about to collapse. Told horror stories about raiders, no doubt. He was probably on the verge of a heart attack.
“Sir! If I may ask for your assistance?”
He looked up at me with a quivering face. He was about to cry.
“What? What in the hell could I help with?”
“I humbly request that you hide behind the cart and give me your clothes sir.” Not a smirk. Man I was a pro.
He looked at me, puzzled.
“Sir. Bear with me sir. I haven’t the time for explanation.”
He complied.
I put on his clothes behind the cart. I was assuming that the raiders had seen none of this preparation, the masks that they wear to scare their victims and keep out the sand are pretty thick. Usually the bulging green eyepieces didn’t allow them to make out subtle differences. They were not, after all, subtle hunters.
They came within range.
“Okay. Follow me you three. Don’t talk. Adjust your expressions to match my story.” I paused. Got into character. “You good over there Stanley?” I called back.
“A little shaky… but I’ll be okay.”
“Shaky? You’d better fix that Stan. It’s our asses up here.” I had confidence in him. People with his sort of character come through in the pinch.
I looked back to the dog. His tail was wagging eagerly.
“Sorry boy. You have to sit this one out. Stay.” He whimpered softly. He put his head down on his paws, and looked at me with a pouty face.
Here they were. Showtime.

***

I raised my hands into the air.
“Please friends! Please! We mean you no harm!” I called to them.
They stopped, and their leader skidded in front of me, spraying sand into my face. I put him at the top of my list. The rest of his cronies laughed. He took off his black rubber gasmask, and his gang followed suit. Raider instinct. They never just kill the people they rob right off the bat. They‘re sick and twisted. Too stupid and childish just to handle it like business. They reminded me of little kids, always playing with their food.
The leader spoke.
“Give me a good reason not to open you up and see what’s inside.” Idiot. What a conversation starter. He was obviously trying to show off to his friends. Show them how macho and sadistic he could be to a perfect stranger. I gave him my best wimpy businessman distress look. I’ve seen a lot of them.
“Please sir, we’re lost. We’ve been roaming the wasteland for days… I’m sure if you let us pass, we could spare some provisions for you and your men.”
He looked at me for a moment. A smile slid across his leathery face. He let out a single guffaw. Then another. Then he broke out into full out laughter. I looked to my left at a particularly homely raider. Definitely the ugliest. I motioned the others to move to the right slightly with me, to clear Stanley‘s line of fire. The whole crowd of raiders was in a full uproar. Not exactly as bad as I saw it happening in my head. I thought it would take a lot longer to find an opening like this.
Simultaneously I made the hand signal and yelled.
“Dylan! Now! Start shooting!”
A mist of blood sprayed from the ugliest one’s neck. He dropped. Then the crackling, thunderous sound of a far off gunshot filled the air. Good job, Stanley. Dylan fumbled for his pistol. He was taking too long. I rushed the most aware raider, and deftly broke the arm holding his gun. In the same motion, I kicked the other raider to his left, and I could feel his skull split under my heel. With my free hand, I struck the raider whose arm I was holding in the chest. The force of the blow sent him tumbling across the sand, a good six or seven feet from where he stood. When he hit the ground, he had finally had time to let out a sharp yell. It was about this time that Dylan had his gun drawn and fired into the crowd. The 10mm Pistol, which makes a very distinct sound when fired, rang out into the wastes. A chunk of armor flew off one of the raiders, followed by small bits of flesh. Another raider fell.
I noticed that in the chaos of the ambush, one of the raiders had begun to draw his weapon. He was a good distance away, but I couldn’t risk that Stanley would get him before he had time to fire at one of the other escorts. Ignoring two that were closest to me, I dashed over to the unlucky raider and delivered an elbow strike to the middle of his ribcage. The layered snapping sound of a sternum breaking from the ribs ensued. The raider was launched off his feet and landed on his back in the sand. Since I was there, I struck the one standing next to him in the throat, capsizing his windpipe. He joined the rest of his comrades in the brownish desert sand. Another raider fell. Stanley was working at a pretty decent pace. Two shots, two kills. The two other escorts had picked up weapons now, and had made a few hits. The raiders were confused. The entire course of events had taken place in about four seconds. Dylan continued firing into the astonished ranks.
The raiders had managed to return fire a few times before we finished the crowd. No one was hit, thankfully, but one of the escorts, who had liberated a shotgun from one of the raiders, had a bit of armor shrapnel in his left leg. I tried my best to patch it up. He would need a doctor though.

When I returned the caravan master’s clothes to him, he sat with a look of incredulous stupor, as if he had just seen something beyond belief. His clothes were bloodstained and a little torn on the sleeve, where I had narrowly dodged a cloud of birdshot.
“Disturbance put to rest sir.” I said, eyes front.

