Tossing a cinnamon roll into a radioactive wasteland in the middle of a political power...
...But the Crying (Fallout: New Vegas SI)
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Tossing a cinnamon roll into a radioactive wasteland in the middle of a political power struggle? Sounds like a good idea to me! (Fallout: New Vegas SI)
Cyberweasel89: So, after about a month of deliberation, I finally figured out a series to base my SI fic in.
SpokenSoftly: 3, New Vegas, or 4?
Cyberweasel89: Shit, how'd you know?
SpokenSoftly: Because I'm neither dense nor Lukan.
Cyberweasel89: Damn you and your sexy, sexy brain... Well, I was thinking New Vegas. That seems the game with the least happy endings among the three, and so might be the best that meta-knowledge could serve a purpose in. Plus, the plot is just complex. No going out looking for your son or father, you're fucking shit up during a political power struggle.
SpokenSoftly: *shot
SpokenSoftly: Though Benny dropping the Courier headfirst into a pit of Brahmin dung would have been a fun alternate opener.
Cyberweasel89: True dat. I was thinking that I wouldn't be the Courier themselves, but I could just join them and maybe pass off my meta-knowledge as being a psyker.
Cyberweasel89: inb4 Warhammer 40K.
Best Random Omnipotent Buddy joined the server!
BROB: Nah that's a stupid setting. You'd die in an hour. New Vegas though… o3o
SpokenSoftly: Aw fuck me.
Cyberweasel89: That's a tacky fucking name. How'd you get our server address?
BROB: BROB.
Cyberweasel89: ...Well, I think I know what's coming. Am I at least getting female'd?
BROB: Nope! Going in as is!
Cyberweasel89: Oh, c'mon! This is a world based on 1950's culture! I'd get labelled a crossdresser or transvestite!
SpokenSoftly: To be fair hon they're shown to be pretty tolerant of interracial stuff and sexuality outside the Legion isn't shown to be a big problem either.
BROB: Alright, you get a proper double-X. But you're putting the 'fun' in 'funbags.'
Cyberweasel89: Well, fuck. I don't get a DFC?
BROB: Nope! Tig ol' bitties!
Cyberweasel89: Dammit... So, time dilation, or...?
BROB: Yup! Can't have you mourning your loved ones while you're gone.
Cyberweasel89: Okay, good. Can I at least get dressed befop;'
Cyberweasel89 has left the universe!
BROB: Now, about your setting. o3o
SpokenSoftly: Leaving this chat won't save me, will it.
BROB: No copying Hornet, I was feeling nice that day.
Fallout: New Vegas Self-Insert
...But the Crying
By Cyberweasel89 and SpokenSoftly
Chapter 1: With the Greatest of Aplomb
As I opened my eyes, I took stock of my situation. Well, I was lying on my back, but I wasn't in any pain, so that was a plus. The sky above me was clear and blue. It was surprisingly temperate for a desert, but extremely arid. I felt my throat go dry as soon as I took a deep breath.
With a groan, more out of frustration than out of pain, I pulled myself into a sitting position, immediately regretting it. Wow, B.R.O.B. wasn't kidding about the tig ol' bitties. I reached up and lifted them with my hands. Hmmm... Well, I was a 32AA before, so these were probably... 32DD? Ugh. I imagined finding a bra in that size would be difficult, but maybe I could at least bind them down.
The rest of my body was largely unchanged, but I'd always worked hard to maintain a trim waist, long runner's legs, girlish hips, and a golden booty. I'd just shaved and showered earlier today, so I didn't have to worry about that for a while. My dark brown hair was unchanged, still being long, wavy, and down to my shoulder blades, with long bangs falling into my face and reaching my chin. I brushed them out of the way to feel my facial features, which seemed to be a bit more feminine and, oddly enough, a bit more Asian. I was biracial back on Earth, so maybe my racial status got more streamlined to better fit into this world? Heck if I knew.
I pulled myself to my feet and took stock of what I had on me. A pair of curiously more loose than before gray boxer briefs, a pair of rainbow toe socks, some brown slippers, my ever-present glasses, and a forest camo pattern survival strap compass bracelet on my left wrist. Curse my casual home nudism!
Luckily as it had been getting colder out and my landlady was a cheapskate with the heating, I'd been wrapped in a bright red Snuggie, which had arrived with me. I found it lying on the paved road beneath me, almost like it had cushioned my fall. It was the pocket model of Snuggie and I rooted through them to find my red inhaler. It was a fresh one, two hundred puffs left, but in a dusty post-apocalyptic desert, I imagined those wouldn't last me long. I'd have to see about getting a breathing mask, just to conserve inhaler puffs. I searched my Snuggie's other pocket for my phone but found it empty. Wait, and where was my wristwatch? I looked at my right wrist to find none other than a Pip-Boy 3000! Looked like B.R.O.B. took pity on me and had combined my wristwatch and phone into the most useful tool in the entire wasteland! Or did the conversion happen as a natural part of entering this world? Again, heck if I knew.
I booted up the Pip-Boy and took a look at my stats. Strength, Perception, and Endurance were an abysmal one, three, and two respectively, befitting my poor constitution, twig-like arms, and general lack of awareness of my surroundings. My Charisma however was a staggering nine! Likely due to my own natural charm that never really came across online. Intelligence was a nice eight and Agility was seven, likely due to my gifted-level I.Q., recreational cardio focus, and track and field. Luck was a respectable six, though I doubted I'd be hitting up the blackjack tables anytime soon.
Moving to the Skills tag, it seemed that my Tag Skills were based on my activities back on Earth. Speech for my writing, Sneak for my tendency to sneak up on people without meaning to, and Science for all my time spent on my computer. While not a tag skill, Survival was my fourth highest Skill, likely from all my cooking. Rather than a list of Perks though, I was treated to a health monitor on my various medical conditions. Complex PTSD, asthma, Asperger syndrome, ADHD, vitamin D deficiency, various phobias, insomnia, nearsightedness, astigmatism, IBS-C, hypoglyce...mia. Oh, crap. When was the last time I'd gotten some sugar in me? I'd been munching on cookies before I got thrown in here, but how long would that last? I could only pray I stumbled upon some Sugar Bombs or Fancy Lads. On the plus side, I might not have to worry about the vitamin D since I'd be getting so much sun in this desert.
No Inventory tab. Probably because the Pip-Boy inventory was just game mechanics, while this version of the Mojave was more literary. In Data however I found the usual radio and map, the latter largely rendering my survival strap bracelet's compass redundant. I picked up my Snuggie and wrapped it around myself, slipping my arms through the sleeves. Rather than from the front like it was meant to be worn, I wore it backwards like a poncho and clasped the garment together with my hands. As ready as I'd ever be, I set off down the road, eager to find civilization and a hint of where I was. Even with my repeated playthroughs of Fallout: New Vegas, I didn't recognize this stretch of road.
