#I wrote this instead of editing the final chapter of 'Blood and Roses' | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

sherrybaby14 · 4 years ago

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Blue Spiders - Chapter 2

Summary: Fear pushes your relationship along.

Warnings: Light horror, background alcohol, (I have not warned for everything possible, please read at your own risk)

Words: 2k

Pairing: Therapist! Steve Rogers x female reader

Part One

She lived in an apartment. That was problematic. Houses were much easier to break in to undetected. At least it wasn’t in a great neighborhood and the locks on her doors were pathetic. All he needed was a credit card to break them. He accomplished that task this morning.

Steve in no way wanted her death tied to him or the New England Butcher. The kill would be a quick one. Gunshot, he hoped for a mugging gone bad, but it appeared she never left her place after dark.

Ten days he had been watching her, observing, waiting for the moment to strike. But she was always home before sundown, never to retreat again. He wouldn’t risk a daytime public murder. Too many loose ends.

It looked like the next option would be breaking and entering. Doable, but not ideal. Look like a robbery. Bullet to the head and the world would have one less awful person in it.

Under normal circumstances Steve felt nothing when preparing for a kill. Sometimes a mild rush of glee during the act and then a bit of euphoria after, especially if it was a victim he intended Agent Barnes to tie to the New England Butcher.

But this felt different. Personal. The few times he spotted her during the day he felt betrayed. How could she lie to him about her identity to get a profile for some dumb blog? And why did he feel a connection.

His watch beeped and he checked the time. Three thirty in the morning. She would be fast asleep. It would be over soon. Then the euphoria would come just as it had with the others. He was certain of it.

The sound of his car door slamming echoed across the empty street as he began his walk in the shadows, four blocks away from his destination.

You didn’t believe in a sixth sense, or you didn’t want to, but something was off. Wrong. You were being followed. Could it be him?

You finally felt somewhat safe here. Comfortable enough you followed your passion and started to make a name for yourself. Sure Miranda’s Museum of the Macabre wasn’t a big deal yet, but you were growing a following and you loved that type of reporting.

The last few days you were cursing yourself for even starting the thing. Today when you got home and saw the locks weren’t working your paranoia vanished.

Whoever broke them was subtle about it. If you hadn’t been paranoid you wouldn’t have noticed, thought that the chain was shut tight when a light tap would drop it. The deadbolt hole was splintered and pressed back into place. Anyone with a driver’s license and a shoulder would be able to break the thing down.

The right thing would have been to run, or call the police. Neither option was intriguing. So you sat next to the thing, waiting in the darkness. Every time footsteps sounded outside the hall you steadied the shotgun, blinking away the tears that you might have to blow someone’s head off.

Maybe you were going crazy. The locks had always been broken and you only noticed now? Maybe nobody was following you. Just the ghosts of your past.

Then, at almost four in the morning after standing guard for eight hours footsteps stopped in front of your door.

Your adrenaline flared. You cocked the gun right as your knob started to turn. It froze. Fuck! They heard the noise.

The handle fell back in place. They were leaving. All the shaking you were feeling came flooding back.

You needed to open the door. Find out who they were, what they wanted. But instead you collapsed, hugging the shotgun as the footsteps retreated. Would you ever be safe?

Loss of sleep was an understatement. Tonight you would get a hotel room. Then decide if you wanted to call the cops, fix the door, or flee. Life was exhausting enough and it felt like you’d only just started living.

The door to the office opened and you rose to your feet, pinning on your best smile as Dr. Rogers walked a patient out.

His face looked cold, but his blue eyes widened with surprise.

“Hi.” You gave a nervous wave. “I have something for you.”

His patient waved goodbye as you stepped forward, article in hand.

“What is this?” He grabbed the pages.

“The article. I said I would send over a copy, but I thought with the way things ended I should drop one off in person.” You fidgeted, thinking about your run in with Barnes the last time. “As promised, a glowing puff piece. It will be in the weekend edition.”

You watched as his eyes’ scanned the pages. His brow furrowed in confusion.

“Is something wrong?” You rocked on your feet, hoping to see what line he was at. “I taped the interview, but if I messed up a fact or misspoke there is time to correct before it goes to print.”

“So the article was real?” The Doctor looked up at you with wide eyes. “It wasn’t a ruse for your blog?”

“Ah.” You bit your lip as you looked away. “I am sure Agent Barnes gave you an earful. Yes the story was real. I write human interest pieces, Miranda’s Museum doesn’t really pay the bills.”

“So this is your real name?” Steve squinted. “Rachelle Miller?”

“No.” You blinked. “I write under multiple pen names.”

“So what is your real name?” Steve folded his arms.

“Friends call me Vee.” You shrugged.

“That’s not what I asked.” His eyes locked on to yours.

You hadn’t spoken your real name in years. Legally it was changed, and with all the pseudonyms you used you hadn’t spoken it outloud in years.

“Well, um, I will get out of your hair. I am sure you have a busy day. E-mail me if there are problems with the article.” Your blood ran hot and you regretted coming here.

“No.” His hand reached out and grabbed your arm.

You glanced at his fingers and then turned to see his intensite eyes bearing into your own. His fingers slipped away.

“I mean with all do respect, but you look a little rough.” He nodded to his office. “Come in and have a drink. I owe you an apology.”

“Me?” You blinked and shook your head. “Did Bucky tell you I am just a gossip columnist and was lying to you? Using you for Miranda’s nefarious purposes?”

“Doctor-patient confidentiality.” He made a playful shrug.

“Yeah. I bet he left out the part where he asked me out nonstop for over a year until I was forced to write something nasty about him on my blog.” You thought about the person at your door last night, could it have been Bucky? He didn’t seem the most stable. “I may have crossed a line, but what I wrote wasn’t wrong and he, well I think anyone who has met the man isn’t afraid to use the word obsessive to describe him.”

“I cannot confirm, deny, or discuss Agent Barnes.” Doctor Rogers walked over to a small liquor cabinet. “What would you like?”

“Bourbon? Scotch?” You took a seat. “I’ll settle for anything brown with a nice burn.”

“Multiple pen names?” The doctor came back over and handed you a drink. “How many?”

“Three I use on the regular. I do a lot of freelance writing and they each have their own specialty. Then several one offs. I have used them one or two times and let them die.” You took a sip and let the liquid hit your tongue, wanting to swirl it around your mouth and wishing it would numb your mind in the same way.

“Care to share why?” He sat down and crossed his legs. “That seems like a lot of compartmentalism.”

“Not a patient.” You laughed as you leaned back.

“Let me guess, they are all as generic as Miranda Balfour, Rachelle Miller?” Dr. Rogers leaned back in his chair. “You want a legitimate digital footprint, but not one that can be traced back to you. Why?”

