She would explain herself - she can feel the lack of distinct edges through the cloth, and the general shape of it indicating that it’s round. But it’s flat, and her next deduction is a disk of some sort. But she can’t think of any disks as thick as she assumes this object is. New Vegas comes to mind, and casinos. Casinos. Gambling. Chips. Poker chips. It’s the right size and weight of a poker chip so therefore it must be a poker chip. But… why urgent delivery? It’s obviously important. Perhaps the material it’s made of. Maybe there’s an inscription on it? But the fabric prevents her from finding out - but one look at the man’s face tells her plainly that the brilliance of her process and conclusion would be lost on him.
So she smiles and gets off of the empty sarsaparilla crate, tossing the package in the air before catching it and sliding it into her pack.
“I’ll be off, then.”
He nods at her once, and she slinks out the door of the dimly lit building into the dark of the Mojave night.
It’s easy. Her body is nocturnal, and for the most part, so is her mind. Trekking her way through the wasteland under the dark, blue night sky is possibly one of the only things that brings her tangible joy.
(It’s the question of the century if she’s pale because she prefers to move around at night, or if she prefers to move around at night because she wants to stay pale. It’s a question she’ll never directly address, either.)
She doesn’t fear the dark. She’s got a pistol that she uses to drive away any animals that try to approach her, but for the most part they don’t bother her at all. Her shoes are worn and worked in, to the point where she feels as if she could walk across the radiation devastated country without her feet aching. That’s complete lunacy, though. She knows that she’d have to amputate her feet off at the ankles and cauterize the stumps by campfire by the time she got to the midwest. Her eyes are sharp and accustomed to the lack of light.
Frankly, at some point she thinks that visiting New Vegas might prove to be some interesting form of entertainment. A change of pace for her idle mind. And it’s around that very point that everything seems to go wrong.
Men - she knows how to handle them. And she knows that she knows, so she never pulls the pistol out of her holster. It would’ve been a pointless effort, though. She’s never shot a man. She’s not afraid to admit she’s a piss poor shot and even worse with hand to hand combat - give her a riding crop and some rope and maybe it’d be different. She identifies the men as Great Khans - hired men, then - save for the one who’s running things.
A checkered suit, too fancy for the wasteland so she decides he must be from the Strip and this is about the chip. Speaking of the Strip, casinos - a stain on his sleeve - alcohol, whiskey probably. He smokes - a bit of ash on his collar. The redness around his eyes, possibly a side effect of walking through the wasteland all day or an addiction to jet.
She puts just as much stock in her instincts as she does in her eyes, and the moment the man flashes his too bright smile at her, she knows that tonight is going to end with him pointing a gun at her and pulling the trigger.
It’s a red alert situation, a get out or die kind of thing.
So she starts off by feigning innocence. What’s going on? I’m just a courier! And when that doesn’t work, she concedes. This package? This is what you want, right? Take it. Go ahead. It’s not worth much to me. Take it. And it seems to work for a minute, but it falls through. She tries again, because getting on her knees and sucking his cock or getting fucked seems like a much better ending to this evening than quitting and dying if things keep going like they are. And hopefully, it’ll give her a chance to get away as fast as fucking possible. Mm. Now that the nasty business is out of the way, what’s your name, stranger? You’re far too handsome to be hanging out around here in the wastes like this. Fancy a little R&R? Let me treat you right, darlin’.
the lady from the mojave [2b/??]
So she smiles and gets off of the empty sarsaparilla crate, tossing the package in the air before catching it and sliding it into her pack.
“I’ll be off, then.”
He nods at her once, and she slinks out the door of the dimly lit building into the dark of the Mojave night.
It’s easy. Her body is nocturnal, and for the most part, so is her mind. Trekking her way through the wasteland under the dark, blue night sky is possibly one of the only things that brings her tangible joy.
(It’s the question of the century if she’s pale because she prefers to move around at night, or if she prefers to move around at night because she wants to stay pale. It’s a question she’ll never directly address, either.)
She doesn’t fear the dark. She’s got a pistol that she uses to drive away any animals that try to approach her, but for the most part they don’t bother her at all. Her shoes are worn and worked in, to the point where she feels as if she could walk across the radiation devastated country without her feet aching. That’s complete lunacy, though. She knows that she’d have to amputate her feet off at the ankles and cauterize the stumps by campfire by the time she got to the midwest. Her eyes are sharp and accustomed to the lack of light.
Frankly, at some point she thinks that visiting New Vegas might prove to be some interesting form of entertainment. A change of pace for her idle mind. And it’s around that very point that everything seems to go wrong.
Men - she knows how to handle them. And she knows that she knows, so she never pulls the pistol out of her holster. It would’ve been a pointless effort, though. She’s never shot a man. She’s not afraid to admit she’s a piss poor shot and even worse with hand to hand combat - give her a riding crop and some rope and maybe it’d be different. She identifies the men as Great Khans - hired men, then - save for the one who’s running things.
A checkered suit, too fancy for the wasteland so she decides he must be from the Strip and this is about the chip. Speaking of the Strip, casinos - a stain on his sleeve - alcohol, whiskey probably. He smokes - a bit of ash on his collar. The redness around his eyes, possibly a side effect of walking through the wasteland all day or an addiction to jet.
She puts just as much stock in her instincts as she does in her eyes, and the moment the man flashes his too bright smile at her, she knows that tonight is going to end with him pointing a gun at her and pulling the trigger.
It’s a red alert situation, a get out or die kind of thing.
So she starts off by feigning innocence. What’s going on? I’m just a courier! And when that doesn’t work, she concedes. This package? This is what you want, right? Take it. Go ahead. It’s not worth much to me. Take it. And it seems to work for a minute, but it falls through. She tries again, because getting on her knees and sucking his cock or getting fucked seems like a much better ending to this evening than quitting and dying if things keep going like they are. And hopefully, it’ll give her a chance to get away as fast as fucking possible. Mm. Now that the nasty business is out of the way, what’s your name, stranger? You’re far too handsome to be hanging out around here in the wastes like this. Fancy a little R&R? Let me treat you right, darlin’.