First things first. Get my bearings, then try to locate the Courier. Unless... I was the Courier. Yikes! Perish the thought! I didn't know how to use a gun and I'd likely throw up if I had to kill a man, even a murderous raider! I'd need someone to protect me! I could probably pass off my meta-knowledge as being a psyker. Precognition-dominant with a clairvoyancy minor, maybe? Yeah, that sounded about right. I hardly had the debilitating mental disabilities to pass myself off as a psyker, but with my Aspergers and ADHD, hey, it could work. I'd also need to work on my backstory, but for now, just find out where I am.
I'd been walking for about two hours and hadn't seen a soul. When I got bored, I tuned my Pip-Boy's radio to Radio New Vegas and enjoyed the 1950s music and gentlemanly voice of Mr. New Vegas, the A.I. programmed before the war to act as the DJ of Las Vegas. At least, that was what his voice actor, Wayne Newton, claimed in an interview with USA Today. As far as I knew, Mr. New Vegas being an A.I. was never confirmed in-game.
Unfortunately, with all my walking, my blood sugar was falling by the minute. Good thing about my Pip-Boy's health monitor was it showed me the exact mg/dL of my blood sugar. I'd gone below 70 a few minutes ago and I was already feeling lightheaded, shaky, and short of breath. If only the box of Chips Ahoy I'd been munching on had fallen into this world with me, but of course B.R.O.B. wasn't going to be that merciful. Still, I hoped that if it came down to their source of amusement dying right at the get-go, they'd throw something my way.
My steps were becoming staggers and my vision was blurring not long afterwards, but there was some kind of camp up ahead with figures standing around it. I could only hope they weren't raiders and had something sugary for me to eat. One of them pointed a rifle at me and barked something that I assumed to be to put my hands up. Too low on blood sugar to care about what I might expose, I did so, only to fall flat on my face a few steps later when the Snuggie pooled around my feet. To my relief, footsteps came rushing towards me.
"Whoa, miss! You okay?" One of them said in a voice that sounded Ghoul-like. "I'm Colonel Royez with the NCR military! What happened to you?"
I gazed up at the helmet of some NCR salvaged power armor. Royez... why did that name sound familiar? I was too out of it to think straight. "S-Sugar..." I rasped, my throat dry from the arid desert air.
I must have blacked out then, because darkness edged in from the corners of my vision and oblivion embraced me.
My eyes groggily blinked open. My head hurt, but it seemed I was alive. I glanced around to see I was in a tent on a cot, a loose bedsheet thrown over my form. I lifted it to confirm that I was still wearing my rainbow toe socks and gray boxer-briefs, while a glance at the floor showed my slippers placed in front of it. Groaning in pain, I sat up. A pitcher of water and a bottle of Nuka-Cola were sitting on a crate next to my cot. I guzzled the carbonated nectar up first, then imbibed the water. Sugar first, then hydration. I could tell keeping my blood sugar up was going to be more of a challenge than staying hydrated in this desert.
"Looks like you're awake," a raspy voice said to me.
In walked the ghoul from before, Colonel Royez. He'd taken off his helmet and as I gazed upon his uniquely-decorated salvaged power armor, it clicked in my head. This was the guy you fought in the Lonesome Road DLC if you decided to bomb the NCR at the end of it! So did that mean I was on the Long 15, just between the NCR and the Mojave Outpost? No wonder I didn't recognize it! You only ever saw this place in-game as a bombed out clone of the Divide!
His eyes gazed down at my chest with an impassive expression. I wasn't one for modesty, but I didn't want to make him uncomfortable, so I pulled the bed sheet over myself. "Yeah, I'm good. Thanks for saving me," I said, brushing some of my bangs behind my ear and giving a crooked smile up at the NCR colonel.
The ghoul grabbed a chair and pulled it up in front of my cot, sitting in it backwards in a manner I found awfully casual for a man with the second-highest rank in the New California Republic armed forces, albeit a rank he shared with two other people. I didn't expect him to be a ghoul, either! In the games you only ever saw him as a Marked Man. I guess it really showed that the NCR was working hard to stomp out ghoul bigotry.
"Mind telling me what happened to you, miss? Not every day a teenage girl walks up the road to the Mojave Wasteland in just some slippers, socks, men's undergarments, and a fleece poncho. And you've got a Pip-Boy. Are you from a vault?" He inquired, crossing his arms over the back of the chair and resting his head on it. I got the sense he wasn't interrogating me, just asking me off the record. He was surprisingly chill for an NCR colonel, at least compared to Hsu and Cassandra Moore. But hey, almost anyone was chiller than Colonel Moore.
I began what I hoped was a convincing backstory, again brushing some more bangs behind my ear. It was both a nervous gesture and because my bangs were down to my damn chin. "Yeah, I'm from one of the Vaults in the NCR. We never saw fit to make ourselves known, but we kept tabs on the outside world and did some trading under the guise of ordinary wastelanders. My vault got attacked by raiders and I managed to escape, but they struck in the middle of the night, so what I had was all I could grab. And sorry Colonel, I'm not a teenage girl. I'm twenty-seven. I know, I must look pretty young. Probably something about us Vaulties being isolated all our lives with good medical care and healthy food." Youthful looks ran in my family. Despite being almost thirty, I could easily pass for eighteen. I imagined that with my lack of facial hair in my newly female form, I'd have to worry about being called a kid a lot.
Colonel Royez nodded in understanding. He seemed to believe me, thank goodness. "You're lucky you're alive and unharmed. A girl with a body like your's? Raiders would surely-" He stopped at my grimace. "Uh, nevermind. So, what's your name, miss?"
"Ma-" I almost used my birth name. No, no. I was a girl in this world, just like I was meant to be. "Matilda. Matilda Flynn. It's nice to meet you, Colonel Royez. You're a really nice guy, helping me like this."
"Hey, the NCR might not have annexed your vault, but as far as I'm concerned, you're an NCR citizen same as any Vault City or Arroyo native. You mentioned needing sugar, though? I found it kind of odd that you didn't ask for water, but luckily one of my men is a huge Nuka-Cola addict, so we had plenty on hand," he said, gesturing to the drained bottle on the crate near my cot.
I bit my lower lip, nodding. "Yeah. I've got a condition that makes my blood sugar pretty low most of the time. I need a lot of sugary foods and drinks to keep it up and I was running low from my trip here."
He nodded. He probably didn't understand the medical stuff about it, but he at least understood that I needed sugar, and a lot of it, to function. "Well, if you'd like, I can escort you back into the NCR and get you set up as an official citizen."
