Chapter Text
Chapter 1: A Whole New World
I lit a cigarette, breathing in deep, and let loose a cloud of smoke into the desert evening. The campfire flickered in front of me, smoke drifting up in a narrow trail. Night was going to fall fast, out here in the desert, and I wanted to have dinner cooked and the fire smothered before it was fully dark. Keeping the odd gecko or coyote away wasn't worth advertising my position to every Viper, Jackal and Powder Ganger for miles around- that was an easy way to get myself stabbed and robbed. Not to mention the risk of the Mojave express sending someone after me for losing that package- even now sat in that smug asshole's pocket in Vegas, likely as not, but without the caps to get through the front gate I was stuck working these penny-ante jobs for loose change.
I'd butchered a Bighorner out in the dunes- too old to stick with the herd, it was a mercy to finish things for it, and the steaks I'd cut were even now sizzling merrily over the fire. Hide and the rest of the meat would sell well in Freeside- probably make me a couple of dozen caps, all told. Plus a hundred for checking in on this radio broadcast, subtract the price of ammo and repairs, a decent meal back in town… It was better than breaking even, barely. I couldn't help but chuckle, breaking the silence. It was ironic- here I was, a bar of gold from the legendary Sierra Madre tucked away in my pack, struggling for a handful of caps here and there because I couldn't find anyone willing to buy the damned thing. Richest man in the Mojave, struggling to budget for a bloatfly slider.
My target- the source of this strange radio signal- sat inert nearby. I'd seen pictures, in old pre-war books, these machines flying way up high, where the air thins to nothing and the sky turns black above you- this one had come crashing down to earth, recently enough that the tin cans from the Brotherhood hadn't grabbed it, or any of the other prospectors and scavengers who'd tear the thing apart for whatever scrap they could sell down at Old Lady Gibson's. Not that I was much better, dragging that hunk of junk back to Mick and Ralph's for whatever they had planned- some scheme to use it to run ads on the radio, from what I'd overheard. Trying to bring in regional customers, NCR soldiers and Crimson Caravan flunkies. Not my concern if they could pull it off, or if the plan would even work; I just had to get the thing back to Freeside. Which was looking like a royal pain the arse, to be sure; this old-world satellite was a chunky beast, too big to lift and covered in arms and solar panels to make it impossible to roll. A problem for the morning- at worst, I could just dig into it's electronic guts and try to isolate whatever signal emitter was still running. The machine seemed dormant, at least- a problem for the next morning.
Later that night, as the Big MT Satellite's clock ticked over to the strike of midnight, the machine burst into vibrant life; the power collected throughout the hot Mojave day flowing from capacitors into an array of holographic projectors, scanners, and the finest mad science that the combined minds of the Think Tank could fit into their pet project. A device designed to collect new test subjects once their stocks began to run dry, using the radio broadcast as a carrier wave to draw their victims into position. It was a tired routine, the same song and dance repeated by dozens of drones across the wasteland; no different, except for hairline fractures in the casing of the transportalponder, leaking radiation muddying the carrier waves just a touch beyond safety tolerances. What should have been a standard pickup became something far stranger. Not that the Courier was to know such things; he was sleeping fitfully when the Satellite began to whirr to life, and barely had time to draw his gun before a blue flash left the Mojave Drive-in quiet once more. It's job done, the satellite sank back to a fitful quiescence.
I looked around wildly, blinking the blue light from my eyes. Rookie mistake, kid, I could practically hear Raul's drawled admonition. You never let your guard down around pre-war tech, not if you don't know exactly what it's for. At least I was whole- all my limbs in their right place, my gun safely shouldered, my pack clutched tightly. That was a start; next, to figure out where I was, because this sure as hell wasn't the Mojave drive-through. Still the desert, at least, might not have been moved too far- just from a Mojave night to a desert morning, hopefully only a few hours lost. I shouldered my pack, tried to get oriented; my pip-boy was oddly unhelpful, the map refusing to resolve into focus even after hitting the screen a few time, it's compass simply showing a sad vault boy shaking his head. Always carry a backup- my spare compass still span true, a basic scrap of magnetized metal spinning on it's spindle, reliable as ever. Now I knew where north was- from there, I could find where I was, and once I knew that I could get where I was going. Simple. I'd done it before.
If you want to see further, you get up high. It's a basic instinct, and it holds true- I shouldered my load, set forth. The heat was bad, of course- what do you expect from a desert? The sand slid underfoot, making my progress a constant struggle as I zig-zagged uphill. The land fought against me, as it always does. But something felt wrong- even out here in the desert, there's life if you know where to look, but not like this. Little patches of desert grass dotted the landscape, mottled brown and green, more than I'd seen in the wasteland- nothing major, just a minor discomfort. Then I reached the top of the sand drift, and saw something impossible.