“You sound like Bucky.” You tilted your glass toward him. “Only he has decided Miranda must be my real name. I would not try to do a deep dive on me Doctor. I am not interested in opening up.”

“I am not your Doctor. Please, call me Steve.” His eyes scanned you up and down. “You look very tired. Late night? I hope it wasn’t on my behalf.”

“It was and it wasn’t. In that order.” You let out a sigh. “Since you’re not my doctor Steve, and you can’t think I’m crazy since there is no medical relationship. I think someone, no, I know someone tried to break into my apartment early this morning.”

“Did you call the police?” A look of horror crossed his face as he leaned forward. “You should not wait on that.”

“I am not a fan of cops and they are not my fan either.” You gritted your teeth before taking another sip. “I cocked my gun too early. Someone had been following me, all week. I felt it in my bones. And then I noticed my locks had been messed with. So I waited and I felt so paranoid, but then the clock hits 3:44 and the handle jiggles. I should have let the door open, blown their brains out without asking a single question. But they heard the noise. Ran off before I had the chance.”

“There is a lot to unpack there.” Steve reached out and touched your knee. “Are you safe?”

“No.” You smiled at him. “Never. I’m going to get a hotel room tonight. Figure things out from there. Get some sleep, a clear head.”

“If you think someone is targeting you, you shouldn’t stay alone.” His hand dragged away. “Friends or family you can stay with?”

“What was the line you used? My work doesn’t leave much time for personal relationships. I’m either writing a freelance story of working on the Miranda project. Hoping someday it takes off and I can do that full time.”

“I apologize for being so forward, but I can be your friend, or else your colleague in the work horse force.” Steve set his glass down. “And I have plenty of extra bedrooms.”

You didn’t mean to display the cringe, and tried to bury it down, but there was a pain on his face.

“That is a very kind offer.” You slammed the rest of your drink. “But you are not my doctor, or my friend, you’re a stranger right now and I wouldn’t feel comfortable imposing.”

“I understand.” Steve grabbed a piece of paper and scribbled as you stood up. “I would like to take you to dinner, are you free Friday?”

“Now you’re really going to think I’m crazy, but with the strange feeling I was being followed and the incident last night, I have been scared to leave my apartment after dark.” The liquor had relaxed your tongue too much. “Well, now hotel.”

“I will pick you up at your door, we can go to my place and I’ll cook for you, and then I will drive you home.” There was something in his voice, this was the first time he had made this request in some time. “You will be safe the entire time.”

“Alright.” You couldn’t explain it, but there was a feeling in your heart, like it was drawn to his. Not mental, like a strange string was pulling you tigher. “I am staying at the budget in on Wilcox.”

He opened his mouth, but shut it right away and nodded. You started to walk to the door and he followed. Being in his office was the most relaxed you’d been in some time.

“Friday then.” He slipped you a piece of paper, you opened it up to see a phone number.

“I can’t remember the last time someone didn’t just text me their number.” You smiled eat him. “You are old fashioned in all the right ways.”

“Feel free to put that in your phone and use it.” Steve looked serious. “Any time, day or night. I don’t approve of your distrust of law enforcement or wanting assistance, but I respect it. Never hesitate to call if you need anything.”

“Thank you.” You looked at the ground, not wanting to face those blue eyes again, scared if you did you would end up being a roommate at the man's house. “And thank you for believing me.”

“Why wouldn’t I?” He was taken aback.

“Sometimes I’m not even sure I believe myself.” You blinked away tears and squared your shoulders looking him in the eyes. “Anyone else would have told me it was late, I was tired, I almost killed a delivery man.”

“I look forward to continuing this conversation on Friday.” Steve gave a boyish grin. “Or sooner, if you need anything at all.”

“Friday then.” You folded up the piece of paper and put it in your back pocket.

It was odd to find something to look forward to and for a moment you wished you were crazy and not thinking about fleeing and starting over yet again.

A/N: Thanks for reading! This is turning into a bit of a slow burn, but I think the next chapter will heat up!

Tags: @toozmanykids

#steve rogers x reader #fanfic #fanfiction #marvel #hannibal #au #marvel fanfic

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thesurielships · 4 years ago

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New Girl meets the Court of Dreams Part III

a/n: It’s been a year since I updated this. I’m really sorry about that. I had no inspiration for it and everything I wrote felt wrong. It’s also been a while since I last wrote anything, and I don’t know how I feel about this chapter but if I edit it one more time I might just lose what’s left of my sanity.

Without further ado, enjoy :)

Part I, Part II, Part III | Word count: 1.7k

“Okay, guys,” Rhys whispered as he soundlessly closed the door. He tiptoed across the room to where his brothers were huddled. “What’s the plan?”

“Pull the plug off the TV?” Azriel suggested, face impassive.

“Throw the blanket out the window?” Cassian asked.

Rhys glared at both of them. “Be serious.”

“I am serious!” Cassian began loudly then continued in a hushed voice as a lion roared outside. “If I hear a baby penguin do whatever sound baby penguins make for one more time, I will literally go insane. I haven’t had sex in all the time she’s been here. Every time I bring a girl over, Feyre starts telling her THE story and they cry together and console each other!”

“How does it feel to have girls choose a weeping mess over you, Cass?”

Cassian punched Azriel’s arm.

Azriel’s smug grin faded quickly as a horde of giraffes bleated in the living room. “But seriously, this cannot go on. It’s been three weeks of crying and eating ice-cream and general misery. In the movies it only takes a three-minute montage for the girl to get over her heartbreak.”

“How does it feel to only know about girls from movies, Az?”

Azriel punched Cassian’s arm.

“Guys!” Rhys interrupted before they could get into it. “So, any ideas?”

“You talk to her,” Azriel grumbled. “You’re the one who brought her here.”

“Or better yet,” Cassian smiled suggestively, “have sex with her. You don’t move on till you move oooon.”

Rhys punched his arm.

“Ouch, man. That hurt.”

Azriel nodded at Rhys appreciatively.

“Rock, paper, scissors for who has to talk to her first?”

*****

Rhys opened the door, and immediately the grunt of a dozen camels filled the room. He shared a wince with his brothers before stepping into the battlefield.

“Darling roommate, when Az told you to be home decorator, he didn’t mean for you to make the living room wildlife appropriate.”

Feyre glanced up at him, and the sight of her bundled up in a dolphin blanket, tears streaking her face, tugged at his heart.

“I’m sorry,” she said with a small voice. Rhysand’s heart dropped. “It’s just… watching these cute little things growing up and overcoming hardships, being there for each other, really warms my heart.”

She wiped a stray tear off her cheek.

“And watching natural selection at work motivates me to be resilient. That way I can outlive that miserable, awful, piece of shit asshole.” She stabbed her spoon into her ice cream, laughing maniacally.

Rhysand bolted back to the safety of his room.