Huh. Now there was an idea. I could go into the generally civilized and classy NCR and use my meta-knowledge to make it big. But... no, B.R.O.B. wanted amusement, and I'd need to give it to them to avoid drawing their ire. "Actually, I don't have much left in the NCR. I was thinking of starting up new in the Mojave Wasteland, maybe head to New Vegas. I'd heard stories about it from my vault's procurement specialists. I'd love to see it some day."
Colonel Royez seemed to mull that over a bit, reaching a hand up to scratch at the loose skin on his chin. "Huh, well I guess that's acceptable. But the least the Long 15 garrison can do is give you some supplies for the road. Would that be okay?"
Wow, really? Talk about a stroke of luck! Was my Luck really only six? Or was B.R.O.B. throwing me a bone so I didn't die right out of the gate? I nodded enthusiastically, clasping my hands together as if in prayer. "You'd do that for me, Colonel, sir? That'd be amazing... Thank you so much!"
Royez seemed a bit taken aback by my heartfelt and genuine gratitude, sitting up straighter and scratching at the barren flesh of his cheek. "Uh, don't worry about it. It's the least we can do for an NCR citizen down on her luck."
After a high-sugar meal of Sugar Bombs and radiation-cleansing brahmin milk, I threw on a bedsheet and was led over to the supply tent to pick out some clothes. I settled on a faded knee-length red dress and dirty white apron that I recognized as a field hand outfit and the requisitions officer even helped me find a pair of boots that fit, though I kept my rainbow toe socks. A leather backpack and a waterskin for my waist completed the outfit. I realized I'd probably need a hat in this desert sunlight, so I settled on a light brown uncured leather cowboy hat with a slight peak, a thick, flat brim, and a thin black band at the base, which I recognized as a rawhide cowboy hat. Sadly, women's underwear just wasn't something an NCR garrison's requisitions officer carried, nor did he have anything I could really use to bind myself.
Figuring that the Long 15 was technically part of the Lonesome Road DLC, I asked the requisitions officer if he had a breathing mask handy. Sure enough, they had quite a few. I couldn't wear it constantly, since I did need to eat, but I could at least use it to conserve puffs on my inhaler.
"We'll need to arm you, too," Colonel Royez pointed out. "We can't offer much ammo or a very powerful gun, but we can at least give you a sidearm for self-defense."
Wow, that was more than I expected! Call me a softy, but I didn't wanna take advantage of the Colonel's kindness, so I just picked out a 9mm and about twenty bullets for it. The Colonel loaded my pack up with what water, sugary snacks, and stimpaks the garrison could spare, then I was ready to go. I also stuffed my Snuggie into my new backpack and, again likely because this area was native to the Lonesome Road DLC, the garrison was able to set me up with a bedroll that I could attach to my pack.
"Take care out there, Matilda. Don't get taken advantage of by raiders again," Colonel Royez told me, giving me a pat on the top of my head.
I grinned up at him through my breathing mask, leaning in and giving his power armor-clad body a hug. The ghoul seemed a bit taken aback by my show of affection, awkwardly patting my back as I held the hug for several moments. When I finally let go, I turned and headed off to the Mojave Outpost, which was already in sight further down the wrecked road.
"Thanks, Colonel Royez! I hope we meet again someday!" I called over my shoulder, giggling.
The NCR colonel waved back at me, a few of his soldiers gathering around to wave goodbye as well. Hey, nine Charisma. Give me some time and I could probably endear myself to most people with a heart. Hee hee!
When I arrived at the Mojave Outpost an NCR trooper directed me to the main office. I looked around as I walked, marveling at the sight of the caravan guards, merchants, troopers, and brahmin. It was one thing to see them in the game, quite another to see them in person! Something that the graphics of Fallout: New Vegas couldn't really convey was the smell. I could smell the brahmin dung from the pens. Something else that the technical limitations of the Gamebryo engine couldn't handle without mods was that everyone had vastly different body types and heights. True to Fallout 2 lore, I spotted a few dwarves, though likely due to the hard work and scarcity of food, I didn't notice many people I would call overweight. I stepped into the main building to find Major Knight, one of the highest-ranked NCR military officers in the Mojave, holding the third-highest rank you could have, situated behind a counter.
"Caravan, citizen, pilgrim, or...?" He droned, not looking up from his papers. Wow, just like he did in the game!
"Just a traveler," I replied, smiling at him from under my breathing mask. I figured it would suffice. I wasn't technically an NCR citizen and I don't think I qualified as a pilgrim.
"Just need something for the log book," Major Knight explained. "Keeping tabs on traffic in and out of the outpost, though mostly in these days."
I nodded. "Yeah, bureaucracy and all that. Anything I can do to help?"
"What, you mean like... work? Well, talk to Ranger Jackson. He's in charge around here. He should be in the back," the Major explained, a bit surprised that someone was actually offering their services like this.
"Thanks, Major." I gave a goofy salute to him, which caused the man to give a small chuckle.
Making my way into the back of the building, I recognized Ranger Jackson from his sunglasses, hat, and sweet mustache. He was walking down the hallway from one back office to another, looking over some reports as he sipped a mug of black coffee.
"Hi there! You must be Ranger Jackson!" I chirped.
Jumping a little at my sudden introduction, Jackson looked me up and down. He was quite a bit taller than me, something that the engine limitations of Fallout: New Vegas didn't really convey. Considering I was a statistically average five foot six, that probably implied that people in positions of power tended to be tall in the Fallout world, just like in the real world.
"That'd be me. Can I help you, miss...?" He traied off, clearly expecting my name.
"Matilda! Matilda Flynn! And I was hoping we could help each other," I explained, clasping my arms behind my back and rocking back and forth on the balls of my feet.
The seasoned ranger quirked an eyebrow at me. "I'm flattered miss, but I'm afraid my husband might not take lightly to me sharing our bed with a woman."
I jumped. Wow, I knew Major Knight was gay, but Ranger Jackson, too? Maybe they… Dammit, fujoshi thoughts later! I waved my hands frantically in front of myself. "No, no, no! I meant I could be of some use around the outpost!"
Jackson smirked at how flustered he'd gotten me. "How do you figure that? Before you begin, I feel you should know that we're not allowed to contract mercenaries here at the outpost."
I giggled. "That's where you're in luck! I'm not a mercenary, I'm just an ordinary traveler, and you're not contracting me! See, I'm going to be at the outpost for a while. Kinda waiting on someone to arrive. I could do some odd jobs around here just to pay for my keep. Cooking, cleaning, shoveling brahmin crap, running messages. So long as it doesn't involve fighting or leaving the outpost, I'm happy to do it in exchange for a place to sleep, food, and maybe some spare caps if you can manage it."