________CHAPTER 2________
ARC VANGUARD

The Den is a very… dirty place. Not just physically, either. I mean, sure. There’s junk everywhere. And there’s filth, but the Den’s uncleanleness stretches much farther and deeper than that. There are junkies everywhere. Jet Pilots. It was a scary trend nowadays. This “Jet” stuff. It only took one hit to send someone spiraling hopelessly into addiction. They thirsted for it like water. And the families of New Reno were making a killing off of it. Financially and literally. Bastards.
We pulled into the main street of the Den at about six-fifteen in the afternoon. This was actually pretty late for the Den, as most things here happened around midnight or so. The wounded escort hobbled his way over to the clinic, refusing my help. I respected that. The master paid him and he was on his way. I then followed the caravan master into his relatively nice house.
“That was a hell of a show there Tak, I look forward to doing business again.”
“Yes sir,” I said. The master gave Dylan his 800 chips. Then the other escort. Then Stanley. All 800 a piece.
“Now you Tak. I’m sure no one else here disagrees that you should get the lion’s share of the pay. So I’m gonna give you a little bonus. Here’s 1200 chips. Good job, son.”
“Thank you sir.” he handed me the pouch of money. I had made my selection. That plate glass window over there looked good. I grabbed him by his bloodstained shirt collar, and thrusted my open hand against his chest. Not hard enough to cause physical trauma, mind you, (I didn’t want to kill him,) but enough follow-through to send him flailing through the air, through the target window. The window gave way, and instead of shattering like I intended it too, the whole thing came straight out of the sill. His body fell out with it, and when he hit the ground, the force of his fall broke the window instead. It was okay. I proved my point. The three other men in the room began laughing. I said my farewells and left the master’s house.
I had a pocket full of cash. I had nine hours of downtime before the next caravan went through. Right down the street from me was a place called Ma’s Diner. Why not. I was a little hungry, and that was the only place in this whole damn city where you could go and get some peace from the junkies. Ma was a tough lady. I always wondered why she didn’t just move. She could be so much more successful elsewhere. Walking in through the open door, the first thing I noticed was the ambience about the place. It was calming. Relaxing. Ma looked up from her dishes.
“Well god…damn. Look what the wastelands put in my restaurant. Some little skinny adventurer.”
I began to smile, involuntarily. “Nice to see you again too, Ma.” It was.
“I’ll tell you right now. Start any trouble in here like you did last time and I’ll beat the pulp outt’a ya. Got me?” She was referring to a previous incident with a patron over the morality of slavery. He said yes, I said no, he pulled a knife; I made it to where he could never walk again. No big deal really. But I broke a good 950 chips worth of stuff in here. Paid it all back though.
“Got ya, Ma.” I walked past the counter as she began to make my usual. Jerky. Love the stuff. And with a little of her famous bread. Throw in a little bit of fruit and there you have it, Takokujin’s meal of champions. The dog seemed to know what was going on too. He jumped up into one of the stools at the counter, wagging his tail, looking at Ma. She had begun to talk to him, but I wasn’t listening. Something else had caught my attention. I sat down at a table in the back corner.
There was a man at the table dressed in a long, dark-blue trench coat and a wide brimmed hat. He had his head leaned down, concealing his face, and was cleaning a large .223 pistol.
He spoke. “I heard you were going to be coming back here.”
I had a strange sort of smirk on my face. “Can’t you just say hello like a normal person? Why all the intrigue? You could just have said ‘hi Tak! Come sit down and have something to eat with me!’ it’s not that hard.” He was all business. He didn’t have time for buddy-buddy talk, and usually if he did, he pretended not to.
He lifted the barrel of the gun into the light, closed one eye and peered into the action, revealing his face. It was pristine and devoid of blemishes or marks, a stark contrast to my face, which had accumulated a large supply of scars over the years.
“I’ve found some work. You interested?”
I exaggerated my surprise. “YOU, asking ME? That certainly is a switch. I thought I was the one who wouldn’t leave YOU alone.” I was consumed with the irony.
“Yeah… well. I could use your help on this one. It seems like… your kind of thing.” He casually began brushing the inside of the barrel with some sort of tool. I was beginning to believe he was acting a little too calm and controlled. But then again, that’s him. You could put a cattle prod in his ass and he wouldn’t move but to look back and shoot you. Then go about his business.
“Sure. I’ll help you rescue those slaves.”
He looked up, Amazed. His cool concentration broken. “How the hell did you know!?”
I held up a previously folded piece of paper. It was a letter addressed to him from a group in NCR called the Rangers, requesting that he deal with Metzger, the leader of the slavers guild. I had… “liberated” it from his back pocket.
He looked for a moment as if he would smile, but it seemed to have passed.
“You know… you have a way of pissing me off. Very uniquely you.”
“I take is as a compliment. You have to stick with what you’re good at, Arc.”
The dog was chomping heartily at a meal that Ma had fixed him. It had been too long on my jerky. I’m pretty sure she forgot about it. That’s just the thing about Ma. I’m pretty sure she liked the dog a lot more than me.
I spoke up after a pause. “So do you have some sort of plan?” The question was a stupid one. He always had a plan. In fact, that little maneuver with the raiders was something I learned from him.
“Yeah. It would be better if we could remove the slaves first. They keep them locked up in the cage in back, and there’s a twenty-foot high razor-wire fence around it. It goes pretty deep underground, but I don’t know how far. Tunneling or cutting is not an option anyway..."
My attention had shifted to a slender young lady who was working behind the counter with Ma. She had a beautiful face... great body. She seemed to exude a sort of warmth and kindness from her eyes, as she industriously scrubbed a plate. The motion of her arm was making her upper body jiggle slightly.
"HEY. Are you listening to me?” He threw a shell casing at the side of my turned head. It bounced off and fell down my shirt.
“No problem.” I said, trying to excavate the shell. “The razor wire is definitely not an issue. We‘ll just cut a hole”
“I said it cutting was not an option. The fence is electrified and has pressure sensors on it. Pre-war tech. It would be ‘better’ if we could get the slaves first, but not likely. There’s only one way out of the pen, and that’s right past Metzger himself.” Arc shifted his weight, drawing in a deep breath. “Not that I doubt your abilities, I’m sure you could get in and out undetected, it’s just that that’s a bunch of untrained people to move. Too unpredictable.” I saw where this was going.
“So we’re just gonna jump in and bust up the joint.” My reply came off a bit cynical.
“For more or less, yeah. I’m sure you could get the guards posted on the outside quietly.” His face sort of slid back, like a yawn, only his mouth was closed. He took another deep breath as he began to stack a clip. “But after that, there is a more devious way.”
“Devious huh? I like it.”