“I couldn’t do it.”

“Mother’s tits, Rhys,” Cassian cursed. “I didn’t know you were such a coward. Watch this.”

He strutted out of the room, all confidence. He prided himself in his player ways, after all. A crying girl was nothing he couldn’t handle.

“Feyre.”

Her gaze remained focused on the screen where two pigs were rolling in mud.

“Feyre.”

She stared at him then, her eyes unnaturally big in her pallid face. She tilted her head. “If it isn’t my favorite roommate,” she said with a hair-rising smile. “Is your offer from the other day still standing?”

He swallowed nervously, retreating back a step. “What offer?”

Her grin turned feral. “The one about satisfying my urges. All these animal documentaries are giving me new ideas.”

Her cackling laughter chased Cassian as he turned on his heel and dashed back to headquarters. She was still chuckling when Azriel cleared his throat.

“What, it’s your turn to talk to the deranged roommate now?”

Azriel shifted uncomfortably. “Look, I just wanted to say that I understand. I understand what it’s like to feel your world collapse around you, to realize that you lost the person whom you thought was the sole pillar of the universe. Heartbreak is hard. But there is something you could do.”

She kept eating her ice-cream, eyes glazed over as she watched her documentary. She wasn’t smiling anymore.

“Get closure.”

She finally looked his way, face uncharacteristically somber after the three week long hysteria. “Closure?”

“Talk to him. Burn his house down. Whatever works for you.”

She gave him a sad smile before turning back to her screen. Azriel was dismissed.

He made his way back to Rhys’s room, a cacophony of sounds dogging his steps, none of them her laughter.

***

It had barely been an hour since mother hen and her two chicks had left the house. Feyre let out a deep sigh, reveling in the newfound silence. She had shut off the TV, opting instead to watch the fading light on the ceiling. She was grateful for her roommates’ efforts, she really was. However, she simply was not ready to face what she had lost. Every time she so much as peeked into her soul, she found a yawning chasm that she had no interest in exploring. She was happy to hide in her cocoon of misery and hysteria for a bit longer.

A knock sounded at the door, and Feyre groaned. She left the couch reluctantly, stretching her under exercised muscles and popping her joints. The knocking grew persistent, and Feyre glared at the door.

“Coming!” she shouted as she trudged through the minefield that the carpet had become. It was strewn with ice cream tubs, dirty sweaters - Rhysand’s sweaters, she noted, cringing - tear stained tissues and ripped canvases from her failed attempts to paint.

She finally reached the door, and pulled it open roughly as the visitor began ringing the bell. It was a gorgeous blonde woman, with blood red lips and a body to die for. Her roommate had upped his game, it seemed.

“Cassian’s not here,” she informed her.

“I’m not here for Cassian. At least not in the way you seem to be thinking,” she chuckled. “I didn’t know one of those losers had gotten a girlfriend,” she added, one delicate eyebrow arched as she gave her a once over. “Rhys?”

Feyre blushed, tugging Rhys’s sweater down on her thighs. “Oh, no. I actually live here. I’m their new roommate.”

The stranger’s second eyebrow rose with shock. “Roommate? Mother, I am always the last to know.” She shook her head, unoffended. “I’m Morrigan, by the way. Rhys’s cousin.”

“Nice to meet you. I’m Feyre.”

“Feyre?” she repeated, chocolate eyes twinkling with mischief. “Rhys has told me so much about you.”

Feyre’s smile was wry. “What, did he tell you about me emptying his closet or pathetically crying my ass off in his living room?”

Morrigan laughed. “Neither, don’t worry. Do you mind if I come in?”

Feyre opened the door wider, welcoming her in. “Not at all.”

Morrigan strode in, her flowery perfume a refreshing change from the suffocating smell of the living room. “My, my,” she huffed with a small smile, taking in the mess. “You weren’t lying about the pathetic part.”

Feyre hid her wince with a smile. It probably looked more like a grimace.

“How long has it been since the break up?”

Feyre opened her mouth to ask how she knew, but she just said: “Three weeks.”

Morrigan froze in her inspection of the carpet. “This simply cannot do. Good thing I decided to pass by here. I just happen to need a drinking companion.”

Feyre began to shake her head.

“Tut tut tut,” she shushed her. “I am not taking no for an answer.”

***

Rhys and his brothers had been surprised to find the apartment empty when they came back from their run to the supermarket. One look at the living room and they all wordlessly started cleaning before their whirlwind of a roommate came back from wherever she’d disappeared to.

Two hours and a clean house later, Rhys was growing worried. Feyre had spent the last three weeks between classes and their couch, sometimes not even going to the former. For her to just go out with no notice was weird. He was just about to go look for her when the door opened and Feyre stumbled in with his cousin, arms looped around each other and giggling uncontrollably.

“What the ever loving hell?”

“Hello there, cousin.” Mor’s smile was full of mischief. “You didn’t tell me your new roommate was such a cracker.”

Rhys had a bad feeling about this.

“Rhyyys, you didn’t tell me you had a cousin. And that she’s so wise.”

They started giggling again.

Rhys’ eyebrow rose. “Wise?”

“She told me that all the answers I seeked were in the bottom of a vodka bottle,” Feyre said, her eyes bright with wonder.

Rhys suppressed a smile, even as he was overcome with the need to strangle his cousin. “Did she, now?”

“Don’t get your panties in a twist, Rhys. I was only tending to her wounds, and wounds need alcohol.”

“Is that all you learned in med school?”

“But Rhys,” Feyre interrupted. She was bouncing on her toes. “She was right!”

“I was?”

“I realized that Tamtam is just so overrated.”

Rhys and Mor snorted. “We could’ve told you that.”

“You know what I used to like the most about him? His hair! Such luscious locks, such glittering golden. I even had a tub of paint that Elain got for me that was the exact shade of his hair. I used it to do portraits and stuff. It was all so pretty.” She shook her head. “But look at this!” She grabbed his cousin’s hair with both hands. “Mor’s hair is so much prettier.”

Mor cackled loudly. “You’re welcome to check out the golden below too, if you want.”

She winked at Feyre and Rhys let out an all suffering groan. How were all of his friends flirting with Feyre?

Feyre untangled herself from Mor and tottered towards Rhys. He stopped breathing as her hand moved towards his neck, his face, his hair… his hair?

“Don’t worry, Rhys. Your hair may not be as great as Mor’s, but it’s definitely in my top 10.”

Rhys could only stare at her glowing eyes and her infectious smile as she kept playing with his hair.

“Your eyes are number 1, though.”

“Stars eternal?” he asked wryly.

Feyre gasped. “Are you reading my mind now?”

Rhys’s laugh was low. He could feel himself leaning forward, entranced by the beautiful woman shining for the first time in weeks in front of him.