The man shifted stance from one leg to the other, tapping his boot-clad foot. He seemed to be mulling the decision over as he took a sip from his black coffee. "I dunno... I mean, I don't know you from Adam. How do I know you're reliable for something like this? A job like this at the outpost isn't exactly precedented. Most of the people expected to stay here for a while are more content to eat, drink, sleep, piss, and stink up the place."
I clasped my hands together, looking up at him with big, puppy dog eyes. "Please? Just give me a chance. I promise what I don't know to do I can learn and I'm real easy to get along with! I won't make any trouble, honest!"
The ranger seemed to be struggling internally for a bit, if his twitching mouth was anything to go by. After a while, he sighed, visibly relaxing. Did I just pull it off? "Fine. I do need some serious results around here and a gopher could certainly be handy. I can't pay you officially, but I can at least set you up with free room and board, and I can't stop any of the troopers from tipping you if they feel like it." Yes! Score!
I saluted the ranger, grinning up at him through my breathing mask. "You can count on me, ranger! I won't let you down!"
Ranger Jackson chuckled, reaching up to adjust the brim of his brown ranger hat with what spare fingers he had on the hand holding the reports. "Look at you, all fired up. I could use more enthusiasm around here."
"Oh, I've got enthusiasm in spades! Count on me to bring some energy to this place!" I chirped.
"Great, great. Just be careful you don't give all of us diabetes. First thing's first... Head out to the brahmin pens and get shoveling," he instructed, grinning mischievously.
I grimaced, grateful he couldn't see it under my breathing mask. Great, so he was testing me right off the bat. Well, if there was ever a time to get over my mysophobia, that'd be about now. A bit uneasily, I saluted the ranger. "You got it, sir!"
I headed back out and over to the brahmin pens, no doubt leaving a very amused ranger behind. When I got there, I noticed a caravan guard taking potshots at some tin cans. Hmmm... Idea.
I walked up to him and tapped him on the shoulder. He jumped a little. Damn, even in the Fallout world, I tended to sneak up on people without meaning to. "What's up?" He asked, raising his goggles up to his forehead.
"Hey, I can't help but notice your target practice over here. Think you can give me some tips on how to shoot? I'm from a pretty safe place in the NCR, so I never really learned how to use a gun," I explained.
He seemed a bit amused by that notion. "Well, I don't suppose I have anything better to do while waiting for my boss's papers to go through. Gimme an hour or so to get shit set up, then I can give you some lessons. Should keep me entertained for the next few days."
Score! With luck, I could ask another caravan guard to teach me when this one left, and by the time the Courier got here, I'd at least be able to hit a target! Granted, actually being able to kill was another thing, but at least I could handle the local wildlife and might be of use in a shoot out. For now, though... time to scoop some dookie!
Well, that was pure hell. One hour of shoveling brahmin crap does not count as sufficient enough exposure therapy for one's mysophobia, though thankfully my breathing mask reduced the smell to an occasional unpleasant whiff. Luckily I wasn't the only one out there shoveling and I managed to get a bit of info on current events from the locals.
It seemed that the Courier had indeed woken up at Goodsprings if Mr. New Vegas's reports were anything to go by, but he'd yet to do anything of note, so he was likely still getting lessons from Sunny Smiles or something. That left me anywhere from a week to a month to get my bearings and gain some useful skills before the Courier showed up here. Nipton was notably still operating as a whorehouse town, but honestly I didn't feel I'd be able to save it with my intervention. Even if I could hire one of the caravan guards to escort me to Nipton, I doubted that scumbag of a mayor would listen to me when I told him that "Mr. Fox" was planning to betray him and burn him on a pile of tires, even if I told him I was a psyker and it was a precognitive vision. Only way I could get him to listen to me was if I gave him a metric ton of money, and sadly I just wasn't a bottle cap collector back home.
I failed my shooting lesson spectacularly, but hey, Rome wasn't built in a day. Enough time and I might be able to hit a Deathclaw. If it were dead. And about ten feet away. With some time to- I was a really awful shot, alright? As I made my way to the barracks for some Sunset Sarsaparilla, I was surprised to see a familiar face at the bar. The hat, flower pendant, and shotgun on her back were unmistakable. Rose of Sharon Cassidy! Was Cass really waiting at the Mojave Outpost for this long before the Courier showed up? If I played my cards right, I might just be able to lay some foundation for recruiting her early, without having to go through the stupid Crimson Caravan quests.
Grinning to myself under my breathing mask, I hopped onto the stool next to Cass and waved down Lacey the bartender for a root beer. When she placed the bottle in front of me, I whipped off my breathing mask, downing the soft drink. Ah, sweet sugar. Cass noticed me grinning at her, her eyes looking at my lack of an alcoholic beverage with clear judgment.
"Looking for trouble, kid?" She drawled.
I pouted, brushing some of my bangs out of my face. Great, looked like it was already starting. "I'm not a kid! I'm twenty-seven!" I whined petulantly, likely not helping my case.
"Ain't like it matters out here, but work on the delivery if you're headed towards Vegas. What's on your mind, kid?" Cass replied, smirking at me.
I pouted, but moved on. She'd buy it eventually. "You look like someone down on your luck. Got a story to share?"
The water merchant sighed, waving Lacey down for another whiskey. "Boy, do I ever."
Well, I likely had anywhere from a week to a month before the Courier showed up. I wonder if that was enough time to convince Cass to hit the road with us and gain enough skill to actually be able to shoot straight?
About three weeks passed since my arrival at the Mojave Outpost and this world. Something that isn't really apparent when playing Fallout: New Vegas is just how little there is to do for entertainment in this world. Caravan, something I never bothered with in all my playthroughs of the game, now became something I took up purely to pass the time between grunt work around the outpost. I was pretty bad at it at first, but I gradually began to develop my own strategy at the game and a custom deck at that.
I was also worked pretty damn hard, to the point that even with my insomnia I was sleeping pretty good out of pure exhaustion. Well, better than I usually did. Luckily during my idle moments I had plenty of thoughts to entertain myself. I was always good at that, letting my mind wander to keep myself entertained.
In the past three weeks I'd saved up about a hundred bottle caps since the soldiers found my bubbly personality endearing enough to occasionally toss me a tip or two. I also learned to shoot pretty well. Well, marginally well. I mean, no one would dare call me a sharpshooter in good faith, but at least I wasn't hitting things three yards off from my target anymore.
I'd also spent those three weeks working Cass's shaft a bit. Between barfly chats and sharing of personal stories, we'd gotten pretty chummy. She said my optimism was sickening and found my refusal to drink booze was no fun, but she also seemed to see me as something of an annoying kid sister, so... yeah. Relationship goals. Still no progress in getting her to warm up to the idea of coming with me when I left, though. She was pretty adamant about hanging onto her Cassidy Caravans title deed and contracts, which were also what were keeping her from leaving the Mojave Outpost. It was either I convince her to just drop the caravan work altogether or find some other way to get her out of here. I was not waiting until the Courier got to the Crimson Caravan and ran halfway around the Mojave for him to recruit Cass.