***

Taking out the guards was easy. It’s strange. A human being is so frail. When someone’s neck is relaxed, all it takes is a quick jerk from behind. And poof. Their life ends. Just like that. It makes you wonder about the mortality of man. The foolishness of survival. Other philosophical questions. Yada yada yada. I dragged the lifeless body back into the shadows that I was stalking from. Arc stood in an alleyway; his head leaned down, the brim of his hat blocking his eyes. Only his sullen mouth could be seen
He never liked to watch me do this sort of work. Something about it bothered him. Maybe it was that he didn’t like the concept of someone dying so suddenly, without a chance to know why. He was strange like that. He tried to avoid killing people whenever he could. He would spare people who didn’t deserve it. We had always argued about the morality of killing. Actually, the morality of everything. Justice. Truth. Honor. My womanizing. That was part of the benefit of traveling with him. Never a dull conversation.
I stood on the roof, on the corner of the building. Leaning my head over the edge, I whispered loudly.
“Hey! Come here for a second!”
The nearest guard turned his head, thinking that the hail was the voice of his comrade I had just slain.
“What the hell is it this time Ferringer? I told you already I don’t have any smokes.” He walked around the corner. As soon as he was out of sight of the other two guards, I descended upon him. Without a sound, I struck him in a major vein in the shoulder. The force rendered him unconscious, and the massive hemorrhage I gave him would kill him while he was out. I climbed back onto the roof.
Pulling a length of rope from my black bag, I wrapped the two ends around either hand. Quietly, I slinked into position above the third guard. I found an adequate hole in the roof and planted my foot in it, using it for balance as I leaned over the edge.
This guard was almost got me caught. I strung the rope over his neck and pulled him up; his hands dropped his gun to grab at the hopelessly tight rope about his neck. Luckily his gun was attached to him by a strap, but he was kicking hard as I strangled him on the roof. I held him up at an angle, so his feet couldn’t hit anything, but he made enough sound to get the last guard’s attention.
The guard walked to where my current victim was standing before. He looked around. As I waited rather impatiently for his friend to die, I watched him closely, hoping he wouldn’t get wise. He didn’t. The guard finally stopped struggling. I checked his pulse. Dead. I laid his corpse down with care, so as not to make any noise in the room below.
The remaining guard had just realized he was alone. I dropped behind him like a cat, not making so much as a breeze. His lungs began to fill with air as he prepared to call out to his missing compatriots. He didn’t get the chance. I had turned one of his upper vertebrae like a knob on a radio, severing the connection to his brain. He fell limp, his body twitching with light spasms. I looked at my thumbnail. Damn it all. The tip of my nail had come up a little when I had it in his neck. I hate when that happens. A small trickle of blood came up from under it. I put it in my mouth to nurse the sting.
“All clear Arc.” I said, walking back to his position in the alley. I was still sucking on my thumb, dragging the last of the bodies into the shade. He tossed me a pair of shackles, which I missed.
I was preoccupied, okay? With the corpses and such.
They clanged loudly on the ground, which didn’t matter, we were out of earshot. I put them on and began to get into character. I was a slave. Look downtrodden. I was captured by this dude. Look angry at him. Arc led me by the chain into the now unguarded front door. A crony in the main room stopped us as soon as we walked in.
“Hey. Hold it. What are you doin’ here?” He said gruffly. He had thick body hair and a large black beard.
Arc replied without any emphasis. What a crummy actor. I should have had that part.
“I’m here to see if Metzger would take this slave off my hands.”
The goon looked me over.
"You can sell him right here."
Arc hadn’t anticipated that. During his scouting, he had never been inside the actual slavers guild. He just assumed that Metzger handled all the business personally. Arc got nervous. We needed to get into Metzger’s room before we started busting heads. The room we were in was pretty disagreeable to a fire-fight. It was small. There were four guards and the two of us. The guards had us surrounded on all sides. If front of us, behind this gorilla of a man that blocked us, was the door to Metzger’s room. There was a small window that led into the next room too, but I had no idea what that was all about. Metzger’s room, however, had a very approachable layout. All of the guards were to the sides or on the front wall, and the room was more spacious and less cluttered than this one.
“Um… well…. Metzger said to see him personally.” Man. Arc is the worst liar that there is. I told him before we did this. ‘I should be the capturer.’ He was like ‘No… you don’t look the part.’ ‘Yeah, but you can’t act.’ ‘So?’ he said. ‘I’ve got it all figured out.’ sheesh. Leave it to a man raised by the Brotherhood of Steel to have an honest streak in a dishonest situation.
“Metzger told you, huh? I’ll just go ask him.” The ape-guard turned around and headed for the door. He opened it. Arc stood watching. I gave him a little nudge and motioned for the door. It was a miracle that he understood me. He rushed into the room, pushing the simian aside.
“Metzger!" He yelled amicably, as if he had known the man for years. He looked over his shoulder at the guard.
“Your help is very uncooperative.”
The ape-guard sneered, and left the room slowly, after looking to Metzger for approval. Apparently, Metzger was curious to see who this man was.
“Do I know you, wasteland trash?” Metzger asked, coarsely. I already didn’t like him. He had an annoying voice. It was gravelly and superior, and you could almost taste the ignorance in it. It was a stupidity that appealed to multiple senses.
Arc was not one for witty dialogue. I saw him reach back for his gun, and that was my signal. I had been concealing two knives on the underside of my arms. I threw them both at the same time, and each one made a hollow pop sound as they forced their way into the skulls of two of Metzger’s personal guards. I whipped around and prepared myself, trusting Arc to clear the rest of the room. We stood back to back.
Then, Arc fired his pistol.

