“Christ. Quit bitching and get a spare out of my duffle,” Boone finally interjected, dead tired of hearing Gannon go on about his damned shirt. Boone’s mama always did say that smart folk had no common sense, and he was inclined to believe her. Gannon had hiked two days out of New Vegas, conveniently forgetting to pack clean shirts, and two days of road dust and blood splatter didn’t wear well on the prissy doctor.
“Is someone going to help me haul firewood or do I have to spend three times as long on a job that should take a half hour?” yelled the Courier from across their makeshift encampment. All three of them were on edge today, a combination of trudging through the Mojave under a particularly unforgiving sun and a hard day of big ironing against the Powder Gangers. These days it was nothing to kill a man in the Mojave, but it still took a tax on your soul. If you were still human inside, that is.
Boone strode after the Courier, not keen on arguing with the doctor on who should go, and Arcade was left alone in the camp. Once the Courier and Boone were almost out of sight, Arcade looked around nervously. He didn’t particularly like being left alone in strange parts of the Mojave, especially when there were bloodthirsty escaped prisoners waltzing about and he was hard pressed to hit the broad side of a bighorner bull nine times out of ten, but sometimes you had to put on your big girl panties and deal with it. After all, nothing was forcing him to follow the Courier other than his own intrigue about the enigmatic woman and the vague instinct that if he trailed along long enough, he’d be there when history was made. And that’s something I can tell the grandchildren I’ll be biologically incapable of having, Arcade remarked to himself.
Well, even if he was relatively useless with a gun, Arcade could contribute as best he could. Whether that was by bandaging up a knife wound or adding to the atmosphere with his jaunty wit, well, that’s all dependent on the situation, wasn’t it? For now, the least Arcade could do is scavenge the immediate area for herbs and fruits and maybe set up the tents. With the fantastic mood those two were in, anything would help. But first, that clean shirt was calling his name….
Arcade attempted to stem the incoming tide of jokes and allusions his mind wished to make about him inside Boone—er, Boone’s clothes and he was mostly successful. He approached the faded, desert camo bag like it may leap up and bite him, and with some apprehension, undid the zipper. Unsurprisingly, there were no booby traps lurking within, but then again, you could never tell with Boone. Arcade still wasn’t quite convinced the man didn’t have it in for him, even just a little.
Arcade took the topmost shirt out of the bag and held it up. It was a black wife beater with what looked like tiny holes from buckshot littering the left side. No thank you. He folded it up and placed it back in the bag. The second shirt he held up was a deep maroon V-neck, but when he held it up to his torso, it may have been a belly shirt if he put it on. Arcade wondered if it belonged to the Courier, or if Boone was just that short. He made a mental note to investigate later. The last shirt, at the bottom of the back, was a nondescript black tee. Arcade picked it up, and when it unfolded, a small book fell to the ground, naturally opening to a page filled with small, feminine scrawl. Arcade sat down on the ground to get a better look at the thing, unwilling to touch the small book just yet. While he loomed over it on his hands and knees, he couldn’t help but read the first few lines.
Had A Bad Day? (1a)
“Is someone going to help me haul firewood or do I have to spend three times as long on a job that should take a half hour?” yelled the Courier from across their makeshift encampment. All three of them were on edge today, a combination of trudging through the Mojave under a particularly unforgiving sun and a hard day of big ironing against the Powder Gangers. These days it was nothing to kill a man in the Mojave, but it still took a tax on your soul. If you were still human inside, that is.
Boone strode after the Courier, not keen on arguing with the doctor on who should go, and Arcade was left alone in the camp. Once the Courier and Boone were almost out of sight, Arcade looked around nervously. He didn’t particularly like being left alone in strange parts of the Mojave, especially when there were bloodthirsty escaped prisoners waltzing about and he was hard pressed to hit the broad side of a bighorner bull nine times out of ten, but sometimes you had to put on your big girl panties and deal with it. After all, nothing was forcing him to follow the Courier other than his own intrigue about the enigmatic woman and the vague instinct that if he trailed along long enough, he’d be there when history was made. And that’s something I can tell the grandchildren I’ll be biologically incapable of having, Arcade remarked to himself.
Well, even if he was relatively useless with a gun, Arcade could contribute as best he could. Whether that was by bandaging up a knife wound or adding to the atmosphere with his jaunty wit, well, that’s all dependent on the situation, wasn’t it? For now, the least Arcade could do is scavenge the immediate area for herbs and fruits and maybe set up the tents. With the fantastic mood those two were in, anything would help. But first, that clean shirt was calling his name….
Arcade attempted to stem the incoming tide of jokes and allusions his mind wished to make about him inside Boone—er, Boone’s clothes and he was mostly successful. He approached the faded, desert camo bag like it may leap up and bite him, and with some apprehension, undid the zipper. Unsurprisingly, there were no booby traps lurking within, but then again, you could never tell with Boone. Arcade still wasn’t quite convinced the man didn’t have it in for him, even just a little.
Arcade took the topmost shirt out of the bag and held it up. It was a black wife beater with what looked like tiny holes from buckshot littering the left side. No thank you. He folded it up and placed it back in the bag. The second shirt he held up was a deep maroon V-neck, but when he held it up to his torso, it may have been a belly shirt if he put it on. Arcade wondered if it belonged to the Courier, or if Boone was just that short. He made a mental note to investigate later. The last shirt, at the bottom of the back, was a nondescript black tee. Arcade picked it up, and when it unfolded, a small book fell to the ground, naturally opening to a page filled with small, feminine scrawl. Arcade sat down on the ground to get a better look at the thing, unwilling to touch the small book just yet. While he loomed over it on his hands and knees, he couldn’t help but read the first few lines.