It was just as I was heading into the main office building to report my crap-shoveling for the day complete that I spotted him. You know that guy on the cover of the game in the NCR veteran ranger combat armor? Well, it was too early in the events of the war for the veteran rangers to come in and this armor looked notably different to the NCR ranger combat armor.
It looked newer and was greener in color. The helmet had built-in low light optics, a combination IR/white light lamp and gas mask, and a small spike protruding from the tip of it. The brown duster had two pouches on each sleeve and two green arm bands. Unlike the standard ranger combat armor, this set had brown military pants and brown boots. It took me a few moments of recollection, since I'm not really visually oriented, but I eventually recognized it as a set of "riot gear" and matching helmet from the Lonesome Road DLC. Considering in the Courier's backstory he'd been through the Divide before its destruction many times, he might've picked it up during a trip through it. The ensemble was accented with a canteen at his hip and a satchel around his waist.
On his back was a semi-automatic battle rifle with the words "WELL THIS MACHINE KILLS COMMIES" carved into the left side of it, causing me to instantly recognize it as the unique battle rifle This Machine. On his right hip was a pistol that took me a bit to recognize, but luckily my playthroughs of Fallout 1 and 2 caused me to realize it was That Gun, the unique .223 pistol. On his left hip was a bowie knife, though I couldn't tell if it was Blood-Nap or not because unlike most unique weapons, Blood-Nap looked no different from an ordinary bowie knife. I had to assume that, like the riot gear, he had gotten the bowie knife during a pre-detonation trip through the Divide. Besides that, a bandoleer was strapped across his chest packed with grenades, leading me to think he occasionally peppered his shootouts with tactical uses of grenades on grouped enemies. Perhaps his Tag Skills were Small Guns, Melee Weapons, and Explosives?
The battered eyebot with the Illinois license plate and Roosevelt Academy bumper sticker proved it. This was the Courier. It took him three weeks, but he'd finally arrived. I had to assume he was here to seek aid for Primm. A quick listen in on his conversation with Major Knight proved that he was looking for a pardon for Meyers, the convict from the NCR Correctional Facility who would make a great sheriff for an independent Primm. Well, that worked out nicely for me. Though it seemed Knight wasn't hearing any of it, even when offered some caps to "buy" a pardon. Charisma and Speech, don't fail me now!
"Couldn't help but overhear your conversation, gentleman," I said, sliding up to the counter. The Courier seemed a bit taken aback by my sudden appearance.
"Oh, hey, Matilda. Not that I don't enjoy your company, but I don't think this really concerns you," Major Knight said, dismissing me with a wave of his hand.
"I dunno. From what I've heard, this Meyers guy has no affiliation with the Powder Gangers. He was just an ordinary inmate. His crime wasn't all that bad and his sentence was almost up. Think about it. Primm is of great strategic importance to the NCR. Having a guy in a position of authority there who owes you a favor could be really useful," I said, crossing my hands behind my back and swaying my girlish hips back and forth.
Knight brought his hand to his chin, nodding in thought. "Huh... I can actually see the wisdom in that. Okay, Meyers can have his pardon. But we expect some real law up in Primm."
Yes! Score one for me and my nine Charisma! I pumped my fist and did a little dance, drawing a bewildered look from Knight and a confused head tilt from the Courier. I froze when I caught their staring, quickly righting myself into a straight posture and clearing my throat in an exaggerated fashion.
"Hi there," I said to the Courier, offering my hand to shake. "I'm Matilda Flynn. Kinda the chore girl around here."
A bit stiffly, the Courier gave me his hand as well and we shook. "Vickers. I'm a courier." The eyebot behind him beeped, shaking in the air a bit as if annoyed. "And this is ED-E," he said, gesturing back at the eyebot with his thumb. "How'd you know about Meyers?"
"Yeah, that's a good question," Major Knight cut in.
Speech checks, don't fail me now! "Oh! I'm a Psyker. Precognition-dominant with a clairvoyancy minor," I explained, clasping my hands behind my back and leaning forward, grinning up at the two from behind my breathing mask.
"Bullshit," they both said at once. Speech check fail!
"Every psyker I've met had debilitating mental issues that crippled them as a trade-off for having their powers," Knight explained, receiving a nod of agreement from Vickers.
I chewed my cheek, reaching up to push up my glasses with my thumb and forefinger. "I have Aspergers and pretty heavy ADHD."
"Ass... burgers." Vickers stated more than asked.
"I admit, the ADHD certainly explains your enthusiasm, but I've never heard of ass burgers," Knight pointed out.
Great. Made sense that no one had heard of that in this world. Education wasn't exactly commonplace. I sighed, crossing my arms over my breasts. "It's a developmental disorder characterized by significant difficulties in social interaction and nonverbal communication, not to mention restricted and repetitive patterns of behavior and interests."
They both gave me blank stares. Ugh, probably too big of words for them.
"I-It also gives me a pretty big vocabulary," I said, blushing a little and rubbing the back of my head.
That caused them to both nod in understanding. "Layman's terms, then," Knight requested.
"I tend to be pretty obsessive over my hobbies, I have trouble reading body language and facial expressions, and you guys might've noticed how I tend to look away in the middle of eye contact a lot," I said, sighing in exasperation.
Vickers the Courier sighed. "Look, that's all well and good, but can you prove you're a psyker? Tell me something that I would know that you'd have no way of knowing about me."
"Same here," Knight said.
I bit my lip. Okay, here goes. "Vickers, you just woke up in Goodsprings about three weeks ago after getting shot in the head by a guy in a white and black checkered suit. You were dug up from the shallow grave him and his Great Khans dumped you in by a cowboy Securitron named Victor, helped out by Goodsprings' unofficial sheriff Sunny Smiles, and helped organize a militia out of the citizens to fend off some Powder Gangers led by a man named Joe Cobb. You then made your way to Primm, where you helped rescue the deputy, a coward named Beagle, and now you're working on getting Meyers pardoned and instated as Primm's sheriff. You picked up that eyebot in the Mojave Express main office, which you repaired and now is sticking to you like glue. After you're done getting Primm law, you plan to head to Novac through Nipton because Beagle told you your assailant headed there and you're on a quest to get answers and revenge."
The Courier crossed his arms, tapping his foot. "Okay, most of that stuff, anyone could know if they'd been paying attention to the radio, had a network of information brokers, or had been following me."
