The Black Residence
Born to Lose
With the Enclave scientist gone and the door locked, Jonathan finally found himself enough time to relax. Placing the bandages in the sink, he took a look of himself in the mirror. Felt a sudden urge to punch said mirror.
Last time I punched something out of an urge I almost broke a hand.
Self-loathing notwithstanding, it was rather fortunate that a momemt of respite had presented itself when it did, for he found himself in desperate need of one. A moment to regain his composure and steel himself for what lay ahead.
No matter how hopeless it is. Why do I do this?
When you've a task to do, it's better to do it than live in fear of it. That's what his father used to tell him, and of all the little wisdom pieces he uttered this one was the one that for some reason stuck with Jonathan the most. It was a sorry excuse for his M.O., but thinking on it he couldn't quite come up with a better reason, but also no adequate reason to give up.
So, forward to death it is.
But before that, a shower. Ancient Greeks had a custom where warriors would shower before battle so as to meet death clean. A silly, romantic notion, if only because by the time they died they'd likely have littered themselves with sweat and blood -their's or their enemies- but Jonathan was gonna have a shower anyway, and the parallel seemed fitting. He removed his clothes, grunting at the fact he would have to clean his bloody clothes, and walked in the shower, let the cold water encompass him.
After a momentary wince at the sudden cold, he started cleaning himself. He unfortunately lacked any sort of showering lotions, so he'd have to do with just getting rid of the blood and dirt would have to do for now.
And as he did, his thoughts returned to recent events. Specifically, unanswered questions, pecking at the back of his head.
Why? That is always the most relevant question.
The woman was an Enclave agent. All evidence showed so. Yet, she killed two Enclave Operatives and had her cover blown by another one. Two very contradictory lines of action lay before him, and that either meant he was wrong, or that he was missing the knot that tied them together.
He turned the water down and started drying himself with a towel. When something doesn't make sense, start from the beginning. Kristin Blamco, alleged princess from the West, stumbles upon Lucy Black as she's being attacked and rescues her. That part at least was easy to follow. Blamco was tasked with making sure that Lucy Black, former Enclave asset, privy to a lot of sensitive information, would make good of her promise of a retirement. It also explains how she immediately latched upon Jonathan when he revealed who he was.
He started dressing his wound. Another contradiction made itself apparent. If Blamco was sent to observe Lucy, why was #411 sent in aswell? There would be little justifiable reason to send two different people to achieve the same goal through two different, mutually exclusive means. Indeed, everything #411 had done thus far only seved to inconvenience Blamco.
With the wound dressed, he started cleaning his bloody clothes. #411 had a civil war planned. Her entire reason for her bargain with him was because she needed a man of his expertise, after all. So could it have been that she was trying to undermine Blamco because they were on opposing sides?
With the cleaning done, he grabbed his wet clothes and, with a towel to cover his modest parts, headed upstairs to get new clothes. No, it wouldn't make sense for #411 to reveal her hand to an advesary so early. As incompetent as she was and as questionable her plans, she at least had enough enough common sense to not commit suicide.
He started dressing up with a pair of Isaac's old clothes. This was the second time he had done so, and wished it wouldn't happen frequently. He grunted with irritation, once more the truth was within his grasp, all he needed was that one hint that would make everything fall into place.
He grabbed the pile of wet clothes again, and moved downstairs and the back of the house to hang them in the sun. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe he was overthinking thing. There was no way #411 would act that way towards an Enclave agent, ally or not.
Unless...
The thought froze him in place, as he was in the process of hanging his trenchcoat on a string.If #411
didn't know that Kristin Blamco was undercover, if she thought her to truly be the cheese-worshipping battle vixed she claimed to be, she'd have no reason not to act as she did. She would have no trouble revealing her plan, since Blamco wouldn't be able to threaten to reveal it, and by revealing her supposed family's ties to the Enclave she'd think Blamco easier to reign in.
Leaving half the clothes still unhung, he walked inside and stared at the school through a window. Why
wouldn't she know? Since #411 was of the Intelligence Sector, she surely had access to all undercover personel currently in or outside the field.
What if she didn't? Lucy Black was privy to sensitive information, posssibly even identities of undercover agents. What if, knowing that, #01 sent in an
unlisted agent? Unlisted agents have existed ever since the Enclave decided to venture out into the Wasteland. They were given free reign as to how they acted -so killing a fellow operative wouldn't be far-fetched- and had extensive backgrounds made to fit their role -so the supposed alliance #411 dug up could well have been fabricated to fit her backstory-. And since unlisted agents' names were only privy to the President and his council, #411 couldn't have known about her.
