“Hey, Ms. Whitman,” the cowgirl greets, and Israel freezes. She looks at him, and he at her, and he expects her eyes to light up with a weary sort of recognition. But she pays him no mind, waving to the two young women, and goes back to smoking. He remembers her, can see her youthful figure hidden by the shell of the old crone she has become.
She used to be a hell of a pilot, flying the vertibird like she was a part of it. He wonders how she’s survived this long. He should go talk to her, and he sees that sentiment echoed in James’ face. James nudges him, and his feet move of his own accord. One step. Then two. Oh God. He doesn’t want to do this. Soon, he is standing next to her, watching the sunset. She eyes him suspiciously, and he wants to run away from her, away from the Mojave Wasteland, where NCR waits like a starving dog in the west.
“Can I help you, stranger?” she asks. He should say something, anything, but finds his voice locked in his throat. She steps away from him, back into her room, and her eyes never leave his until her door shuts.
“You shouldn’t smoke, Whitman,” he murmurs, the scolding coming to his lips naturally even though he hasn’t said it for decades. “You’ll die early. Your country needs you.”
“Live fast, die young, and leave a good looking corpse,” he hears her voice reply, carried by the winds of the memories he struggles to hold on to.
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“Hey, Ms. Whitman,” the cowgirl greets, and Israel freezes. She looks at him, and he at her, and he expects her eyes to light up with a weary sort of recognition. But she pays him no mind, waving to the two young women, and goes back to smoking. He remembers her, can see her youthful figure hidden by the shell of the old crone she has become.
She used to be a hell of a pilot, flying the vertibird like she was a part of it. He wonders how she’s survived this long. He should go talk to her, and he sees that sentiment echoed in James’ face. James nudges him, and his feet move of his own accord. One step. Then two. Oh God. He doesn’t want to do this. Soon, he is standing next to her, watching the sunset. She eyes him suspiciously, and he wants to run away from her, away from the Mojave Wasteland, where NCR waits like a starving dog in the west.
“Can I help you, stranger?” she asks. He should say something, anything, but finds his voice locked in his throat. She steps away from him, back into her room, and her eyes never leave his until her door shuts.
“You shouldn’t smoke, Whitman,” he murmurs, the scolding coming to his lips naturally even though he hasn’t said it for decades. “You’ll die early. Your country needs you.”
“Live fast, die young, and leave a good looking corpse,” he hears her voice reply, carried by the winds of the memories he struggles to hold on to.