It wasn't that there was an oasis- of course it wasn't. It wasn't even the trees and bushes around it- where there's water there's life, and as bizarrely verdant as these were it wasn't beyond the pale. No, it was that damned goat. I'd seen goats before, in the hazy times before Benny's nine millimetre shot of amnesia, I was sure of that, but not like this. White fur, unmarred, not a single bald spot or cluster of boils. One head, two horns, four legs- the thing wasn't even nursing any major injuries! I don't know how long I stopped, boggling at it as it dipped it's head to drink- can't have been more than a few seconds, but it felt like an age.
The goat, for it's part, didn't seem fussed at all as I staggered and slid down the slope, simply dipping it's head to drink. Made sense, a beast that fine had to belong to someone- a prize-winner, or a brahmin baron's favoured pet, perhaps even some kind of NCR experiment in raising livestock away from radiation. It'd be used to people, and certainly there would be someone out there looking for it, someone willing to pay well. Strip security didn't much care for NCR dollars, but I could change them for caps at the Wrangler, once I got back into town. A little extra cash to sweeten the pot would help set things right with Mick and Ralph, besides; my reputation would be dinged up, but no way in hell I was gonna mess around with that satellite if it had some kind of pre-war weapon or device firing off at random. They could find some other patsy to take that bullet, if it mattered to them so much.
I knelt next to the goat, slurping up water. It was clean, save for a hint of gritty sand- tasted good, so I filled my canteen and my belly both. Then, for a time, I just sat. The goat chewed on a patch of oasis grass, tearing it up by the roots in great chunks, the rhythmic grinding of it's teeth lulling me into a state of meditative relaxation. Not asleep- I wasn't that dumb- but relaxed. That's why the shouting was so unwelcome, the gunshots too.
Now, it's probably foolhardy to run towards sounds of violence at the best of times, but you have to understand that, out of all my skills, violence has tended to be more the most lucrative. It's not a safe job, but that just comes down to managing risk, same as any other job. In this case, I was out in the desert, beginning to suspect I was further from home than I thought, a few day's food in my pack and a ticking clock before the Mojave express decided I wasn't doing enough to recover the package and sent a cleaner out to resolve the situation. Gunshots means people, people with access to guns and ammunition and the places where one could find such things. People in trouble, which meant people I could barter with.
It could've been raiders, of course. I was ready for that too- some of them could be bargained with, like the better class of powder ganger, and if they were more like the Fiends I'd rather get the drop on them than wait until they found me. Shooting people never really sat right with me, but so it goes- it just comes down to managing risk.
Luckily, this particular incident wasn't so morally fraught; I caught sight of them from a fair distance, as soon as I'd climbed the dunes which sheltered my little oasis. A desert caravan, traders of some sort, trying to drive off some kind of mutant- a big two-headed snake, bigger than anything I'd seen before, bloated to impossible size. It made some kind of sense, all the greenery and healthy animals would allow for bigger predators- all that food. Never seen a snake that big though- the two heads were a comforting familiarity.
The poor bastards fighting it weren't having a good time of it- using spears and rifles to try and drive it off, I saw the thing twitch and writhe into a brutal lash which sent one spearman flying off his feet- he wouldn't get back up from that, I knew the bone-crushing, organ-pulping forces involved in throwing someone like that. I loaded my shotgun- slugs, buckshot wouldn't do squat to it's thick hide and scales- and hurried into the fray.
It's a mark of professionalism, how you react to the appearance of unexpected aid. The moment of distraction can kill you if you let it, and that makes for a poor first impression- I called out to them on the approach, "Assist coming on your nine o'clock!", and took a shot at the creature, racking the slide as I planted a cluster of lead blooms around one of it's eyes, slamfiring until my ears rang and my gun clicked empty, still moving as I fumbled briefly for more shells.
These caravaneers were tough, and knew their way around a brawl- my shouted warning was enough that they didn't miss a beat, carrying on their lethal dance without any concern for the extra pair of feet on the dancefloor. The snake reared, hissing it's pique, and whirled towards me, but before it could strike they were there, a spear punching into it's soft underbelly, tearing open a ragged gash. With a sharp coil it brought it's uninjured head to bear, snapping with fangs the length of my forearm, but no sooner had it's mouth opened than it choked on a volley of large-calibre bullets, the caravaneer's rifles popping in a regimented salvo, giving the spearmen time to adjust, scattering out of the way as it fell back, before whirling once more. By then I'd reloaded, more slugs ready to fly, and I took a breath, eyes scanning for any weak spots. The eye I'd shot out earlier was leaking some strange black ichor, that head weaving back and forth as it tried to sweep the battlefield despite it's blind spot. Seemed to slow it down a little, at least- I jogged around in a wide circle, keeping to the outskirts of this little skirmish, lining up a shot on it's remaining eye, and let fly, metal pulping the eye in it's socket with another outraged shriek of pain from the snake.
