The ghoul kicked at a dismembered limb on the ground, and the Courier shuddered. Even desensitized, outside of combat she hated gore. The people of Primm were not nameless or faceless. Johnson and Ruby Nash were good people, honest, fair. Hardworking. The world was a lesser place without them. And to die at the hands of one kid...
“Felicity.” She said with a head tilt. “I honestly don't think I've had one person ask my name since I was shot.” She mused aloud to herself. Oh maybe a person here or there. None came to mind.
“Now maybe you can tell me who did this so I can kill them.” Her head cleared of cobwebs, she looked back and forth between the odd pair.
“You said people call you the Courier? They call him the Lone Wanderer. In the Captial Wasteland, he was known as 'the kid from Vault 101'. To anyone still alive from the vault itself? He's the Devil, pure and simple.” There was no trace of irony or sarcasm in her voice, just determination.
Something about it coming from Cross was disconcerting. She didn't seem like a terrible person. Maybe the opposite? Too soon to tell.
“Sounds personal. Both of you came all the way from the Capital Wasteland just to find this kid? I wasn't aware the Brotherhood went after criminals.” Her head tilted back curiously, eye-balling them both.
The ghoul responded with a growl. “They don't. Look, lady, we don't have time to chat. We have to get to him before he hits another settlement.”
“He does this often? Just wipes out settlements for no reason?” The Courier asked, bewildered.
Cross closed her eyes in an incredibly tired gesture. Not the physical kind of tired, either. “Sometimes. But this was not just for fun. This time, he saw us. I don't think it was that he was trying to take us down so much as make us regret following him. This was the first time in three years that we've been able to catch up to him.”
“You've been following this guy for three years? How old is he, exactly, that you've been following him so long? Why haven't I heard of this?”
“He's probably about twenty-two or twenty-three. We've only just entered the Mojave Wasteland. Everyone else who's outlived their usefulness to him are dead. Yes, entire towns included. Yes, some of them for fun. I thought we'd be ready by now, but he could have killed us without so much as a scraped knee.” Cross sighed softly, almost inaudibly. “We're going to need help, Charon.” Her eyes lifted to the ghoul.
But the Courier was thoughtful. She'd think he'd be older. It wasn't possible for a boy of twenty and two, or for anyone, to be from where they claimed to be from. Maybe an experienced, well-armed caravan. Maybe an elite strike team of the fabled Enclave, in one of those Vertibirds. No one, especially not some kid who was hardly out of his teens could make what was at least a year long trek into the Mojave from the mythical Capital Wasteland.
Bad Moon Rising Pt. 3/?
The ghoul kicked at a dismembered limb on the ground, and the Courier shuddered. Even desensitized, outside of combat she hated gore. The people of Primm were not nameless or faceless. Johnson and Ruby Nash were good people, honest, fair. Hardworking. The world was a lesser place without them. And to die at the hands of one kid...
“Felicity.” She said with a head tilt. “I honestly don't think I've had one person ask my name since I was shot.” She mused aloud to herself. Oh maybe a person here or there. None came to mind.
“Now maybe you can tell me who did this so I can kill them.” Her head cleared of cobwebs, she looked back and forth between the odd pair.
“You said people call you the Courier? They call him the Lone Wanderer. In the Captial Wasteland, he was known as 'the kid from Vault 101'. To anyone still alive from the vault itself? He's the Devil, pure and simple.” There was no trace of irony or sarcasm in her voice, just determination.
Something about it coming from Cross was disconcerting. She didn't seem like a terrible person. Maybe the opposite? Too soon to tell.
“Sounds personal. Both of you came all the way from the Capital Wasteland just to find this kid? I wasn't aware the Brotherhood went after criminals.” Her head tilted back curiously, eye-balling them both.
The ghoul responded with a growl. “They don't. Look, lady, we don't have time to chat. We have to get to him before he hits another settlement.”
“He does this often? Just wipes out settlements for no reason?” The Courier asked, bewildered.
Cross closed her eyes in an incredibly tired gesture. Not the physical kind of tired, either. “Sometimes. But this was not just for fun. This time, he saw us. I don't think it was that he was trying to take us down so much as make us regret following him. This was the first time in three years that we've been able to catch up to him.”
“You've been following this guy for three years? How old is he, exactly, that you've been following him so long? Why haven't I heard of this?”
“He's probably about twenty-two or twenty-three. We've only just entered the Mojave Wasteland. Everyone else who's outlived their usefulness to him are dead. Yes, entire towns included. Yes, some of them for fun. I thought we'd be ready by now, but he could have killed us without so much as a scraped knee.” Cross sighed softly, almost inaudibly. “We're going to need help, Charon.” Her eyes lifted to the ghoul.
But the Courier was thoughtful. She'd think he'd be older. It wasn't possible for a boy of twenty and two, or for anyone, to be from where they claimed to be from. Maybe an experienced, well-armed caravan. Maybe an elite strike team of the fabled Enclave, in one of those Vertibirds. No one, especially not some kid who was hardly out of his teens could make what was at least a year long trek into the Mojave from the mythical Capital Wasteland.