***

It was his favorite one, a magnum speed loader. The gun had been heavily modified throughout its long history. It was a weapon unique to his family, handed down for three generations. The front had a large piece of metal attached to the underside. It came up over the gun’s muzzle and all the way around the gun’s barrel. It reduced recoil and also helped balance the gun, as revolvers are usually back-heavy. There were a few major mechanical differences between this and other normal magnums as well. The inside of the barrel was rifled, and there had been modifications to the firing mechanism to decrease the delay between pulling the trigger and the discharge. It could hold eight rounds, which is good for a revolver and even better for a magnum. The 4x scope on the top was painstakingly adjusted for the exact range that the gun was effective at, something that must taken the gunsmith years of fire testing to perfect. Even the bullets were made specifically for him by a Brotherhood Remnant in the NCR. They were engineered with special armor piercing tips, and had a closely guarded, secret formula gunpowder. He called the blackened steel gun the 'Dreadnaught'.
Needless to say, it was a scary-ass gun. The heavy magnum round went straight through Metzger’s armor with indescribable ease, through his paltry organs and back out the armor on the other side. The vacuum created by the bullet sprayed Metzger’s innards out of the ten-inch diameter hole in his back. The round continued to travel, penetrating the wall behind him, leaving another 10-inch hole. What remained of his battered body was lifted off the ground by the pure force of impact, and it crumpled against the wall like a fleshy rag doll, steaming, due to the heat of the nearly fifteen-inch long muzzle flash the weapon produced. The sound wave created by the gun blew out the windows in the room.
Like I said. It was a scary-ass gun.
Arc’s arm jerked up into the air from the recoil, and he reached for one of his other two pistols with his free hand: a smaller, less intimidating .223. Anyone familiar with guns will get the irony. He then expertly ventilated the two guards who remained in the room.
It was around the time Arc began reaching for his .223 that the ape-man grabbed the door handle to the room. He had no time to gain entrance, because as soon as I saw the door knob turn I punched straight through the door. My fist found its way firmly onto his forehead, and split it open vertically. It spurted blood like a tiny fountain as he fell. The door fell off the hinges, hilariously enough, onto the ape-man’s writhing, screaming body. I used it as a platform to jump up and kick another slaver guard in his face. His teeth ricocheted out of his mouth. He didn’t mind though, he was dead. The shock from the kick broke his neck like a fortune cookie. One of the flying teeth penetrated my shoe. One of the pair I use for stealthy purposes. It stuck into the bottom of my foot. Stung like crazy.
To my right, I spotted a guard, pistol drawn. I leaned back as fast as I could. Just in time. The bullet missed its target, passing harmlessly over my chest. I struck the gun from the bottom before he had time to adjust for my sudden dodge. At this time, I was descending from my jump, and I landed back on the disjointed door. The gun flew from the wielder’s hands. He looked into my eyes with fear. I hate slavers. I struck the gun in mid-air with my fist.
It suddenly changed directions, from an apogetic fall to a straight line for the guard’s chest. It hit heavily and brutally, knocking the wind out of him. He buckled over, clutching his wounded chest with both arms.
I heard a round go off behind me. Arc had fired through the window at the guard behind me. It’s a good thing, too, because as I understand it he was about to nail me. Apparently Arc didn’t kill him with the first shot, because two more rang out. This whole time I had been bent over backwards, with one foot straight out from my initial kick, and my fist outstretched. Arc walked in casually to see this odd sort of flamingo pose. I cocked my head all the way backwards.
“What?” I said, looking into his face upside-down.
He aimed his .223 and fired into the door I was standing on. The door jerked and there was a little grunt as the ape-man finally died. The motion caused me to lose my balance and fall over on my head at Arc‘s feet. Arc laughed under his breath. I laid there on the ground with my legs propped up on the door, thinking of the best way to kill him.
Getting up, I checked the guard who I hit with his own gun. Nope. Still alive. Thought so. I stomped on his neck. It crushed smoothly, like a walnut under a hammer.
“Was that really necessary?” Arc asked, reloading his pistols.
“I can’t stand these guys. Lowest form of life.” I spit on the slaver’s head, adding my mucous to the already sickening cocktail of biomass.
“Bastards.”