I didn't see the other head swinging around, but I sure as hell felt it crashing into my side.
I didn't need to look down to see the injury, a broken rib punching through the flesh of my chest.
It didn't hurt as much as you'd think- I was marinaded in enough adrenaline to keep me running though near enough anything, I think- but I jabbed a syringe of med-x into my side anyway, the sharp prick of a needle giving way to a cold numbness flowing through the tissue. All I could do then was scramble back away from it, trying to clear some space before the snake could strike again; every movement sent bones grinding together, but without the pain of it I could power through it. More damage, but that was secondary to surviving the next minute.
I needn't have worried- another clattering salvo of rifle fire distracted it a moment, before the blast of a rocket drove it's head down to the side, into reach of the spears, and they fell upon it in a bloody frenzy. By the time I'd managed to sit up, the snake must have been stabbed half a hundred times, and before I could recover my shotgun it was dead, weakly thrashing in it's final throes.
"Hoi kid, are you alright? Nasty hit you took," one of the strangers approached me, big grin on her face. "What were you doing out here alone anyway, you a Hunstman's student or something?"
I grunted, breath a little short as I unclasped my duster and tore the leather armour underneath free, so that I could get a proper look at my injury. The stranger blanched, at odds with her professionalism earlier, called for a medic even as I felt around for a bag of healing powder. It's tricky stuff, burns like the wrong end of a plasma rifle, but there's not much better for keeping wounds clean and making sure they heal right. By the time the medic arrived, an older man with intense eyes and a shock of green hair, I was midway through binding the wound, rough linen bandages forcing the bone back to it's proper place.
"Stop that, what are you doing?" He spoke fast, batting my hands away before I could tie it off. I grunted in irritation as I lost the pressure on the wound, the bone flexing back out of place. "Your rib- you fool child, why did you get involved if your aura was so low!"
"Aura?" I asked, a little slow- the Med-X was kicking in hard, leaving my head damnably fuzzy, and he wasn't making any sense to me. "No.. it's my rib, doc." I gestured at it vaguely. "Just needs patching up, s'fine."
I must have drifted off there, since the next thing I knew I was being bumped around on the back of a cart. Someone was sat up next to me, and that gave me a start- it was the one who'd been hit by the snake as I first arrived, the one I knew wouldn't be surviving, sat there alive and well. I glanced around, panicked, half expecting to see some bony fellow with a robe and scythe, or a boatman demanding two caps to cover my fare- but there was nothing more than the arse end of a horse plodding along, and, tied to the side of the cart, the same old goat looking back at me with a weirdly knowing look in it's boggling eyes.
My movement didn't go unnoticed, the dead man sat next to me calling out. "The kid's awake, Professor!"
"Doctor!" came an irate correction, as the green-haired medic hove into view. The cart wasn't moving fast at all, but even so the speed his long legs ate up the distance was impressive. "Are you cognisant? Are you in any pain? We found syringes on your person- are you on any medication? Can you tell me precisely what you have taken?"
He spoke fast; it would have been easy to chalk it up to panic, if it weren't for the look on his face- he was intense, not afraid nor shaken. I pulled myself together, took inventory. "Uh… I think so, a little, Med-X and healing powder," I said, working back through his questions in my head. "Should be good to walk," I added, my professional pride pricked at being treated like luggage.
As I sat up, there was already a hand on my shoulder, pinning me down with no apparent effort. "Absolutely not!" The medic's tone was steel. "You have a broken rib, two others fractured, you are chronically malnourished, and judging by the bleeding in your gums you're facing an extreme vitamin deficiency!"
I was torn between a weird sense of shame, and a self-righteous indignation at the unasked for examination. The man sat on the cart next to me- not dead, despite all I'd seen- looked down at me with pitying eyes. Asshole.
"Just relax, kid. We're gonna get you back to Vacuo city, find your folks, okay?"
I stared back at him, trying to figure out his angle. I'd never heard of this 'Vacuo city', and I had a sinking feeling that their assumption I had folks there was the only thing keeping me alive. I glanced over to the goat; guess I was in the same boat for now, lost property to be returned for a few caps. Just needed to figure out how to get clear before they realised I wasn't worth anything to anyone.
Biding my time, I glanced around- my pack was still safely fastened, my shotgun was in arm's reach and the holdout pistol nestled safely at the small of my back. Must've put that back after examining me; no way they missed it after something that invasive. The cart kept rolling forward, rocking slightly as it passed over ruts in the road, and I found my eyes resting on the goat once again.
"You were muttering about the goat in your sleep," my companion on the cart explained. "Seemed important to you- it belongs to your family?"
I almost shook my head, before common sense took over. "Yeah, it belongs to my folks," I lied. "They'll be grateful that you brought it back, for sure."