Feeling his legs go weak, Jonathan sit down on a chair behind him, his stare having taken a turn to shock. The ramifications of such a development were vast, and none were good.
He felt cold sweat run down his forehead. To think that such a woman walked beside him this whole time, learning of his past, learning of #411's plans before they even hatched. The ramifications were vast indeed.
And all he could do was sit and stare in horror as they became apparent.
Smith Casey's Garage
Demolition Man
Now, for Eddie the Dead, there was nothing more satisfying than a joke, elaborate, mature, offensive, it didn't matter! Jokes gave life spice, and as the saying went, the spice is life. Spice was also a drug up north. Unlike the drug, however, the joke seemed to have...
complications. Namely, Not-Biolante couldn't take a joke. He was the worst kind of person. They always ruin the atmosphere. It was obviously not because the joke was in bad taste, for no joke Eddie ever made was so, but because Not-Biolante was, in fact, a filthy alien.
It was only understandable, then, that Eddie had grown less than appreciative of not-Biolante's reactions. The only thing worse than an Urinian was Urinian that couldn't take a joke. Eddie had planned to give the helmet back -
eventually- but now? Now the helmet was his. if nothing else, it'd make a good beer cup. He heard of ancient barbarians drinking mead from the skulls of their enemies, but, for one, this was a helmet, not a skull. As a truly civilised man, it was easy to see the difference between the two. And besides, have you
seen the shape of a martian skull? Not good for drinking for, he could tell you that much!
So, while not-Biolante had turned 'round to see his lady-assistant's crudely made BDSM mask, Eddie had gotten Murderbloke out, aiming right at not-Biolante's head, and waited for him to face him again.
Code:
[b][A joke's a joke, chummer,][/b]
his voice had taken a menacing edge,
Code:
[b][but I don't like threats. I've been killing blacksuits since the days Frank Horrigan walked the wastes, so I won't be losing any sleep over one more.[/b]
An awkward silence, accompanied by a tense atmosphere, followed his words. But it didn't last long, for the other alien blacksuit spoke up.
"I don't incline myself to tell you people how to do things, but you may with to stand back..."
The blackie followed his own advice, taking a step back as he stared at something, which turned out to be a self-destruct timer. By the time Eddie noticed it, Not-Biolante was already hard at work, fiddling with things so as to stop the timer. Funny, how easily he handled alien equipment. Eddie grinned. Almost like he knew how it worked, eh?
But he was still taking his sweet-ass time, and the timer was running out. There were less than ten seconds now, and Demo looked nowhere close to getting the job done. So, given that Eddie was most intricately acquanted with all sorts of machinery, he put his vast knowledge to the test and did the one thing that was sure to stop the clock.
Kick it very hard.
And just as it did, the timer stopped, exactly at 0:01. Now, a more curious and nit-picky man would ask why aliens use human numerals in their machines, but Eddie had learned to not sweat the small stuff, and instead prided himself for another job well done. Of course, not-Biolante was sure to try and take all the credit, glory-hound that he was, but before he actually did, the Uberbilly himself graced them both with his presence, holding a picture in something that one would have to be very generous to call a hand -twisted and mangled as it were-, showed him the picture, and started grunting.
more grunts.
Code:
[b][Uh-uh, you sure?][/b]
Why was he replying as though he understood, anyway?
Eddie took the picture, showing the blue-haired girl on a horse, and squatted down to Astroboy, who was clearly still shaken up,
Code:
[b][Hey, Starman, you seen this girl?][/b]
The kid took a few moments to find his bearings, then stared, then stared in shock, and then took a few more moments to find his bearings again. "That's... That's Sylph!"
Sylph, eh? Guess all those clones where shouting their names as a form of speech. Like Tamagochi or whatever.
Code:
[b][That's her name, eh?][/b]
"You know her?!"
Code:
[b][I killed around a thousand of her clones last night.][/b]
It was not said as a boast, but more like a matter of fact.
Code:
[b][Damn things multiply faster than cockroaches.][/b]
"You did wha-"
But Eddie was no longer listening. He had already turned and showed the picture to the other blacksuit
Code:
[b][You seen this girl?][/b]
and then to not-Biolante and his dominatrix
Code:
[b][What about you two?][/b]
The Road to Dunwich
'The one who had mercy on him.'
From where he stood, it seemed the raiders had run out of bravado and decided discretion was the better part of valour. He could see them running en masse, and lined a shot. Due to distance, i would be difficult to line up a good shot, but that did not matter. It was a certainty that the wicked would pay, for, sooner or later, their sins would find them out. That was how the world worked. Men of evil intent could laugh at their wealth and power, but theirs was never the last laught. He set a raider in his sights, one that was with a wounded leg, and prepared the shot. Aim...