***

We opened the door that was holding in the slaves. Arc’s first shot with the Dreadnaught had blasted right through this area, leaving a trail of massive holes. Miraculously, no one was hurt.
They were in bad condition. Starving, beaten. Scared. Who knows what else. I was suddenly sorry I didn’t do worse to the slavers in there. Arc told them to head to NCR, and gave them a bunch of chips to hop a caravan. I chipped in a little too. About 1500 chips all together. I even gave one of the little kids a throwing knife of mine. You know. As a souvenir. I’d like to think that after I’m done telling my story I’ll be known as a hero, and not a ruthless, womanizing murderer, a manipulator, a thief, a liar. I mean, sure, I am all those things too; it’s just that, well… Trust me. I’m a good guy. Really.
Arc was cleaning the inside of the Dreadnaught. He kept it meticulously clean. It was almost like an anal retentive tic of his. I was hopping on one foot pulling the tooth from the other, as he glanced up and looked at me, with a strange sort of smile. Like he was saying 'oh please' with his lips. I didn't care. That little bugger hurt.
This was sort of an awkward moment. Neither one of us said anything for a long while. We sort of threw this thing together at the diner. Very impromptu. We had no idea what to do from here. All that was there was the rush of victory and the bitter past betweens us. It was good reliving the old days. Arc and I used to be quite the duo. But we had a... falling out. He felt the weirdness of the moment too. I decided to break it up.
"So... uh, where are you heading out from here?"
"Don't know." He said. He was visibly relieved I had stirred up the silence. "Gave some thought into going to Reno, try to find some work there."
"Doesn't exactly seem like your kind of city, Reno. Kind of a hellhole." Blood trickled out of my left foot. I was standing in a little puddle of it.
"Where there's corruption, there's money," He holstered the large gun and pulled his coat over it. “Maybe if we get lucky we can find some honest work.”
I had never been to Reno. I heard it was a wretched place. Junkies, organized crime, prostitution. (My dislike for prostitution was circumstantial. It's a quality control issue.) Just a lot of things that Arc generally stood against.
Why the hell not? I wasn't doing anything anyway. And slapping these slavers around with him gave me a good feeling. So much better than babysitting caravans. So I decided to tag along. Just like old times.
Arc went to a general store to buy some supplies for the trip. I gave him all the chips I had left, and headed toward Ma's to get that useless dog of mine.

