A lone, sagging figure was outside the door, knees knocked together, hooded head down.
“Veronica,” The courier breathed, heart skipping a beat. She almost fell trying to get close to the girl, her hand reaching out even as her knees slid into the dust before her. Veronica, the woman she thought of as her little sister, not moving even in greeting, even in surprise or fear at her sudden appearance Still... she was so still... was on earth was she so still...
Instinct so acute you could sharpen diamonds on it had her pulling up Dinner Bell to shoot whoever was pointing a souped-up plasma rifle at where her outstretched arm had been. For her, at this close range, it was nothing to use the hunting shotgun the way a surgeon uses a scalpel to pick that rifle out of the hands of the dirty, bald old man who'd been shooting it a second before.
The man looked incredulously at where the rifle had been for a split second before dropping out of sight as she fired again, this time, only as a warning to him. She didn't like to kill people right away, after all. She liked to give them the chance to run the Hell away in fear, maybe learn the error of their ways. It would have been nothing for her to take him out, even as she didn't move from her place in front of the too-still scribe.
A fit of crazy giggles came from somewhere to her right. Her whole body tensed as she turned just her head, a feeling of premonition coming over her as she used Dinner Bell to block a flying, well-aimed hatchet that then clattered to the ground ominously. She didn't move from her point in front of Veronica, who she still had yet to determine was alive, and she wasn't going to.
A couple of powered shots into the dune next to her informed her that Boone and the others had caught up. Boone didn't miss, so it was probably more for her benefit than it was for anyone else. A shiver ran down her back as she could feel something cold in the air, despite that this was the Mojave desert and it was always fucking hot as Hell. But this was no premonition, or at least it wasn't in the way the hatchet had been.
The Courier could feel the Lone Wanderer's inky velvet voice crawling along her eardrums, slithering down her spine and teasing along her skin. She'd been told he was persuasive, when he wanted to be. Charming, hard to ignore. Gregarious, smooth, intelligent, powerful. Larger than life, enigmatic and even enchanting... descriptions that she'd even had thrown at her, though they hadn't always been compliments at the time. Cross and Charon both had told her this kid was a lot like her, in a lot of ways that weren't easily described.
The thought had been unnerving at the time.
“You're 'The Courier', then.” He drawled lazily, completely at ease with all the tense, well-armed, well-trained vets staring down at him through their scopes. None of those present were push overs, but he sounded like he was speaking to a group of gawky teenagers, like this confrontation had been of his own choosing, planned years in advance, not some chance encounter.
When she turned to see him, her poker face at it's peak, her breathing hitched, albeit silently. He was... he was a lot more than she could have imagined. She'd been imagining a genius kid, a smooth-talker who was a little weak on his own, but made up for it in brains, using his two buddies to fight for him. Someone she could peg, something she'd come across before, though with far less destruction in their wake.
Bad Moon Rising Pt. 9/?
“Veronica,” The courier breathed, heart skipping a beat. She almost fell trying to get close to the girl, her hand reaching out even as her knees slid into the dust before her. Veronica, the woman she thought of as her little sister, not moving even in greeting, even in surprise or fear at her sudden appearance Still... she was so still... was on earth was she so still...
Instinct so acute you could sharpen diamonds on it had her pulling up Dinner Bell to shoot whoever was pointing a souped-up plasma rifle at where her outstretched arm had been. For her, at this close range, it was nothing to use the hunting shotgun the way a surgeon uses a scalpel to pick that rifle out of the hands of the dirty, bald old man who'd been shooting it a second before.
The man looked incredulously at where the rifle had been for a split second before dropping out of sight as she fired again, this time, only as a warning to him. She didn't like to kill people right away, after all. She liked to give them the chance to run the Hell away in fear, maybe learn the error of their ways. It would have been nothing for her to take him out, even as she didn't move from her place in front of the too-still scribe.
A fit of crazy giggles came from somewhere to her right. Her whole body tensed as she turned just her head, a feeling of premonition coming over her as she used Dinner Bell to block a flying, well-aimed hatchet that then clattered to the ground ominously. She didn't move from her point in front of Veronica, who she still had yet to determine was alive, and she wasn't going to.
A couple of powered shots into the dune next to her informed her that Boone and the others had caught up. Boone didn't miss, so it was probably more for her benefit than it was for anyone else. A shiver ran down her back as she could feel something cold in the air, despite that this was the Mojave desert and it was always fucking hot as Hell. But this was no premonition, or at least it wasn't in the way the hatchet had been.
The Courier could feel the Lone Wanderer's inky velvet voice crawling along her eardrums, slithering down her spine and teasing along her skin. She'd been told he was persuasive, when he wanted to be. Charming, hard to ignore. Gregarious, smooth, intelligent, powerful. Larger than life, enigmatic and even enchanting... descriptions that she'd even had thrown at her, though they hadn't always been compliments at the time. Cross and Charon both had told her this kid was a lot like her, in a lot of ways that weren't easily described.
The thought had been unnerving at the time.
“You're 'The Courier', then.” He drawled lazily, completely at ease with all the tense, well-armed, well-trained vets staring down at him through their scopes. None of those present were push overs, but he sounded like he was speaking to a group of gawky teenagers, like this confrontation had been of his own choosing, planned years in advance, not some chance encounter.
When she turned to see him, her poker face at it's peak, her breathing hitched, albeit silently. He was... he was a lot more than she could have imagined. She'd been imagining a genius kid, a smooth-talker who was a little weak on his own, but made up for it in brains, using his two buddies to fight for him. Someone she could peg, something she'd come across before, though with far less destruction in their wake.