But before the routine could be finished, he saw movement closing in on him. Following it, he saw the figure try to sneak behind him through a hole in the building. Yet the eyes of the righteous are ever vigilant, and as the figure emerged, she was welcomed with the sight of his revolver's barrel aimed directly between her eyes.
She had an interesting appearance, this one. Blue hair, a wierd assortment of clothes, but the most distinctive feature of her were her eyes. She stared and him and he stared back, and in her eyes he saw bloodlust and an urge to kill.
But he needed not fear. Nimble though her movements were, she would prove no match for his training or conviction. It was not, after all, his time to die.
The girl was joined by a tall, thin man with a top hat, wearing all black clothes. One would be forgiven for thinking that the two men were associates based on the similarities of their clothes, but these similarities were only superficial. His garments were special; before the Great War, they denoted holy men, tasked to guide their flock to deliverance.
"Brother Undertaker," the man said, pointing his pistol at him,
"Unless you were supposed to be my replacement, you're not supposed to be here because clearly stories regarding my death have been grossly exaggerated."
He did not answer. Instead he stared at the man in eyes, peering into him. He could see doubt, and guilt, and worry. A man troubled by his past, perhaps, afraid it might catch up to him. The eyes said no lies -you could get more answers from them than from asking a thousand questions- but the answers were seldom straightforward.
He turned to see the girl again. Her eyes said she could barely wait to lunge at him. He gripped his revolver's grip firmer. Already scenarios were playing out in his head, scenarios where this turned violent. He had no fear; he was trained to deal with this situation if it were to arise, and the training was always deadly. He had already come up with a plan of attack, with all contigencies and scenarios accounted for.
"Hey! The fuck are you two doing? We're in the middle of a gunfight!"
Now was his chance. In this brief moment where they were distracted, he could shoot the both of them and end this all the easier. Aim, shoot, repeat. All he had was to pull the trigger.
...But he did not. Always give people a second chance, she had said, and he tried to give then when he could. So, talk it would be.
"'Tis rude to point a gun at a man wishing to provide you with assistance," he said. His voice had a hum to it, not unlike the one preachers of old used to have, and all the words uttered had a weight to them. His expression was adamant, as thought tempered in flame. "As is to accuse them with nary a reason given. More often than not, 'tis the accusers that are the guilty."
He heard a Deathclaw roar in the distance, but had no reason to fear, "Though you are correct in one regard, accusing one. I am indeed a brother, Yohannes is my name, but my mission is with the living." He pulled the book from his bag with the other hand, his voice rising, "My mission is to spread the word of the Good Lord Above, and deliver His faithful from those that brought them suffering and grief." His eyes opened wide, and gave a judging glare of his own, "Pray tell, are you, perhaps, such a man?"
He stared on so for a few more seconds, before speaking up again, this time his voice softer, but still packing an edge, "It does not feel nice when the accusation falls on you, does it? Let us, then, leave them behind us, and start anew. As I said, I am Brother Yohannes."
He kept his grip as firm as ever, ready to act if given the incentive. Goodwill was a virtue, but caution kept a man alive.
New Vegas Strip - Many years in the past
You win some, you lose some, it's all the same to me.
"Oh yeah, mate?" That's how it always started. "You starting?" Case in point.
Crimson snarled on, yelling obscenities while Temple held him back from grabbing the security guard by the throat. A difficult thing, holding Crimson back, given his high stature and muscle mass uncharacteristic of a ghoul, and Temple had to pull with all his weight just to delay him, hoping that Crimson would calm down enough not to resort to violence, "I'll rip you in fucking half! By the time I'm done with you cannibal brahminhumpers you'll need another Great War to clean the stains off the walls!" It didn't look likely.
"Crimson!" Temple yelled, "Stop! Be reasonable!" This felt like a more violent repeat of the previous two casinos: They walk in, start gambling and win. Win
big. Big as in, 'almost driving the house bankrupt' big. So big that the house had to take drastic measures to not lose their pants too, and got them kicked out. The first two times all Crimson did was hurl some jabs or insults at the guards, but it was clear that third time's the charm, and his patience was reaching its limits, not helped by the posh, sneering attitude of the White Glove Society's employees. "Think of the money!"
"
Piss on the money! This is the third time we're kicked out just 'cuz they can get away with throwing Ghouls out! These corpsefucking degenerates have been looking down on us the moment we walked in!" and he strode forward, dragging Temple along as though he wasn't even an inconvenience.