"Nope. I can assure you, sir, that girl has been here for the last three weeks, and she'd spent the rest of her life in the NCR before arriving. She hasn't set foot out of the outpost at all. And what about me, Matilda? Anything you can tell me with your psychic powers?" Knight asked, smirking.
"You're a confirmed bachelor, but you keep it under wraps since you're afraid you'll get teased for it," I replied, smiling sweetly up at the major through my breathing mask.
His spine went ramrod straight and he waved his hand at me like swatting a fly. "Not so loud!" He said in a hushed tone.
"Aw, don't worry, Major. I swing both ways, myself," I assured him.
"As do I," Courier Vickers said. I got the sense he was smirking from under his helmet. Huh. That was a bit surprising, but then again, you could totally play a bisexual Courier if you took both related seduction perks.
"Okay, I'll give you the benefit of the doubt, Miss Flynn," Vickers said, crossing his arms and staring me down through his helmet. He was pretty tall, about six feet of muscle. "Was there a reason you were telling me this?"
"Yup!" I chirped. "How about I go with you on your-"
"No," he stated flatly.
"Aw, c'mon!" I whined. "Why not?"
"Look, I don't see what use a kid-"
"I'm twenty-seven!" I cried, stamping my foot.
"-with psychic powers has on my quest for answers and revenge, as you put it."
I pouted, crossing my arms over my breasts. "Well, obviously I can tell you where you need to go next, advise you on the right course of action, and help you get through stuff when you're lost."
"And why would I want that? Kinda takes the fun out of life when I know what's coming," he said. Damn, I didn't think about that.
"Well, I'll only help when you need it! I promise, my powers can be really useful!" I pleaded, clasping my hands together as if begging.
"You don't look like you can bring much to the table. Skinny arms, young-looking, kinda immature, a bit emotional. You have pretty hair and big tits, though... Okay, I admit, you're nice to look at, but I need more than just eye candy. I just don't think you'll be much use with that peashooter and those glasses."
"Hey, I can shoot just fine!" I lied. He was giving me a flat look through his helmet's visor. I could just tell. "Okay, I'm a fair shot. But I can help in other ways! You don't have to pay me or anything! I can cook, I can carry your stuff-"
"Deal."
I jumped. Wow, really? Was it the cooking, the carrying his stuff, or- His stomach growled as he reached into his waist satchel and tossed some supplies in my direction. Ah. It was both. Ah well, at least I was on board. Turning, he began walking back out.
"Wait! Where are we going?" I asked, running after him and stuffing what spare supplies he had into my backpack.
"Didn't you say you were psychic? We're headed back to Primm so I can tell Meyers he's been pardoned," Vickers explained.
"Oh, right. I mean, I knew that!" I said. I could tell the Courier was unimpressed and unconvinced.
As we headed north back to Primm I walked along beside the Courier, grinning up at him.
"So, Vickers, was it? Is that your first name or your last name?" I asked.
"Yes," he flatly replied.
I pouted. "How old are you?"
"Old enough to know better, kid."
"I'm twenty-seven! Ugh. So, you mentioned you swung both ways? Got any ex lovers I should know about?"
"A lover in every port and a cap in every ass if you keep bothering me."
I sighed. Wow, looked like the Courier wasn't all that talkative. I slowed my pace to walk beside ED-E a bit, casting a side glance at the eyebot. "So, been with Vickers long?"
ED-E beeped happily at me. Was that a yes?
"He says he hasn't been with me long but he likes me and he already likes you," Vickers piped up from the front, sounding quite unamused.
I paused, blinking. "You can understand her? I mean... him?" I'd always considered ED-E female and even Lonesome Road couldn't shake that headcanon from my... well, head.
"Yes," he deadpanned.
Another pause. "Okay, then. So, we gonna make camp before we reach Primm? Or can we make it there before-"
He stopped walking, thrusting his arm out in front of me to halt my steps. People were approaching from further down the road and judging from their blue jackets and black pants, they were Powder Gangers. As they neared, they drew their guns, but surprisingly they didn't shoot.
"Hand over everything ya got and we'll let you live," the one in front ordered. I guess that was more realistic than them shooting on sight like in the games. More self-preservation that way.
I swallowed hard. Uh oh... He was shouting. Confrontation... I felt myself breaking out into a cold sweat, but I still had enough sense to draw my gun and shakily aim at the group of escaped convicts.
Vickers just chuckled, surprisingly confident despite the danger we were in. "Oh? Hand over everything I got? Okay." He plucked a grenade from his bandolier, pulling the pin and rolling it at the Powder Gangers' feet. "You can have that to start with."
The escaped convicts ducked for cover and Vickers drew That Gun and started firing. ED-E joined in with her-I mean, his lasers, providing reliable cover fire. A few well-placed shots from both and two of the Powder Gangers were already dead before they could get up oh my god they were dead.
I aimed my 9mm at one of the convicts but my hands were shaking so hard that the gun wasn't even near steady. I pulled the trigger, the bullet imbedding itself in a nearby boulder. As the remaining Gangers began shouting, the flashbacks started. Panicking, I ran behind the boulder I hit and ducked and covered pathetically.
When the shooting stopped, I was still having aftershocks, trembling and coming down from the adrenaline and flashbacks. Oh god, why did I think Fallout: New Vegas was a good idea for an SI?
Calm footsteps went around the rock. I glanced up to see Vickers' boots. He took a seat on the ground next to me, back resting against the boulder. Reaching over, he patted me on the back, causing me to flinch. I didn't even stop the sobs when they started racking my form.
"There there, kid. It's all over but the crying."
-o-
Cyberweasel89: So, after about a month of deliberation, I finally figured out a series to base my SI fic in.
SpokenSoftly: 3, New Vegas, or 4?
Cyberweasel89: Shit, how'd you know?
SpokenSoftly: Because I'm neither dense nor Lukan.
Cyberweasel89: Damn you and your sexy, sexy brain... Well, I was thinking New Vegas. That seems the game with the least happy endings among the three, and so might be the best that meta-knowledge could serve a purpose in. Plus, the plot is just complex. No going out looking for your son or father, you're fucking shit up during a political power struggle.
SpokenSoftly: *shot
SpokenSoftly: Though Benny dropping the Courier headfirst into a pit of Brahmin dung would have been a fun alternate opener.
Cyberweasel89: True dat. I was thinking that I wouldn't be the Courier themselves, but I could just join them and maybe pass off my meta-knowledge as being a psyker.
Cyberweasel89: inb4 Warhammer 40K.
Best Random Omnipotent Buddy joined the server!
BROB: Nah that's a stupid setting. You'd die in an hour. New Vegas though… o3o
SpokenSoftly: Aw fuck me.
Cyberweasel89: That's a tacky fucking name. How'd you get our server address?
BROB: BROB.