________CHAPTER 3________
THE DESERT RONIN

Vault City. Civilization’s most advanced remaining culture. The epitome human knowledge. Vestibule for the potential of mankind. Forged from nothing, lifted from the wastes by nothing but man’s own innovation. His genius. A paradise was created, as if from a dream. Built around Vault 8, one of the last Vaults to open its doors to the post-apocalyptic, outside world. It had an underside, though, as all good things do. Despite its pristine outer appearance, it was rife with corruption. Slavery. Greed.
And now it burned.
There were no panicked rescuers in the streets, no one attempting to stop the chaos. There were no people crying for help in the windows. No people running away, trying to get to safety. They were all dead. The town was devoid of all life. Except for one, somber humanoid shape deep within the inferno. The fire had not killed the majority of the people here. It was started when most of them were already gone. It was this demonic figure, brooding in the fire that was slowly melting away the remains of the once bustling city, that had done most of the bloodshed.
It stirred. Satisfied with its work, the figure made its way out of town at a deliberately lagging pace, the fire powerless to harm him. The flames yearned to taste of the figure’s flesh, to consume the figure as they had consumed the others that had died here today. It walked with slow impunity.
Out of the miniature hell it emerged. It stepped over a seven foot high, four-thousand and ninety pound semi-circle door, which once stood mighty and invincible. Now it lay on the ground, in two clean-cut pieces. The shape stopped, and turned around, looking back at its completed work. It spoke.
“Good riddance…”
Vault City was sectioned off into two areas. The inner city, which now lay in ruins, and the outer city, a small area contained by the city walls. It was populated by lower-caste workers. Traders, farmers, out-of-towners. It was conceived to serve as a kind of moat between Vault City and the outside world, the concept behind it being that if raiders gained entry, they would have to work through the people in the outer city first, thereby giving time for the inner-city dwellers to escape, and take refuge in the Vault. There was no plan, however, for minimizing the casualties of the outer city residents.
It was this moat that the figure passed through to leave the city. The residents of this area were still alive. But terrified. They were hiding in their hovels, overcome with terror. They dare not even glance out of the window to look at it for too long, for fear of retribution.
The orange glow of the burning city reflected off of the back of the figure, illuminating it. It was a suit of power armor. A full body suit of armor, designed to enhance the lethality of a soldier in the beforetimes. It had a host of special functions. It was bullet-proof, radiation proof, fire proof. It had a full life support and ventilation system. Computers. Sensors. And it was all running on nuclear power.
It was rare, but not unusual for a suit of power armor to survive the war and make it to modern day. It had enough energy to run for nearly one-hundred and fifty years without recharging, and they were nearly indestructible.
This particular suit, however, was unlike anything else in the world. It had been made with tireless devotion. It was lighter than normal power armor, because it had been stripped of unnecessary weight. This did not decrease its defensive properties, however. In fact, it was more durable than a normal suit of power armor. It was an unusual, but intimidating piece. The man in the power armor carried no weapons in his hands. There were only two scabbards attached to the waist of the suit, a long one and a slightly shorter one, with the handles of two swords protruding from their openings.
The man in the armor approached his destination. A red beforetimes car mysteriously parked outside the city limits. He took the scabbards from his waist, placed them in the passenger seat of the vehicle, and got in.

He was headed for a town called New Reno.

***

Arc finally came back with our supplies. The trek to New Reno was a difficult one, but relatively safe. It was straight through a mountain range, so there wasn't much in the way of raiders or things like that. It would be a lie to say that I wasn't just a little disappointed. There was, however, a hermit that we ran into. He was fighting a pack of wolves off, and we helped him. He wasn't exactly what you would call grateful about it, and in a terribly convoluted stream of words, politely asked us to leave him alone. There's people for you.
The trip was actually enjoyable though. It was peaceful, and uneventful. We had a series of interesting philosophical discussions. About the nature of man and life, and justice and fairness. It was a great trip. It reminded me how much I missed traveling with him. And how stupid and petty that our previous split had been.
Arc Vanguard the Third. Legendary gunfighter. Modern day knight. His reputation traveled far and wide, and people knew him when they saw him. His coat, dark blue and long, was like his trademark. It had been Arc’s constant traveling companion. Bullet holes. Grim reminders of just how far his luck had taken him. That's one thing I forgot to mention. He seemed to be best friends with fate. I mean, they were poker buddies. I know that there is such a thing as coincidence, reasonable overlap of circumstances. But the things I've seen first hand, things that Arc had managed to survive by pure chance are beyond extenuating circumstances. Like with the slaves and that miraculous shot. What were the freakin’ chances?
Then there was his bloodline. His lineage was the greatest of the Knights of the Brotherhood of Steel. His grandfather, Arc Vanguard, was said to have killed one-thousand Nightkin, and had a hand in defeating the master. His father, the equally legendary Arc Vanguard the Second, helped unify the mutants and humans fighting in the War of Fools. Then there was Arc himself. With the descent into secrecy of the Brotherhood of Steel during the War of Fools, Arc's family became vagabonds. A family of mercenaries and hired guns. But they insisted on retaining their knightly honor. Arc had the advantage of being taught by both his father and grandfather, and he had a very close-knit family. I was sort of jealous of him for that. His family. He always had someone to talk to when he needed it. It wasn't always like that for me and Dr. Fung. I couldn't talk to him about a lot of things. It was just… awkward sometimes.

After about 19 days of travel, we could see the lights of New Reno as we reached the summit of the last mountain. It was nighttime, and the soft glow of New Reno illuminated the surrounding desert with its auspicious glow.

Coming into town was less than impressive. The place was large, but exactly what you would expect from a burned out beforetimes town. Ravaged buildings, junkies, and wrecked cars. My eye had caught a sign. 'The Cat's Paw.' I smelled ladies.
"Okay Tak, this is New Reno. It's not a very friendly town, so keep off of people's nerves.” He looked back. I wasn't there. Only the dog was following him, looking up with playful expectation.
“God dammit.”

