Fallout Kink Meme Part IV: Closed to prompts, open for fills.

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Unnamed

[(Anonymous)]

Characters: F!Courier, OC
Kink: None


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It was a tiny little nothing town in the middle of nowhere. It existed solely because the surrounding soil wasn't completely sterile and there was a small stream nearby that wasn't hopelessly contaminated.

The Courier still liked it, though, and not just because it had a perfectly serviceable bar. She liked these isolated little places nobody knew about. They were all different, in their own way. Of course, they were also all the same in a way.

The Courier pulled up a stool and gestured to the bartender. The bartender, whose name was John, nodded and quietly put a glass of clear water in front of her.

"Haven't seen you around in a while," John said.

The Courier shrugged. "Not a lot of packages going this way."

"So, what's happening out there?" John asked.

"The usual," the Courier replied shortly.

John nodded and silently went back to cleaning a few glasses. He knew that tone of voice well enough.

The Courier calmly drank her water, all the while trying to ignore the feeling she was an embarrassment. Water wasn't proper drink, after all. If it didn't have alcohol it wasn't worth drinking. Unless she was planning to do some drugs later, but she wasn't.

The Courier carefully put down her glass and resisted the urge to shake her head. No. She'd walked away from all that. The way she'd been brought up... no, that wasn't the way. She still didn't know what 'the way' actually was, but violence, drugs, alcohol and fucking wasn't it. Well, actually, she kind of missed the fucking sometimes. But even so, there had to be other ways of having sex than slamming your partners against the wall and clawing at their bodies like rabid animals.

As for violence... well, OK, sometimes it was necessary. The Wasteland wasn't exactly the kindest place on Earth, after all. But people shouldn't be so... enthusiastic about it. It was a last resort, not the preferred option. And there was no need to be so barbaric. A well-placed gunshot was far more elegant and efficient than some drawn-out, bloody brawl. But no, muscles were glorified and steady nerves were the sign of a sissy.

The Courier gestured to John when she noticed her glass was empty.

"Another one," she said.

John walked over to her and dutifully refilled her glass. Apparently he decided to take another stab at starting up a conversation.

"So, where are you off to next?" he asked.

"New Vegas," the Courier replied.

John whistled between his teeth. "That's quite a while away."

"The pay's good. Besides, New Vegas is supposed to be this beacon of civilization in the Wasteland. I'd quite like to see if it is."

"Very shady place, I hear," John said. "No place for decent folk."

The Courier chuckled. "You'd be amazed how many different definitions of 'decent folk' exist out there. Still haven't figured out which one's mine. Hell, maybe I'll make my own."

John blinked, clearly at a loss. "You know, you've been coming to our town a lot, haven't you?"

"Sure," the Courier said carefully, uncertain where he was going.

"It just occurred to me I still don't know your name."

"Oh, that," the Courier said. "Ain't got one."

John gave her a confused look. "Everybody's got a name," he said.

"I don't," the Courier said. "Decided not to get one. Just said 'fuck it' and walked away."

"I don't understand," said John.

"Yeah, I know," said the Courier.

And with that, the former Great Kahn put the caps she owed on the counter and walked away.