Cyberweasel89: ...Well, I think I know what's coming. Am I at least getting female'd?
BROB: Nope! Going in as is!
Cyberweasel89: Oh, c'mon! This is a world based on 1950's culture! I'd get labelled a crossdresser or transvestite!
SpokenSoftly: To be fair hon they're shown to be pretty tolerant of interracial stuff and sexuality outside the Legion isn't shown to be a big problem either.
BROB: Alright, you get a proper double-X. But you're putting the 'fun' in 'funbags.'
Cyberweasel89: Well, fuck. I don't get a DFC?
BROB: Nope! Tig ol' bitties!
Cyberweasel89: Dammit... So, time dilation, or...?
BROB: Yup! Can't have you mourning your loved ones while you're gone.
Cyberweasel89: Okay, good. Can I at least get dressed befop;'
Cyberweasel89 has left the universe!
BROB: Now, about your setting. o3o
SpokenSoftly: Leaving this chat won't save me, will it.
BROB: No copying Hornet, I was feeling nice that day.
-o-
Fallout: New Vegas Self-Insert
...But the Crying
By Cyberweasel89 and SpokenSoftly
Chapter 1: With the Greatest of Aplomb
-o-
As I opened my eyes, I took stock of my situation. Well, I was lying on my back, but I wasn't in any pain, so that was a plus. The sky above me was clear and blue. It was surprisingly temperate for a desert, but extremely arid. I felt my throat go dry as soon as I took a deep breath.
With a groan, more out of frustration than out of pain, I pulled myself into a sitting position, immediately regretting it. Wow, B.R.O.B. wasn't kidding about the tig ol' bitties. I reached up and lifted them with my hands. Hmmm... Well, I was a 32AA before, so these were probably... 32DD? Ugh. I imagined finding a bra in that size would be difficult, but maybe I could at least bind them down.
The rest of my body was largely unchanged, but I'd always worked hard to maintain a trim waist, long runner's legs, girlish hips, and a golden booty. I'd just shaved and showered earlier today, so I didn't have to worry about that for a while. My dark brown hair was unchanged, still being long, wavy, and down to my shoulder blades, with long bangs falling into my face and reaching my chin. I brushed them out of the way to feel my facial features, which seemed to be a bit more feminine and, oddly enough, a bit more Asian. I was biracial back on Earth, so maybe my racial status got more streamlined to better fit into this world? Heck if I knew.
I pulled myself to my feet and took stock of what I had on me. A pair of curiously more loose than before gray boxer briefs, a pair of rainbow toe socks, some brown slippers, my ever-present glasses, and a forest camo pattern survival strap compass bracelet on my left wrist. Curse my casual home nudism!
Luckily as it had been getting colder out and my landlady was a cheapskate with the heating, I'd been wrapped in a bright red Snuggie, which had arrived with me. I found it lying on the paved road beneath me, almost like it had cushioned my fall. It was the pocket model of Snuggie and I rooted through them to find my red inhaler. It was a fresh one, two hundred puffs left, but in a dusty post-apocalyptic desert, I imagined those wouldn't last me long. I'd have to see about getting a breathing mask, just to conserve inhaler puffs. I searched my Snuggie's other pocket for my phone but found it empty. Wait, and where was my wristwatch? I looked at my right wrist to find none other than a Pip-Boy 3000! Looked like B.R.O.B. took pity on me and had combined my wristwatch and phone into the most useful tool in the entire wasteland! Or did the conversion happen as a natural part of entering this world? Again, heck if I knew.
I booted up the Pip-Boy and took a look at my stats. Strength, Perception, and Endurance were an abysmal one, three, and two respectively, befitting my poor constitution, twig-like arms, and general lack of awareness of my surroundings. My Charisma however was a staggering nine! Likely due to my own natural charm that never really came across online. Intelligence was a nice eight and Agility was seven, likely due to my gifted-level I.Q., recreational cardio focus, and track and field. Luck was a respectable six, though I doubted I'd be hitting up the blackjack tables anytime soon.
Moving to the Skills tag, it seemed that my Tag Skills were based on my activities back on Earth. Speech for my writing, Sneak for my tendency to sneak up on people without meaning to, and Science for all my time spent on my computer. While not a tag skill, Survival was my fourth highest Skill, likely from all my cooking. Rather than a list of Perks though, I was treated to a health monitor on my various medical conditions. Complex PTSD, asthma, Asperger syndrome, ADHD, vitamin D deficiency, various phobias, insomnia, nearsightedness, astigmatism, IBS-C, hypoglyce...mia. Oh, crap. When was the last time I'd gotten some sugar in me? I'd been munching on cookies before I got thrown in here, but how long would that last? I could only pray I stumbled upon some Sugar Bombs or Fancy Lads. On the plus side, I might not have to worry about the vitamin D since I'd be getting so much sun in this desert.
No Inventory tab. Probably because the Pip-Boy inventory was just game mechanics, while this version of the Mojave was more literary. In Data however I found the usual radio and map, the latter largely rendering my survival strap bracelet's compass redundant. I picked up my Snuggie and wrapped it around myself, slipping my arms through the sleeves. Rather than from the front like it was meant to be worn, I wore it backwards like a poncho and clasped the garment together with my hands. As ready as I'd ever be, I set off down the road, eager to find civilization and a hint of where I was. Even with my repeated playthroughs of Fallout: New Vegas, I didn't recognize this stretch of road.
First things first. Get my bearings, then try to locate the Courier. Unless... I was the Courier. Yikes! Perish the thought! I didn't know how to use a gun and I'd likely throw up if I had to kill a man, even a murderous raider! I'd need someone to protect me! I could probably pass off my meta-knowledge as being a psyker. Precognition-dominant with a clairvoyancy minor, maybe? Yeah, that sounded about right. I hardly had the debilitating mental disabilities to pass myself off as a psyker, but with my Aspergers and ADHD, hey, it could work. I'd also need to work on my backstory, but for now, just find out where I am.
-o-
I'd been walking for about two hours and hadn't seen a soul. When I got bored, I tuned my Pip-Boy's radio to Radio New Vegas and enjoyed the 1950s music and gentlemanly voice of Mr. New Vegas, the A.I. programmed before the war to act as the DJ of Las Vegas. At least, that was what his voice actor, Wayne Newton, claimed in an interview with USA Today. As far as I knew, Mr. New Vegas being an A.I. was never confirmed in-game.
Unfortunately, with all my walking, my blood sugar was falling by the minute. Good thing about my Pip-Boy's health monitor was it showed me the exact mg/dL of my blood sugar. I'd gone below 70 a few minutes ago and I was already feeling lightheaded, shaky, and short of breath. If only the box of Chips Ahoy I'd been munching on had fallen into this world with me, but of course B.R.O.B. wasn't going to be that merciful. Still, I hoped that if it came down to their source of amusement dying right at the get-go, they'd throw something my way.