As I walked into the Cat's Paw, my eyes fell upon a particularly attractive woman in a tight black dress behind a desk. The room was like a hub, a central chamber with six doors leading out of it. She looked me over intently, and then finally spoke.
“You looking for some action, big guy?”
“Sure..." I said. "What are you offering?”
“Not me, honey. My girls. And there's a lot of things we can do for you. Just about anything you want.”
I was beginning to like Reno.
“I think I'm a little more interested in you right now.” I said. I turned on the magic. “How about you and me talk a little more privately?”
She smiled. I did it. She was in my trap.
“I’ll have to pass on that offer.” She replied casually. My jaw dropped. She looked like she knew exactly what was going on. She was obviously no stranger to the courtier’s dance.
Arc grabbed my arm from behind.
“Come on loverboy. This isn’t the time.”
He dragged me out of the Cat’s Paw like a mother dragging a child from a candy-store.
“But I wanna!” I cried, mocking the situation. I looked back at the woman in the black as I began to lose sight of her past the door. “I’ll be back! Don’t go anywhere!”
“Would you give it a rest for just two minutes while I explain this town to you!?” Arc was a little peeved.
“What? I’m just trying to have a little fun. What’s the point of traveling if you can’t enjoy your destination?”
He shot a glare at me from underneath his hat. Oh, there was that too. Another thing about Arc is that he couldn’t stand my… relationship habits. He always thought there was something evil about them, but he could never put it into words. That frustrated the hell out of him.
“Fine,” I said. “Let’s do all the things that YOU wanna do.” He cracked a little smile.

***

We had spotted a crowd just ahead. Curious to see what was going on, we pushed our way to the inside. On the ground was a bloodied corpse. Its head lay a few yards away, cut off from the neck. Upon closer inspection I had noticed that it was a clean cut. Really clean. Perfectly clean, in fact. Standing next to it, a person wearing a suit of strange power armor. It was somewhat… familiar. The design. It reminded me of something I saw in one of the dojos I had visited.
The person in the armor seemed unconcerned with the crowd. I began to deconstruct this armored person in my head, like I do with everyone I meet. Male. Low center of gravity. I couldn’t discern age or weight because of the armor, but there was something… strange about his movements. He was holding a sword, a katana. I was familiar with those at least. And then that feeling of familiarity hit me again. Where had I seen that armor style before?
The blade, although obviously the weapon used to kill the man, had very little blood on it. The armored person swung the sword out to his side, and the small flecks of blood slipped off. The crowd backed away suddenly, with the exception of Arc and I. He looked up briefly. I was pretty sure at us, but through the thick black visor it was hard to tell. He then lifted his sword to the scabbard, slid the back of the blade along it, and in a smooth motion, let the sword fall slowly to rest inside. This was an extremely practiced motion. He placed the sword into the saiya without looking, smoothly, without hesitation.
He began to walk, and crowd parted as he moved. He was deliberately walking towards Arc and I. I could tell. Not directly at us, but close enough so that we would move with the rest of the crowd. We held our ground, and he stopped in front of us.
“Move.” His voice was chilling. It was filtered through a breathing apparatus that all power armor was equipped with. It gave a rustling, hoarse quality to the voice. But there was something else about it. Like it was being produced by two pieces of meat. Thick. Inhuman. I stared deeply into the visor. I could just make out his eyes.
This was a challenge. And I was stubborn.
“Why did you kill that guy?” I asked, face hardened. I was ready for a fight.
“For the same reason I’m about to kill you.” The voice was unnervingly creepy.
“Oh yeah? Why is that?” I smiled a bit.
“He was in my way.” I saw the eyes inside the visor make the slightest twitch. In moments like these, time slows down. I watched his shoulder, it moved back so subtly, gaining momentum. His right hand went across his chest and gripped the sword handle on his left side firmly. I blinked. The moment stretched on and on. My hand began moving forward. The sword flew from the scabbard as if to escape from hell. The speed was incredible. My eyes widened in surprise. I really hadn’t expected it to go quite that fast. My other hand shot up in defense. There was no way I could have dodged it. And to block it outright would have left me in two pieces. So I clapped down on the flat sides of the blade, stopping it midstroke. The blade was traveling with such force that it shook my arms and chest to stop it. Time returned to its normal pace.
The man looked at me through the visor. Such cold eyes. I clasped his sword between my hands, and he was trying to liberate it. We were at a stalemate. Neither of us could do anything, as we both struggled with each other.
He spoke again. “Let go.”
I pushed out a response. “Make me.” I smiled past my straining effort.
Then, two technical-looking cylinders flipped up from behind his shoulders. They looked like guns of some kind. They let out a soft metallic whine, and the gaps began to glow with a bright yellow light, letting out jagged sparks of electricity.
“Gladly.” He said.
Then there was a heavy metallic sound of impact. It was the Dreadnaught’s massive hammer rearing back, a round being preloaded into the chamber. Arc held it to the side of the man’s helmet.
“Someone with power armor like that must know a bit of technical trivia. I‘m a bit of a power armor aficionado myself.” He said. The man froze. “Tell me, do you think that helmet there could withstand an armor piercing 357 magnum shell? One that was traveling down a rifled barrel at five times the speed of sound?” The figure remained still. “And, if so, does it have impact shielding sufficient enough to absorb that force without killing you? Is the neck joint secure enough to keep that same force from snapping your neck like a twig? If not, I would say it’s a good idea to stand down. You have three seconds.”
“One.”
The man looked at me through the visor. He was thinking about what to do.
“He’s crazy when he’s like this man,” I said to him. He still looked straight at me.
“Two.”
“I’m telling you. He’ll do it. He doesn’t play around. And I’ve never seen him shoot something with that gun that didn’t die.” I was smiling like mad. I couldn’t believe it. He was actually thinking about taking the shot.
“Three.”
“Hold it.” The man said. There was a long pause.
The two gun-like projections flipped back over into their places. He stopped struggling with the sword. Which is a good thing, because I was starting to get tired, although I didn’t show it. He took the blade and put it back into his scabbard in the same fashion as before. I could almost feel the ice coming through his visor. He stared holes in me. And just like that, he walked away. No threat. No witty dialogue. He just left.
After he was a considerable distance away, Arc holstered his gun.
“What the hell was that all about?” I said. The crowd looked on with astonishment. I rubbed the insides of my hands. There was a large open wound on the left one, but oddly, it neither hurt nor bled. There was only a light red coloration to it.
“Don’t know. But I did notice you were struggling with him. I’ve never really seen you ‘struggle’ before.”
The notion suddenly hit me too. I was struggling. Usually contests of strength were like child’s play to me. And I’m willing to bet that those glowing gun things would have been quite uncomfortable for me if Arc hadn’t been there. I was sort of exhilarated on the inside, though. My hand just started to hurt. I wrapped it up in a free piece of black cloth I had from my rucksack.
Arc spoke up as we continued to walk down the street. “Where’d the dog go?”
I looked back. “It’s a new area. He went exploring.”
“So you just let him wander off like that?”
“Why not?” I asked. “I get to wander off whenever I want.” Arc is so strange.

