They moved out after that, through the upstairs’ room and with a bit more strength to them. At first they crawled along the rooftops, but were later forced to descend to the street level. Red haze covered everything as the Cloud was particularly thick in Puesta del Sol and that made bear traps littering the streets like waste, all the more dangerous. That they had to cross all the way to reach the southern side of the district didn’t help any.
“Where there’s a bear trap, Ghost People aren’t far behind,” coming up beside her Dean warned in such a flat tone and the Courier’s shoulders rolled as she rearranged weight from one foot to another, avoiding grime colored traps. She didn’t pause in her steps but her mind kept making a full circle as she mulled over the tight spot that kept winding down on her. Two fingers drummed on the casing of her pip-boy as the black helmet turned in the shadows.
He had a cigar in his mouth. This was the fifth Dean had in the past hour, and the only one he managed to finish, the rest being deposed in various ways that involved minor crushing or all-out mayhem. His snide remarks have trickled to almost a standstill – almost, and what little he did offer was more acidic than acerbic. And the Courier was not oblivious to this.
When it came to Dean, she was not sure whether to think of him as frightening or just mad. Not Elijah mad, not the explosion of insanity ready to take over like a whirlwind of nuclear blast, but the slow burn that ate the people away from the inside over the years. He had chosen to stay so long and knew this city, its traps and pitfalls the same way she knew the secret back-roads through the Mojave wasteland. And she didn’t like it. God, with all his tightly focused aggression and muscles to rival a Securitron, was a safer bet than the ghoul.
She managed to steal a glance of the sour singer who seemed to alter between deciding whether to throw saturnite knife at her back or stare off into the Cloud. He was like that, she noticed, running hot and cold, and sometimes both at the same time. But hot and cold was not accurate enough to describe Dean’s current state.
She remembered meeting him, polite offer to ‘put her feet up’, explosives rigged chair and all. And she remembered how seriously she had considered shoving that overblown ego of his so far down his throat the collar wouldn’t be able to make a peep. But she had relaxed and decided, not now. Let him be pleasantly surprised when Elijah broke the news to his delicate sense of self-worth. Had she been of petty sort the look on his face when he realized that the bomb collars were now linked, as opposed the time when no hell or high water could’ve made the scavengers cooperate, would’ve made her want for a functional camera.
She had to admit, it was a feat, or a miracle, that he had survived alone in this death-pit of a town for two centuries. This, in retrospect, only proved that one should not stay alone in the room with him; particularly, any chairs, or any other frequently used piece of furniture, he had been left alone with should be thoroughly checked for methods of mass destruction. Ironically, it was thanks to the bomb collars of all things, that she felt safe enough to turn her back on him now.
But his presence was starting to feel like a little threatening cloud of its own, hanging on her back. It was becoming noticeable, distracting. Sierra Madre liked to punish distraction with death. In all her time as a courier, she had never worked quite so hard on the quickest way to deposit the ‘Dean Domino’ package on that marked roof.
And speaking of distraction… When they passed a small fountain, she spotted him light another cigar – bite into it almost, a quick conspicuous flash of orange amidst rust red. Better her than Ghost People. Or, better him than her so she had the time to level a precise shot. Either way kept them alive a little bit longer.
F!Courier/Dean Domino - A Heist - 4a
“Where there’s a bear trap, Ghost People aren’t far behind,” coming up beside her Dean warned in such a flat tone and the Courier’s shoulders rolled as she rearranged weight from one foot to another, avoiding grime colored traps. She didn’t pause in her steps but her mind kept making a full circle as she mulled over the tight spot that kept winding down on her. Two fingers drummed on the casing of her pip-boy as the black helmet turned in the shadows.
He had a cigar in his mouth. This was the fifth Dean had in the past hour, and the only one he managed to finish, the rest being deposed in various ways that involved minor crushing or all-out mayhem. His snide remarks have trickled to almost a standstill – almost, and what little he did offer was more acidic than acerbic. And the Courier was not oblivious to this.
When it came to Dean, she was not sure whether to think of him as frightening or just mad. Not Elijah mad, not the explosion of insanity ready to take over like a whirlwind of nuclear blast, but the slow burn that ate the people away from the inside over the years. He had chosen to stay so long and knew this city, its traps and pitfalls the same way she knew the secret back-roads through the Mojave wasteland. And she didn’t like it. God, with all his tightly focused aggression and muscles to rival a Securitron, was a safer bet than the ghoul.
She managed to steal a glance of the sour singer who seemed to alter between deciding whether to throw saturnite knife at her back or stare off into the Cloud. He was like that, she noticed, running hot and cold, and sometimes both at the same time. But hot and cold was not accurate enough to describe Dean’s current state.
She remembered meeting him, polite offer to ‘put her feet up’, explosives rigged chair and all. And she remembered how seriously she had considered shoving that overblown ego of his so far down his throat the collar wouldn’t be able to make a peep. But she had relaxed and decided, not now. Let him be pleasantly surprised when Elijah broke the news to his delicate sense of self-worth. Had she been of petty sort the look on his face when he realized that the bomb collars were now linked, as opposed the time when no hell or high water could’ve made the scavengers cooperate, would’ve made her want for a functional camera.
She had to admit, it was a feat, or a miracle, that he had survived alone in this death-pit of a town for two centuries. This, in retrospect, only proved that one should not stay alone in the room with him; particularly, any chairs, or any other frequently used piece of furniture, he had been left alone with should be thoroughly checked for methods of mass destruction. Ironically, it was thanks to the bomb collars of all things, that she felt safe enough to turn her back on him now.
But his presence was starting to feel like a little threatening cloud of its own, hanging on her back. It was becoming noticeable, distracting. Sierra Madre liked to punish distraction with death. In all her time as a courier, she had never worked quite so hard on the quickest way to deposit the ‘Dean Domino’ package on that marked roof.
And speaking of distraction… When they passed a small fountain, she spotted him light another cigar – bite into it almost, a quick conspicuous flash of orange amidst rust red. Better her than Ghost People. Or, better him than her so she had the time to level a precise shot. Either way kept them alive a little bit longer.