Shrapnel looked at Yan the merchant with narrowed eyes, but the man was absolutely sincere. “So you’re offering me seven hundred caps to get you through a death zone of god knows what kind of mutated atrocities…” “It’s only deathclaws, mostly. As far as I know.” “Only deathclaws.” Shrapnel dug into a pocket and produced a smoke. “As far as you know, huh?” “There’s a reason I’m paying so well.” Shrapnel lit the smoke and gave the merchant another look. “What’s up there that’s worth risking your neck for?” “It’s not primarily what’s up there, but who, lad.” The merchant then pointed at the crates and kegs stacked beside him. “That alcohol is worth a fortune anywhere, but up there, the land’s too fucked up to grow anything. Can hardly feed the few poor fuckers who live there. So there’s people up north who would give an arm and a leg for one bottle of our booze.” “And the catch is we have to go through a minefield of deathclaw nests.” “Something like it, yeah.”
Shrapnel took out his lighter and fiddled with it for a moment before he lit his smoke and slipped it back into his pocket. He needed cash, that was indisputable, but was the cash worth it? Working as a mercenary, he had been risking his hide constantly these last five years, and seven hundred caps… he could live off that much money for a year. Of course, if he kicked the bucket on the way, he wouldn’t need no money any more, most likely not even a burial. He puffed his cheeks and exhaled a thoughtful cloud. And was his life really worth that much to him?
He kept on smoking in silence and the merchant, patiently waiting for an answer, began to go through his notes again.
Fact was he was sick of his life. Sick of everything and everyone. Had been ever since that day in Evergreen Mills when he had succeeded in finding and killing that bitch Chippy as she fucked the last guy who had been alive of their old gang. Had looked at her twitching corpse and realised that nothing had changed. Nothing would change. She was dead, all right, but at that point he had realised that his life wouldn’t get any better. He still had nightmares about having his balls cut off. He still had nightmares of being suffocated while being paralysed by pain. Her death hadn’t changed it. And he had sacrificed the only friend he had ever had for a revenge that had been as cold and flat and dissatisfying like a week-old beer.
He had all but fled Mills, had fled the whole fucking Capital Wasteland, heading west and south, selling his gun and risking his hide to feed himself even though he kept asking himself why he bothered.
In the end, he said yes to the job because he always did. He let himself being carried from hire to hire, never caring where he went.
No one bothered him, not for long, at least. He made a point of not wanting to indulge in useless small talk or come to friendly terms with anyone. He had a nasty temper and an even nastier mouth, and soon enough everyone around him knew and kept their distance, leaving him alone with his thoughts as unpleasant as they occasionally were. That worked this time too.
The journey was, as announced, a trip through seven different kinds of hell. On the three week trip, they lost five out of twelve mercenaries and one Brahmin to the monstrosities that inhabited the death zone, so when the eight men and their four remaining animals reached a river that Yan said was the Potomac, everyone breathed deeply in relief. They followed the river until they reached the Capital Wasteland, and not for the first time on this journey did Shrapnel think of his old buddy.
The names of the places they had talked about, Megaton and Rivet City, had remained only names for him, but now at least he would see Rivet City with his own eyes. And he had to admit he was baffled when he realised that the city was a ship. A huge, fucking aircraft carrier. They stood for a while at the bottom of the ramp, and after Yan had given them a moment to be properly impressed, they left their Brahmins in the care of a few boys and walked up the ramp.
Friends will be Friends 7a/8
“It’s a suicide mission.”
Shrapnel looked at Yan the merchant with narrowed eyes, but the man was absolutely sincere. “So you’re offering me seven hundred caps to get you through a death zone of god knows what kind of mutated atrocities…”
“It’s only deathclaws, mostly. As far as I know.”
“Only deathclaws.” Shrapnel dug into a pocket and produced a smoke. “As far as you know, huh?”
“There’s a reason I’m paying so well.”
Shrapnel lit the smoke and gave the merchant another look. “What’s up there that’s worth risking your neck for?”
“It’s not primarily what’s up there, but who, lad.” The merchant then pointed at the crates and kegs stacked beside him. “That alcohol is worth a fortune anywhere, but up there, the land’s too fucked up to grow anything. Can hardly feed the few poor fuckers who live there. So there’s people up north who would give an arm and a leg for one bottle of our booze.”
“And the catch is we have to go through a minefield of deathclaw nests.”
“Something like it, yeah.”
Shrapnel took out his lighter and fiddled with it for a moment before he lit his smoke and slipped it back into his pocket. He needed cash, that was indisputable, but was the cash worth it? Working as a mercenary, he had been risking his hide constantly these last five years, and seven hundred caps… he could live off that much money for a year. Of course, if he kicked the bucket on the way, he wouldn’t need no money any more, most likely not even a burial. He puffed his cheeks and exhaled a thoughtful cloud. And was his life really worth that much to him?
He kept on smoking in silence and the merchant, patiently waiting for an answer, began to go through his notes again.
Fact was he was sick of his life. Sick of everything and everyone. Had been ever since that day in Evergreen Mills when he had succeeded in finding and killing that bitch Chippy as she fucked the last guy who had been alive of their old gang. Had looked at her twitching corpse and realised that nothing had changed. Nothing would change.
She was dead, all right, but at that point he had realised that his life wouldn’t get any better. He still had nightmares about having his balls cut off. He still had nightmares of being suffocated while being paralysed by pain. Her death hadn’t changed it. And he had sacrificed the only friend he had ever had for a revenge that had been as cold and flat and dissatisfying like a week-old beer.
He had all but fled Mills, had fled the whole fucking Capital Wasteland, heading west and south, selling his gun and risking his hide to feed himself even though he kept asking himself why he bothered.
In the end, he said yes to the job because he always did. He let himself being carried from hire to hire, never caring where he went.
No one bothered him, not for long, at least. He made a point of not wanting to indulge in useless small talk or come to friendly terms with anyone. He had a nasty temper and an even nastier mouth, and soon enough everyone around him knew and kept their distance, leaving him alone with his thoughts as unpleasant as they occasionally were.
That worked this time too.
The journey was, as announced, a trip through seven different kinds of hell. On the three week trip, they lost five out of twelve mercenaries and one Brahmin to the monstrosities that inhabited the death zone, so when the eight men and their four remaining animals reached a river that Yan said was the Potomac, everyone breathed deeply in relief. They followed the river until they reached the Capital Wasteland, and not for the first time on this journey did Shrapnel think of his old buddy.
The names of the places they had talked about, Megaton and Rivet City, had remained only names for him, but now at least he would see Rivet City with his own eyes. And he had to admit he was baffled when he realised that the city was a ship. A huge, fucking aircraft carrier. They stood for a while at the bottom of the ramp, and after Yan had given them a moment to be properly impressed, they left their Brahmins in the care of a few boys and walked up the ramp.