"Crimson! CRIMSON!" Temple yelled and he stood in front of him. Not the smartest thing to do, standing in Crimson's way when his blood went pumping, but the time was way past being smart. If Crimson got his hands on the guard, the entire town would be upon them, and though Crimson had established a reputation for wiping cities off the map, this one looked a tad bigger than he could chew. "Pragmatism!Remember the plan! We need that money
for the plan!"
At that Crimson stopped in his tracks, and turned to stare at Temple. A menacing glare, made even worse by Crimson's glowing green eyes, made what little nerves remained in Temple's ruined body stiffen. He'd always been afraid Crimson would go berserk again, and feared that that it'd drive him feral too.
"They ain't worth it." Crimson flatly stated, and Temple sighed in relief. "I'll go get the hog. Get the money so we can fuck off. High Society makes me wanna vomit." And with that, Crimson walked towards the gate.
"You're lucky you and your friend were out of the casino" said the guard smirking, "If your partner's charade was in there, you wouldn't be walking-"
"Ever heard of the Butcher of Houston?" Temple interrupted, turning to the guard.
He puffed, "A children's fairy tale. No more real than the boogieman."
"Oh, you're wrong about that, kid." Temple walked right at him, staring at him long and hard, "You just saw the butcher himself. I was there." his voice lowered to a growly whisper, "And let me tell you, he did it all and more. The tale's gravely understated to sound believable, but I saw it all." he grinned, "I hear people still are too afraid to thread anywhere near the town."
The guard dismissed him with a sneer, but Temple could see the doubt in his eyes, and the drop of sweat that rolled down his forehead. That was from a different time, when Crimson was known as Hellhound, and wastelanders spoke his name in hushed whispers.
Leaving the guard, Temple walked to the clerk, who was busy stuffing a huge bag with caps. Finishing the counting and turned to Temple, the clerk stared with at contemptious frown, before two others carried the bag over.
"You are lucky we of the White Glove Society are civilised. You'd never get your money from the likes of the Omertas."
Temple only grunted in acknowledgement. He knew better, of course. A casino not paying its customers their due, even if it's
so outrageous a sum would only hurt its reputation and credibility. Temple knew how it all worked, he was a highroller second only to the illustrious Mr. House back in his prime. Then the Great War burned all his lifelong achievements along with his body, but that was then and this was now. He had a different name back then too, but if there's one thing he'd learned all these years in the wastes, is that you can't cling to the past. Learn from it, maybe, but otherwise the past was a cage.
Grabbing the bag and hefting it 'round his back, Temple looked like a cartoon burglar carrying his large haul away. The bag
was pretty heavy, which he supposed only spoke of the large amount of caps they'd won. Funny, he'd expected his gambling skills to have burned away like everything else, but he still was good as ever, even if a bit rusty. Crimson awaited him outside the Strip's gate, hog's engines roaring. Temple had no idea how Crimson'd gotten that piece of junk working and not exploding, but prolonged exposure to Crimson had taught him not to question such things.
"So," Crimson grinned, "how much's the haul?"
Temple shot back a grin of his own, "A whole fucking lot." He twirled his moustache, which was about the only noticable part of him left with hair save for a few patches here and there on the back of his head.
Crimson's grin had only grown wider, "Throw it in with the rest of 'em!"
Temple lurched the bag along the other two in the sidecar. Could be wrong, but comparing them all, it seemed to him like this one was the smallest of the three.
"Well," Temple said as he took his seat, "This is what one may call 'stinkin' fucking rich.'"
"Enough for the plan?"
"Enough for the plan two times over."
Crimson giggled, "I hear the Great Lakes are wonderful this time of year."
"Canada, eh?" Crimson was the more well travelled of the two, so Temple trusted him on that one.
"Maybe. Maybe a little more south."
"You think we have enough fusion cores to make the trip?"
He grinned at that, "The blacksuits were kind enough to donate a bunch."
"It warms my radiated heart to know people so selfless still walk the wastes."
"Make sure to send them a letter of gratitude when we're done." he pulled on the throttle, "Goodbye, New Vegas! Hope you pulled in a war between superpowers and get torn in half!"
"Goodbye, New Vegas." Temple echoed, and place a hand on Eddie's shoulder, "Hopefully with fewer casualties than when we arrived, eh?"
"Hey, I'm not to blame if some bimbo rushes me because I'm not fond of cheese."
"Funny, from the looks you gave her before she charged you, you looked like you'd like to have a taste of
her cheese."
Crimson shrugged, "Turns out it was too sour for my tastes!" They both laughted at that, and then they were off.