***

We entered the door of the Desperado, a casino owned by a local crime-lord named Big Jesus Mordino. He ran a pretty rough racket here. Murder, extortion, drugs. He was pretty much in the business of all the major vices. Arc had some contacts here, and he was going to check with them to see if we could find some clean work around here. We walked to the bar, and sat down. Arc waited patiently. I spun around in the barstool.
“Would you stop being such a kid, Tak? We’re trying to maintain an air of professionalism here.”
I don’t know why he was so aggravated by this. It’s a simple mechanic. Spinny chairs, short attention span. Spinning Tak. He grabbed my shoulder and brought me to a halt.
“Just order something from the bar and sit still.”
“Yes mother.” I responded, batting my eyelashes at him. “Only if you promise to take me back to the candy-store later.” He didn’t know what I was referring to. Oh well.
The bartender had been waiting in front of us for a while now.
“Are you two going to get anything today?” He said. The question was deliberately smart-assed.
Arc looked up. “How are you Ed?” He knew this guy.
“Not too bad. Still got this bum hand, but there’s a doctor in NCR says he can patch it up. It’ll cost me about 3000 chips though.”
“Sorry to hear that Ed.” Arc said. “Working the bar with only one hand must be pretty hard.”
“Yeah. I’ve dropped so many damn glasses; Little Jesus keeps charging me for ‘em. Every time I get a little scratch together, Little J. takes it from me. Vicious cycle.” My attention had shifted to his hand. It was gimp, lifeless. But there was a small twitch from time to time.
I spoke up. “How did you do it?”
Ed wasn’t sure I was talking to him at first. “What?”
“Your hand. How did you do it?”
Ed looked over at Arc. Arc kept the same expression he always has. Dull.
“I… uh… woke up with it one morning.” He was caught off balance by the question. I didn’t respond.
“Well, anyway… Arc. This guy your friend?” Ed was still a little confused.
“Yep. Best one I got.” Arc responded. Too bad I didn’t hear that. I was too busy digging through my rucksack. Expressions of affection didn’t pass Arc’s lips often.
“Any way, Ed. Hear any good job offers today?”
Ed shifted his weight back over to Arc. “What do I look like, a bulletin board for job postings?”
Arc said nothing for a while.
“Yes.”
Ed sighed heavily. “Well, nothing that you would be interested in. Just the usual. Contract kills mostly. There’s a war brewin’. Tensions between the four families have gotten pretty steep.”
I found what I was looking for. A piece of rolled up cloth with about fifty needles stuck in it.
“The Wrights may have some work for you. I hear that one of their sons died recently and that they’re pretty pissed about it. They wanna find out who did it in the worst way. Then there’s Salvatore, but I don’t think you wanna mess with him.

This is where it stops. Comments, advice, grammar police?