“Alright,” Mor groaned loudly, and Rhys caught himself staring at Feyre’s lips. “Enough flirting, you two. We have a long night ahead of us.”

“We do?”

Feyre nodded, and Rhys could’ve sworn her voice was slightly breathless as she said: “We’re breaking into Tamtam’s house.”

Tag list: @joyceortiz13 @bailey-4244 @quakeriders @standbislytherin @mariamuses @ignite14 @1800-fight-me @velarian-trash @rhysands-highlady @queenblueoffire @rowaelinforeverworld @feeoly @buckybvrnes @dayanna-hatter @shadowstar2313 @goldfishh20 @sleeping-and-books @crackedship @your-high-lady @thesirenwashere @whiskeybusiness1776 @amren-courtofdreams @tswaney17 @julemmaes @booksbooksbooksworld @queenofbumblebees @meowsekai

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wrinkledparchment · 6 years ago

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[ play pretend ]

Summary: A rose garden, a free spirit, and a pathway leading to where they need to be; if only it didn’t vanish so quickly.

Word Count: 1,414

A/N: Probably mega shitty since I wrote this really quickly and didn’t really edit all that much but I haven’t been posting lately since I’ve been working a lot on fall from grace; and I’ve been busy with wintery shenanigans. Hope you enjoy anyway! Have a lovely day :)

Warnings: Ends in soft angst, nothing really else to worry about <3

Taglist: @dogsandrocketsocks @shishterfackisback @reginawashere15 @perfectlybalancedtears @stranger-marvel @onl-you @deviantsupporter @now-imagine @evas-wig-is-happily-touring (cause y’all like DBH and wanted to be on the indigo taglist so)

It’s beautiful, this place. Unlike Detroit, it’s edges were soft, it’s wildlife colorful. Cherry blossoms littered the stone pathway and flowers grew between the cracks. Nothing here had to fight for life, it simply was. It simply did without retaliation.

Peaceful. Harmonic. Unrealistic.

That should have been your first clue. You looked down as you raised your hands, watching the skin glisten in the dying sun. The lines in your palms were contoured by the shadows, each vein visible. You followed the lines to your wrist.

It was so silent you were able to hone in every sense on your heartbeat. You could feel it pulsating through your arteries and vessels. It stung, being self-aware. It was painful to know that one day the blood in your veins would spill.

It would rot and seep back into the earth, and it would be recycled over and over. There was no final salvation, no afterlife. You would simply decompose and be composed into something new. Life would continue steadily without you.

Every death of a star, every creation, had led up to you being created. Everything in the universe worked both together and against each other, each battle and each reconciliation would create a new thing, whether it was unique or not.

Every event in the universe led to your creation and once you had vanished, it would continue on to make more beautiful, complex things. It was simply so. The universe would not stop ticking without you, the universe did not rely on a single soul. It stopped for nobody, it started for nobody; it existed because it did. There was no stopping that.

You might as well take the little time you had to see the beauty, to create the beauty. Whether it was real or not, whether anyone else would see it, it didn’t matter. It was beautiful.

You lifted up your gaze to stare at the cloudless horizon, the clear sky that began to get dark and the distant lights that began to gleam. Time passed quickly. That was alright.

You smiled up at the shining stars, wondering what was happening to them now. The light took so long to travel to Earth that it was possible the stars might be dead now. Looking around you, the wind spun in accordance with your movements.

There were too many stars in the sky, too many for where you should be, but nevertheless, they were glorious; they shone down on you with might, and no matter how insignificant people regarded them, you would always be jealous.

You wished to be as enchanting as them, you wished to take someone’s breath away with a single glance. You wished to inspire as many people as they did, you wished people would look to you with the same reverence as if you were their guiding light.

You wished not to be worshipped like a god, but rather to be stared back at, to look at your reflection in someone’s eyes and see every constellation, as if you were the sum of their universe. You wished that someone would love you as deeply as the cosmos itself.

And just like that, you faded into a new chapter of your story. You watched as a small wooden bridge slowly constructed itself, waiting idly. You played around with your hands, a deep frown settling on your face when you realized your calloused fingertips’ touch was coarse, rather than soft and delicate.

Your bare feet lifted, one by one, to come in contact with the stones. They were freezing and rough against your soles, but you carried on nonetheless. Each step brought you further from your origin, closer and closer to your destination.

You weren’t wandering, your tale was leading you where you must go. Finally, your feet brushed against the dewy grass, which, unfortunately, was equally as cold. Another path cleared, this time made of soft, dry soil. You didn’t have to be careful with your steps this time, so you opted to look around.

The new area you’d just rendered was quite wooded, large oak trees towering over the evergreen grasses, flowers, and the newly-treaded dirt path. The wind was calm, just enough to set off a wind chime hanging from a branch, to cause the leaves of trees and blades of grass to brush against each other.

A ring of trees stood around a clearing, with a stone fountain in the middle, and a fleeting thought passed by (unrealistic, fantasy . . . fake). A figure sat on the ledge of the water feature. The burble of the stream behind you and the fountain in front mixed, each traveling and trickling along the bed it (or someone) had carved.

The sky remained dark, starlight and moonlight being your only sources of luminescence. You weren’t scared of the figure; they wouldn’t be in [your world] if they were harmful. So, instead, you approached mindfully, watching closely, trying to get clues as to who, why, how . . .

They looked towards you, gently and robotically, terrifying but graceful. “W-Who are you?” you questioned, and they stood up, taking slow, tentative steps towards you.

“I know what you want,” the person (or was it?) curtly stated, avoiding your question. The voice sent chills down your spine, though it was tender and softly-spoken. The voice alone was enough to make you freeze up, even on the warmest of nights, but oh lord . . . the touch.

The very light of the stars you so admire was plucked from the sky in between this being’s fingertips, and he allowed them to flow through your veins, igniting a fire on every inch of your skin, setting ablaze your very soul.

“You want to be stared at as thoroughly and curiously as the stars; You want to be loved, as never-ending and as intensely as the very universe. You want to be someone’s everything. I can do that for you, [Name], all of it and more.

“If only you’d let me love you, you wouldn’t have to [ play pretend ] .”

You dipped your head down, though your forehead didn’t make contact with his jacket. The air in between you was weighing, but comfy. His words echoed in your mind, seeped in and stuck there.

“You’d have worlds at your fingertips, [Name]. You could create the beauty you so choose; you could destroy it with a few words. Just, come with me.”

His index and middle finger brought your chin up, and though you could not see his expression, though you did not know his name nor were you familiar with him, it was serene. It felt right.

Your breath hitched and caught in your throat. “We don’t have much time, [Name]. Come with me.”

Suddenly, a light hit your eyes and groggily, you sat up. “What is it?” you grumbled, annoyed. Your android walked towards you, analyzing your bedroom.