That should help convince them to keep it on hand- if I could slip away with it, it'd sell for enough to buy passage out of this 'Vacuo city', maybe get back to California or the Mojave if there were caravans running out here- wherever here was. Couldn't be a major city if I'd never heard of it, but the NCR's caravan companies usually hit these smaller towns as waystations for resupply.
"So, what's your name?" I asked, hoping to strike up a rapport; if they thought I trusted them, they'd be more likely to let their guard down.
"Vance Whittle," the stranger replied, an easy air to him. "The Doc hired me for security, just to have another Huntsman on hand; how about you?"
"Courier," I replied shortly.
"Odd name- is that Atlesian?"
I quirked an eyebrow at that. Another strange place. "Sure, Atlesian. I came round here for work."
There was a brief lull in the conversation. "Work, eh? Your parents came to Vacuo for business?"
"They're not-" I bit off the sentence before I could admit that they weren't in the picture. "Yeah, they moved out here for business. Farming, that's why I needed to find the goat."
My companion let out a huff from between pursed lips. "They sent you out into the desert after a single goat?"
"Sure did."
He muttered something I didn't quite catch. "I'll have a word with them," he finally said aloud. "You've got some talent though, kid. I bet you could swing a scholarship out at Shade, you're about the right age for it too- what are you, 17, 18?"
"19," I grumbled, my pride nettled. I was a full adult by anyone's standards, there was no call for anyone to look down on me! Whittle gave me an odd look, sizing me up.
"Sure, 19… that's still not past the cut-off, you know? Gotta be better than helping with your folks' business like this."
*****
A few hours later, after that conversation had died a death, as Courier Six napped fitfully in the rocking cart, Vance jogged to the head of their little desert convoy.
"I spoke with the kid, doc- he's an odd one for sure."
"Howso? Oddity in itself is no crime- it is through our uniqueness that we build our strength!"
"I don't think his folks are any good," Vance kept his cool with practised effort, all too aware of what negativity could dredge up from the sandy sea. "The kid's twitchy, guarded. And who sends a boy that age out into the desert alone??"
Doctor Oobleck frowned at that. "The boy didn't hesitate to run out and help when the Taijitsu attacked- perhaps he took it upon himself to go after the missing goat? It's possible he's merely over-eager- can you justify such a low opinion of people you've never met?"
Vance paused at that, thinking through his words. Oobleck was one of nature's teachers, asking the question more to make him explain his reasoning than out of any real disagreement. "The kid is well armed and he can handle a fight- that points to some huntsman training, but his aura was either exhausted, he doesn't have good control of it… or it's not awakened. Any of those options are bad, if he was sent out by himself, and I don't think he's the sort to go out on his own." Something struck Vance then. "He was also too calm about the hit he took- patching up that kind of wound himself, instead of trying to call for help. Surely for anyone, the instinct should be to get help when you're hit like that. Do you know what medication he used?"
Doctor Oobleck shook his head. "It's not familiar to me- that's a concern, certainly. A child shouldn't be carrying so many syringes on them- it's a worrying sign, especially since it's something rare- or ilicit- enough that I've not heard of it. It's a pity we couldn't search his effects…"
"That's another thing," Vance cut in. "Even unconscious, with a broken rib, the kid tensed right up when we went anywhere near that bag. Those aren't good… they're not the kind of instincts you develop in a safe family environment. You said he's malnourished, and he's clearly got some stunted growth, being that small as a 19 year old… I'm not sure he's got any family at all!"
Oobleck nodded approvingly. "I came to the same conclusion," he admitted, "but it's good that you came to it independently. It's unfortunate, but there are many orphans in Vacuo these days- the combination of Grimm and geopolitical factors following the great war has led to significant instability. It's unusual for such a person to have any resources, however- weapons, ammunition, whatever the contents of the bag he's so protective of are…"
"It must be important to him- he was completely unaware of you patching up his injuries, but somehow knew when I was looking at his pack." Vance frowned. "I wouldn't expect a Vacuo orphan to be so materialistic…"
Oobleck frowned at that. "It's a common reaction to certain types of trauma; not a moral failing for one to be judged upon."
That unexpected brevity was enough for Vance to back off; even years after being his student, he still instinctively expected Doctor Oobleck to assign him a hundred page essay on the impact of generational trauma on how a hunstman should comport themselves with civilians. "Understood," he said, placatingly. "So how do we go forwards? The kid says he has family to get back to- if that's not true, what do we do?"
"We show we can be trusted, and we get the boy into contact with Shade Academy," Oobleck decided. "It's four months until the new intake, but there are certain scholarship and housing opportunities for those without means." He chanced a smile. "Although we must consider the possibility that we are entirely wrong! It's entirely possible that we are merely borrowing trouble, and there will be a loving, worried family waiting for our wayward companion in Vacuo city. We shall have to remain open to the possibilities."