“You’ve been daydreaming again, haven’t you?” From the sigh that escapes your lips, she knows. She closes her eyes, seemingly in disappointment before walking briskly over to your curtains and drawing them.

“[Name], you need to stop hiding in the darkness and let yourself see the daylight. You’ll find someone, someday, but hiding in the sheets isn’t going to get you anywhere. You’ve got to stop relishing in a fantasy.”

“I see him, Chloe. I see him there. His touch is exactly like the romance novels describe it, his voice is perfect and-“ you begin, but Chloe has heard it all before. She shakes her head viciously and tears sting at your eyes.

You want to – no, you need to go back to your world. You need to see him again, feel his touch again. Maybe on the next try, you wouldn’t be rudely interrupted, maybe you could put a name to the feeling of him, put a face to that as well.

The sinking feeling in your stomach was back, the desperate pit of loneliness that called and dragged your head back to the pillow. You just wanted to feel like you weren’t missing something. And when he was with you, when he touched you, when he spoke, you were whole.

“Perhaps, [Name], if you got out of bed, and you found him, you’d really be able to feel it. Feel everything you feel in your ‘dream’ and more; you’d find out what it is to be truly in love with someone.

“Maybe, just maybe, you could stop playing pretend.”

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rattlung · 7 years ago

Text

rivers and roads pt 3

whats up it’s ur boy skinny penis back on his bullshit with another chapter of that fnv mcgenji fic no one but me asked for.

I wrote this in like two days and hardly edited, but yknow, fuck it. if your preferred jam is ao3 you can read it there too. if smth isn’t tagged that you’d like to see tagged let me know

“From where you’re kneeling, this must look like an eighteen karat run of bad luck.” She said this while gesturing with her gun, the metal of it shining against the lanterns. It wasn’t too bright, but his head throbbed and the shine squeezed at his brain. When he didn’t make a move or try to say anything, just squinted up at the woman, she crouched down and patted his face twice, like a mother with a petulant child. “Ay, pobrecito…”

The smirk could be heard in her voice, he didn’t have to stare to see it. He couldn’t look away.

She gave a theatrical sigh and a played-up shrug when she stood again. “Truth is… the game was rigged from the start.” The woman pointed the gun, and he stared down the barrel. She didn’t stop smiling, he didn’t look away.

She fired.

=+=

The walk to Primm was not a long one. Before the sun rose over the hills, McCree could make out the few buildings and the winding track of a wooden roller coaster behind them. It was a pleasant surprise, as he thought he’d be going further than that before he reached another settlement. He made a mental note to study the Pip-Boy’s mapping system thoroughly to learn the roads better. Unreliable distances meant unreliable food and water rations, a dangerous mistake.

Mr. New Vegas’s voice carried him over the final hill, dipping straight into an overpass, the bridge leading to the entrance of the town on the left. McCree stayed right so he could cross once he reached it and kept his eyes on the cityline. There were no lights on, which he guessed wasn’t very odd, seeing as it was hardly five in the morning. It was doubtful a lot of people would be awake.

“Hey!”

McCree jolted and reached for the pistol at his hip. The shout had come from in front of him and was followed by a man hurrying toward his direction, dressed in a military esque uniform the same color as the dirt that dusted his boots.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” The soldier demanded, stopping a good distance away from McCree. “Primm is off limits to civilians. Head back to Goodsprings or wherever you came from - before you get shot.”

McCree regarded him with an unimpressed look. “‘Preciate the concern, sir, but I can take care of myself.”

It was the trooper’s turn to raise a brow, giving McCree a once over. “I have my orders.”

“What’s goin’ on in Primm that needs stayin’ away from?” He asked instead of rolling his eyes.

The man appeared to age several years at just hearing the question, obviously troubled and doing a poor job of hiding it. “Convicts broke out of the prison up the road, took over the town. Anyone there is either dead or boarding up their windows. That, and the tribes of raiders causing trouble in the nearby areas.” He lifted up the goggles attached to his helmet to rub at his eyes and sighed deeply, exhausted. McCree would have felt bad for him if he’d liked him. “You really would be better off heading back.”

McCree looked back to the military camp he had not noticed during his approach. In the rising sunlight, the tents appeared to be more stones and collapsed homes against the horizon, but now that he was made aware it was hard to ignore. A few other men and women strolled around tiredly in matching gear as the man before him. His eyes were drawn toward the flag hanging limp above it all, and then the wind blew and he saw it: a two headed bear. NCR, the New California Republic. A democracy, expanding its uninvited reach from what was left of California. McCree thought he must’ve worked for them a few times, because he only knew them for their money.

“Shouldn’t you be helping?”

“We’d love to,” the soldier stated, sounding unenthused, “but they don’t fall under NCR jurisdiction. Even if they did, we’re in no shape to provide any support.”

McCree gave the collection of people behind him a pointed look. “You’re not?”

“No equipment, not enough hands to provide backup if need be. The convicts are armed with explosives, they’d slaughter us.” He crossed his arms, seemingly finished with McCree. “If you’ve got any more pressing questions, talk to Lieutenant Hayes. He’s in a tent down the road.” He turned away from McCree and started marching back to his post. “Stay on the west side of the road if you don’t want to get shot,” he called.

=+=

Lieutenant Hayes wasn’t in better spirits than his trooper that sent McCree his way, but he was polite. He greeted McCree with all of his titles that he only half-listened to and told him the same thing the other soldier did but in more detail. Not enough supplies, not enough men, convicts holding the town hostage, nothing they could do.

“They’re taken to calling themselves Powder Gangers,” he had said. “We think it’s because of the explosives meant to clear boulders they had stolen. They organized faster than anyone had thought - well, most of them, at least. This group split off from the main force, so they seem to be on their own.”

“What about the prison?”

“Most people just call it N.C.R.C.F., that’s NCR Correctional Facility. Convicts staged a coup; killed the guards and took over the prison.”

McCree left the tent unsurprised. The wasteland had never been a safe place. Thugs and raiders torturing innocents wasn’t a new development. The idea of basing the group off of an obsession with explosives, though, that was different, McCree had to give them that. He’d seen enough “cannibal” raider groups to last a lifetime.

Still, he thought back to Goodsprings, the man that had intercepted him and Hana at the Prospector Saloon, and the N.C.R.C.F. printed across his back. He hadn’t been dumb enough to think him a real security guard, but his presence in town was more troubling now knowing his origins. McCree retreated back to the overpass, keeping the idea of returning to Goodsprings in mind. But, firstly, he has to make sure there isn’t any trace of the woman in the lilac suit in Primm. If there wasn’t anything he’d be back at square one anyway.

There was a makeshift blockade on the west side of the bridge made mostly of wood planks and old rubber tires, a woman standing behind it at the post with a rifle in hand. “You’re going in there?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She scoffed, like she was surprised someone could be so stupid, and said, “Careful of the mines. Laid ‘em out in case they tried to initiate an attack.”

Most of the buildings he passed were either boarded up or hollowed out, crumbling toward the street. Among the trash and rubble were small pools of dried blood and bullet casings; the NCR hadn’t been overstating the situation in the slightest. The layout of the town - from what he could see as he approached off the bridge - was simple, unlike the winding road and similar buildings of Goodsprings. What was left of the main road was shaped in a ‘T’, headed by a large hotel with the roller coaster he had seen from down the way looming over it. An appropriately shaped sign titled the hotel “The Bison Steve”.

The front of the building to his left face the heading street, but McCree’s attention was drawn to the square office stood on the opposite side of it. Its roof was outlined by neon-light lettering reading “Mojave Express”. He recognized the company’s name, the very same company that issued the delivery order that had been left on him when he’d been attacked.

A gunshot rang out over his head. He heard the yelling from further in the town when his hearing cleared after the deafening pop. Two men, both dressed in armor that resembled the man’s from Goodsprings, rounded the corner.

“Get the fuck outta here,” one hissed, raising his pistol with a wild look in his eyes.

McCree didn’t say anything in return, only retrieved his own weapon in kind. He shot down the second man who had advanced even further than the first with a deadly looking blade. It clattered to the pavement, along with the man’s body, and the other yelled wordlessly. He fired at McCree, but the closest he came was a few bullets whizzing over his head. McCree put him down quick, once in the shoulder, second clean in the head.

They didn’t have much on them in way of supplies besides a few extra caps and ammo. The knife the thug had was deadly, but not in the sense that the cut would kill you. Rather, the rust and old blood it left behind would cause some sort of infection that’d finish you off. That, and the fact that the blade wobbled in its hilt, was reason enough to leave it behind. The gun the other had McCree unloaded and dropped in his bag.

When he’s sure no one else was on the streets looking to shoot him in the back, he makes his way to the Mojave Express.

There was a body propped against the side next to the door, a courier, by the looks of the messenger bag strapped around his shoulder, contracted with the NCR. The bag was covered in the same symbol printed on the flag the troopers had stood under. McCree opens the flap, finding a few bottles of clean looking water and flat bread wrapped in an extra t-shirt. McCree transferred the contents into his own bag before coming across a crumpled piece of paper underneath it all.

The ink was smudged in places, but there was no mistaking the contents of the letter. It was nearly an exact match to McCree’s own delivery order; the only difference being the manifest and the delivery order number. This man, Courier Four, was meant to deliver a pair of furry dice. He had no such thing on him, so McCree could only assume he had been stopping in to finish the contract and had been killed for his pay.

McCree folded the paper neatly and set it with his own, and left the man on the street.

=+=

Inside the Mojave Express, there was only an empty space behind the counter to greet him. Everything was silent except for his footsteps on the wooden floors, so he didn’t call out, not expecting anyone to be out back. It was a normal express office as far as he could tell; cleaner than most but McCree had a sneaking suspicion that was due to the raiders picking houses apart for supplies.

Besides crates of papers and bottles, the only thing interesting on the counter was a rather large piece of metal. It must have been some type of robot, he decided upon closer inspection, round and a little bigger than a dodgeball. He’d never seen anything like it before, had no idea what sort of function the little bot was supposed to be capable of - or how it would even function in the first place. Was it made to roll around? He doubted that, the several antennae melded in its base would make that difficult. He rolled it over to its side, revealing a miniature ventilation system on what he supposed was the bot’s underside. For cooling - or maybe a propulsion system so the bot hovered a few feet off the ground, maneuvering that way. A flying robot. Yes, McCree definitely wanted to see that bot working.

He ran his fingers over the metal casing, over a bullet hole, and against the plastic of a bumper sticker plastered on its side. It was bright red, even with a layer of dirt, and the lettering was blocky, reading “Roosevelt Academy; A Proud Bastion of American Ideals!", all white besides the large, bolded word “Bastion” in a gaudy yellow. There was a license plate on the other side of the bot, number itself unintelligible. The only thing that was left untarnished was the Great Midwest, Illinois, 2062.

As far as he could tell, there was no serious damage to the bot. There was no doubt it had seen some action, though, if the bullet holes were anything to go by. Whoever worked in this building had apparently tried their own repairs; piles of screws and scrap metal were strewn about the countertop, along with a few tools. McCree retrieved a screwdriver from the pile and opened the outer casing of the bot and peered inside. He grunted to himself. There were servos and gyroscopes that looked twisted and out of place, probably in need of recalibrating, something he’d be able to do himself if he had the know-how. He didn’t. What he could do, however, was replace the parts that needed fixing. What was laying around would be useful, but he needed more if he wanted to see this bot - hopefully - in the air.

Across the street from the Mojave Express building was something called the Vikki and Vance Casino. All of the windows were boarded up, and the only accessible entrance to the building was through the double doors from the heading street. McCree walked close to the walls and with his eyes on the road rather than in front of him.

Inside was a drastic difference to the exterior and last building he had been in. Countless people were milling about, everyone in the town who survived must have holed up in the casino once the convicts hit. The very entrance served as a barricade to the rest of the casino floor, all the lanterns lent to it to keep it nice and lit. It made the rest of the space difficult to see, as his eyes were still adjusted to the bright sun, which is probably what the folks had been hoping for.

An old man stood from the slot stool where he’d been sitting, not raising the pistol he had in his hand but not loosening his grip on it, either. McCree didn’t go for his own weapon, wanting to convey he meant no threat in the easiest way possible.

“I don’t know what it was that brought you to Primm, youngster,” the man started, voice smoother than what McCree would have expected, looking as worn as the man did, “but you might be wantin’ to rethink your plans. Town’s gone to hell.”

“Didn’t notice,” McCree said quietly, mostly to himself, but the man heard him and seemed to get some type of amusement out of it. “Who are you, if you don’t mind me askin’.”

“Johnson Nash, husband to Ruby Nash. Livin’ in Primm going on eight years now, thick ‘n thin.” He told McCree this all proudly, another smile crossing his features when he mentioned his wife. McCree decided he liked this man, and was glad he didn’t walk in the casino with his gun pulled. “I’m mostly a trader,” Nash continued, “not that that’s worth much with things the way they are. ‘M also in charge of the local Mojave Express Outpost.”

McCree tore his eyes away from where they had wandered as he listened - an old, shot up car on display with a protectron in a tiny cowboy hat patrolling in front of it - and stared back at the man. “I’m a courier with the Mojave Express.”

Nash gave him a strange look. “Well, I don’t have any work right now, sorry to say.”

“No, it ain’t - I lost a package I was supposed to deliver.”

“Oh, well alright. I can tell you everything I can. You got a delivery order you can show me?” McCree shouldered his bag over to rifle through it, retrieving the slip of paper and handing it over. Nash read it over and his brow raised, but he didn’t exactly look surprised. “You’re talkin’ about one of them packages. That job had strange written all over it, I tell ya, but it wasn’t like we were gonna turn down the caps.”

He handed the paper back to McCree, who returned it back to his bag. “What was strange about it?”

Nash settled back onto his stool, setting his pistol back on his lap and wiping his hands on his dusty overalls with a sigh. “That cowboy robot had us higher six couriers, each one carrying somethin’ a little different. One had a pair o’ dice, another a chess piece - that kind of stuff. Last I heard from the office, payment was received for the other five jobs.” He raised his brow again, nodding at McCree. “Guess it was just you and your chip that didn’t make it.”

“When you say cowboy robot, do y’mean that one?” McCree pointed to the back of the casino and Nash’s eyes followed his to the Protectron shuffling around.

Nash laughed once with a shake of his head, “Nah, that’s Primm Slim. He’s been here longer than me, I’d recognize him. Naw, this feller was much bigger, with a screen showin’ a smilin’ cowboy’s face.”

Victor. So there was no coincidence in the robot’s unlikely presence when he had been attacked, Victor was supposed to be there. But why? And no robot would do something on its own prerogative, so who programmed it? Who was watching for McCree?

“The first deadbeat we hired for your job cancelled,” Nash went on when McCree didn’t say anything. “Hope a storm from the Divide skins him alive,” he cursed, and even though McCree had only known him for about five minutes, he was sure this display of anger was uncharacteristic for the man. He seemed to think so, too, because he sighed again and shook his head. “Well, anyway. That’s where you came in.”

“They cancelled?” That was suspicious, like everything else about the whole ordeal. Had they known what would happen if they were to carry the chip?

“Yeah, he got this look on his face when he saw your name down on the courier list, expression got turned right around. Asked me if your name was real, and I said sure as the lack o’ rain, you was still kickin’. Then he turned down the job, just like that. I asked if he was sure - it was good money.” Nash shrugged. “‘Nope, let courier six carry the package,’ that’s what he said.” He gave McCree a long look, and then, grimly, said, “Like the Mojave’d sort you out or something. Then he just up and walked out. Never saw ‘im again.”

The idea of the courier stumped McCree. He knew plenty of people from his line of work, but none that would turn down money for him. At least he didn’t think he did. He accepted that, because of his most recent gunshot wound, he wasn’t as read up on his own history as anyone would like to be with themselves. Some things were fuzzy, others were gone completely. He could know this man, but there was also the possibility that he didn’t know him at all. Just another mystery to solve.

“Y’know who he was?” McCree asked Nash, already knowing the answer. “Where he went?”

“No idea,” Nash answered, just like McCree thought he would, but he still managed to feel a little disappointed. “Sounded like you two had some history for him to act like that - and turn down the money, too. Hope he didn’t see any trouble in that package of yours. Maybe he thought your name was bad luck.” Ain’t that the fucking truth. “Not for me to say,” the man finished with a shrug.

McCree couldn’t help but heave out a frustrated sigh. He scrubbed at his face, pinched at the bridge of his nose, then sighed again. Nash at least looked a little sorry for him. McCree would take what he could get.

“My package - it was stolen from me,” he informed. “Couple of guys with skulls painted on their faces, a woman in a purple checkered suit. They wouldn’t’ve passed through here, would they?”

Nash looked up, rubbing his chin in thought. “Well, now that ya mention it, a few nights back a townie was out at night scavenging for some supplies. He said he saw a lady in a daisy suit comin’ through with a couple of Los Muertos thugs, talking ‘bout a chip.”

It was something, a big something. It was evidence that he was on the right path, that the people who attacked him were here before and that they were leaving a trail. It should’ve made him happy, but it just made his chest tighten; didn’t ease anything, only filled him with more anticipation.

“That woman, she shot me. I need to know the best way to get to them.”

Nash didn’t seem too hung up on the prospect of McCree getting attacked, just continued to rub at his chin and think for another moment. “Well, the best way to do that would be to talk to Deputy Beagle. He was keepin’ some tabs on ‘em, slinkin’ around Bison Steve when your pretty lady and her thugs rolled through. He may’ve heard where they were goin’.”

McCree nodded, remembering the hotel on the heading street. “Thank you kindly, sir.”

“Don’t mention it. Before you go, lemme warn ya about somethin’,” Nash called as McCree turned for the door. “The Bison Steve, it’s where all the gangsters are holed up. They took Beagle hostage after they killed the sheriff. Guess it took ‘em a go of it to get ransomin’ right.”

“Good to know.”

“Just be careful out there, son.”

McCree smiled. “I can take care of myself just fine,” he assured for the second time that day.

=+=

The interior of Bison Steve was about as one would expect it to be after being overrun by criminals. Garbage cans were knocked over, the floors were covered with the trash from said cans, along with rubble from failing walls. Only a select few lights overhead still worked and even those flickered. There were vending machines that still hummed, though, with a few bottles of cola left.

McCree navigated the halls of the hotel quietly, picking up those bottles and anything he saw that seemed to work - or had once worked - by using a battery or similarly electronic. The footsteps he heard around him didn’t make him uneasy, but he still waited until he caught each man off guard and alone before he confronted them. The halls were long enough, the were walls thick enough, and was McCree fast enough to handle every convict quietly without causing too much of a commotion.

They hardly carried anything interesting, maybe a few sticks of dynamite and a pocket full of ammo, or a chem or two. Sometimes they had caps, other times they had bills that reminded him of old world cash, but those were printed with newer faces and other symbols. NCR cash. Made sense, them coming from one of the NCR facilities; was probably the only thing the guards had on them in the way of money when the convicts killed them.

From one convict he took the previously stolen guard armor and ventured into one of the hotel rooms in the hall. He tossed the chest piece onto the bed and searched the wardrobe against the wall. McCree appreciated everything Doc Amari had done and given him, but the vault suit she provided did little in way of protecting - from the sun and from bullets. He didn’t expect to find much better in the old clothes he found, but at least he would be more comfortable.

He shouldered off his bag to dress in some faded-from-age jeans and a collared button-up, then folded the vault suit and stuffed it into the bag. The blanket from the bed came with him after he strapped on the chest piece and laced up his boots. He checked it for stains - blood or otherwise - before he decided on any worth. It was red and thin, but large enough to wrap around his shoulders and cover the bold N.C.R.C.F. across his back. The last thing he needed was to be mistaken for a powder ganger and be shot down by an NCR trooper later down the road.

With the bag back around his shoulder and dressed in his new rags, McCree felt more like himself than he had since he’d been shot in the head. He adjusted the “homemade” serape to sit more securely and made for the door, but then he saw it. On top of the wardrobe he had rummaged through, seemingly untouched by the havoc around it and pristine as could be, was a desperado cowboy hat. McCree grinned when he pulled it down, gave the brim of it a few whacks to shake off any dust it had collected, and place it on top if his head with a content sigh.

Now he felt back in his own skin.

=+=

He found Beagle on the bottom floor in the back of the hotel, in the dining area’s kitchen. He was knelt in front of the fridges, hands bound in front of him. He looked ragged, his white hair wild and his face dirty, exaggerated by the pout pulling at his expression.

“I don’t suppose you’re here to rescue me?” He asked, having undoubtedly heard the gunshots that had took place just outside where his captors had been loitering. “I’d cross my fingers, but my hands are numb.”

McCree regarded the sorry looking man with a raised eyebrow. “You must be Deputy Beagle.”

“Why yes I am,” he replied, insolently in turn for McCree’s flatness. “Pleasure to meet you. I’m in a bit of a predicament here. Would appreciate it if you set me free.” Beagle held up his hands wired together, a deliberate gesture.

McCree made no move to untie him. “I hear you might have some information I need, some words about a few Los Muertos and a woman in a purple checkered suit.”

“Indeed I do, good sir, and I would be thrilled to share that information with you as soon as I’m freed from captivity. I’m gonna need to be in a calmer emotional state for my memory to function as we need it.”

Biting the inside of his cheek, McCree narrowed his eyes at the man before him just slightly. He absolutely did not want to bother with this conniver after the trouble he’s put him through - Nash did not mention the incinerator the leader had been sporting when McCree found him. Unfortunately, Beagle did not waver. With a grumble, the cowboy knelt to mess with the knot, pointedly ignoring Beagle and the victorious glint in his eyes when McCree pulled the bonds free.

“Well, that’s just marvelous.” The deputy stood, shaking out his wrists and flexing his bloodless fingers. “I’ll be makin’ my way outside, now. The airs, ah,” he glanced behind McCree and at the smouldering tables and singed bodies. “Well, it’s a little close in here.”

He checked the kitchen for anything useful, coming out with a few more bottles of water, and met Deputy Beagle outside of the Bison Hotel. He was looking out over the streets with his eyes narrowed and his revolver drawn, looking like a sad excuse for a western hero rather than the man who had just ran through the hotel lobby with his hands over his head in fear.

“Hey, Deputy.”

Beagle jumped, spun around, saw it was McCree, and changed his demeanor back to the calm and suave hero. “Well, that was quite the adventure,” he declared, like he had much to do with it. “We taught those convicts a thing or two, didn’t we?”

McCree decided not to roll his eyes. “Sure.”

“Breaking myself out of a hostage situation - not to diminish your role in the whole thing, of course - but it was quite thrilling. Problem is, there’s still no law in Primm,” he went on, which solidified McCree’s suspicion that Beagle was, in fact, being one hundred percent serious in his claims. He didn’t dare argue, didn’t exactly want to. “What’re we to do the next time ruffians menace us and hold us hostage?”

Grow a pair, McCree wanted to tell him, learn to use that gun instead of posing with it, quit your hero act, be one instead of pretending, among other things. “If yer boss is dead, don’t that make you the new sheriff?”

Beagle’s eyes widened. “Oh no, I’m just a deputy! And I can’t be a deputy without a sheriff. It’s called chain of command .” McCree felt his jaw set firmly. He wanted to hit this man. Beagle chose not to notice this. “We need a new sheriff, someone brave like you, but more of a homebody. Someone with experience who’ll settle down and watch over us.”

“Know anybody who’d fit the requirements?”

“I heard some of the Powder Gangers talkin’ about someone in the prison named Meyers. Said he used to be a sheriff ‘fore he got locked up. Then there’s the NCR just over the bridge, they’re likely to jump at the chance to control another town.”

McCree didn’t like his options. After having just run enough of the criminals out of town, the convict sheriff was a bad idea for obvious reasons. On the other hand, he wasn’t comfortable with turning the town over to the NCR as there were so few independent cities left in the desert. McCree thought back to the tired soldier he had spoken with, the state of the military camp he belonged to, and decided that the NCR wouldn’t do Primm much good, either.

“I’ll help you bring law back to Primm,” he told Beagle anyway. “Just give me some time to find someone.”

Deputy Beagle’s face lit up. “You will? That’s just marvelous! I’ll start thinking up questions for the interview!”

He turned to walk away, heading for Vikki and Vance with an excited bounce in his step before McCree called out to him. “You still owe me some information.”

The man wilted, but only for a moment. “Ah, yes. My memory is much clearer now that I’m free.” Again, McCree refused to roll his eyes. “I was sku - uh, performing recon on the Powder Gangers when some Los Muertos guys arrived with your friend in the suit. They were talking about some delivery they took from a courier. Assumin’ that was you.”

“Seems about right,” McCree conceded.

“They said they would be headin’ through Nipton to Novac to meet a contact there.”

McCree let him handle his Pip-Boy just long enough to mark the road he needed to walk to follow his attackers’ route, then he was off again. McCree was glad to see him go.

=+=

Before he left town, McCree was sure to stop in and thank Johnson Nash once more, and ask about the robot in his express office. A courier had dropped it off months back, he found out, and Nash got it working again but only for a while. He explained to McCree that he was planning on using it for courier work, but he hadn’t any luck with getting it running again. He gave permission to McCree to tinker with it, and promised him the bot if he got it working. The prospect of a new, fancy toy buzzing around was enough to get him to try. As he left the casino to make his attempt, Nash commented on the fruitlity of the whole thing, said he’d just take it to the Novac scrapyard and be done with it.

McCree ignored him, and worked for the better part of three hours, shocking himself numerous times and cursing out loud more times than that. The machine sputtered to life when the sun began to sink, the casing snapping shut on its own and the body of the bot rotating so it could propel itself into the air. The sudden reaction gave McCree a jolt, stumbling off his stool and onto his feet. He stared at the robot cautiously, not exactly knowing what to expect from it. It would be his luck to have the thing start up on a combat mode.

Instead of incinerating him where he stood, the little robot beeped a few times, tilting down enough as if it was staring at McCree.

“Well,” McCree said, hands on his hips. He nodded at his work and let himself feel proud for a moment. “Would ya look at that.”

The robot beeped again in response.

It seemed to be running fine, it’s flight wasn’t jagged or shaky, and there was no smoke - McCree always took that as a good sign. He grinned, eyes catching on the hideous bumper sticker on the bot’s side once again.

“A Proud Bastion of American Ideals, huh?” A confirmatory beep. “Alright, then. Let’s hit the road, Bastion. Could use help like yours.”

wwhwhwhwheeeeew lmao. yeh.

#mcgenji #jesse mccree #genji shimada #kon's a writer

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