My steps were becoming staggers and my vision was blurring not long afterwards, but there was some kind of camp up ahead with figures standing around it. I could only hope they weren't raiders and had something sugary for me to eat. One of them pointed a rifle at me and barked something that I assumed to be to put my hands up. Too low on blood sugar to care about what I might expose, I did so, only to fall flat on my face a few steps later when the Snuggie pooled around my feet. To my relief, footsteps came rushing towards me.
"Whoa, miss! You okay?" One of them said in a voice that sounded Ghoul-like. "I'm Colonel Royez with the NCR military! What happened to you?"
I gazed up at the helmet of some NCR salvaged power armor. Royez... why did that name sound familiar? I was too out of it to think straight. "S-Sugar..." I rasped, my throat dry from the arid desert air.
I must have blacked out then, because darkness edged in from the corners of my vision and oblivion embraced me.
-o-
My eyes groggily blinked open. My head hurt, but it seemed I was alive. I glanced around to see I was in a tent on a cot, a loose bedsheet thrown over my form. I lifted it to confirm that I was still wearing my rainbow toe socks and gray boxer-briefs, while a glance at the floor showed my slippers placed in front of it. Groaning in pain, I sat up. A pitcher of water and a bottle of Nuka-Cola were sitting on a crate next to my cot. I guzzled the carbonated nectar up first, then imbibed the water. Sugar first, then hydration. I could tell keeping my blood sugar up was going to be more of a challenge than staying hydrated in this desert.
"Looks like you're awake," a raspy voice said to me.
In walked the ghoul from before, Colonel Royez. He'd taken off his helmet and as I gazed upon his uniquely-decorated salvaged power armor, it clicked in my head. This was the guy you fought in the Lonesome Road DLC if you decided to bomb the NCR at the end of it! So did that mean I was on the Long 15, just between the NCR and the Mojave Outpost? No wonder I didn't recognize it! You only ever saw this place in-game as a bombed out clone of the Divide!
His eyes gazed down at my chest with an impassive expression. I wasn't one for modesty, but I didn't want to make him uncomfortable, so I pulled the bed sheet over myself. "Yeah, I'm good. Thanks for saving me," I said, brushing some of my bangs behind my ear and giving a crooked smile up at the NCR colonel.
The ghoul grabbed a chair and pulled it up in front of my cot, sitting in it backwards in a manner I found awfully casual for a man with the second-highest rank in the New California Republic armed forces, albeit a rank he shared with two other people. I didn't expect him to be a ghoul, either! In the games you only ever saw him as a Marked Man. I guess it really showed that the NCR was working hard to stomp out ghoul bigotry.
"Mind telling me what happened to you, miss? Not every day a teenage girl walks up the road to the Mojave Wasteland in just some slippers, socks, men's undergarments, and a fleece poncho. And you've got a Pip-Boy. Are you from a vault?" He inquired, crossing his arms over the back of the chair and resting his head on it. I got the sense he wasn't interrogating me, just asking me off the record. He was surprisingly chill for an NCR colonel, at least compared to Hsu and Cassandra Moore. But hey, almost anyone was chiller than Colonel Moore.
I began what I hoped was a convincing backstory, again brushing some more bangs behind my ear. It was both a nervous gesture and because my bangs were down to my damn chin. "Yeah, I'm from one of the Vaults in the NCR. We never saw fit to make ourselves known, but we kept tabs on the outside world and did some trading under the guise of ordinary wastelanders. My vault got attacked by raiders and I managed to escape, but they struck in the middle of the night, so what I had was all I could grab. And sorry Colonel, I'm not a teenage girl. I'm twenty-seven. I know, I must look pretty young. Probably something about us Vaulties being isolated all our lives with good medical care and healthy food." Youthful looks ran in my family. Despite being almost thirty, I could easily pass for eighteen. I imagined that with my lack of facial hair in my newly female form, I'd have to worry about being called a kid a lot.
Colonel Royez nodded in understanding. He seemed to believe me, thank goodness. "You're lucky you're alive and unharmed. A girl with a body like your's? Raiders would surely-" He stopped at my grimace. "Uh, nevermind. So, what's your name, miss?"
"Ma-" I almost used my birth name. No, no. I was a girl in this world, just like I was meant to be. "Matilda. Matilda Flynn. It's nice to meet you, Colonel Royez. You're a really nice guy, helping me like this."
"Hey, the NCR might not have annexed your vault, but as far as I'm concerned, you're an NCR citizen same as any Vault City or Arroyo native. You mentioned needing sugar, though? I found it kind of odd that you didn't ask for water, but luckily one of my men is a huge Nuka-Cola addict, so we had plenty on hand," he said, gesturing to the drained bottle on the crate near my cot.
I bit my lower lip, nodding. "Yeah. I've got a condition that makes my blood sugar pretty low most of the time. I need a lot of sugary foods and drinks to keep it up and I was running low from my trip here."
He nodded. He probably didn't understand the medical stuff about it, but he at least understood that I needed sugar, and a lot of it, to function. "Well, if you'd like, I can escort you back into the NCR and get you set up as an official citizen."
Huh. Now there was an idea. I could go into the generally civilized and classy NCR and use my meta-knowledge to make it big. But... no, B.R.O.B. wanted amusement, and I'd need to give it to them to avoid drawing their ire. "Actually, I don't have much left in the NCR. I was thinking of starting up new in the Mojave Wasteland, maybe head to New Vegas. I'd heard stories about it from my vault's procurement specialists. I'd love to see it some day."
Colonel Royez seemed to mull that over a bit, reaching a hand up to scratch at the loose skin on his chin. "Huh, well I guess that's acceptable. But the least the Long 15 garrison can do is give you some supplies for the road. Would that be okay?"
Wow, really? Talk about a stroke of luck! Was my Luck really only six? Or was B.R.O.B. throwing me a bone so I didn't die right out of the gate? I nodded enthusiastically, clasping my hands together as if in prayer. "You'd do that for me, Colonel, sir? That'd be amazing... Thank you so much!"
Royez seemed a bit taken aback by my heartfelt and genuine gratitude, sitting up straighter and scratching at the barren flesh of his cheek. "Uh, don't worry about it. It's the least we can do for an NCR citizen down on her luck."
After a high-sugar meal of Sugar Bombs and radiation-cleansing brahmin milk, I threw on a bedsheet and was led over to the supply tent to pick out some clothes. I settled on a faded knee-length red dress and dirty white apron that I recognized as a field hand outfit and the requisitions officer even helped me find a pair of boots that fit, though I kept my rainbow toe socks. A leather backpack and a waterskin for my waist completed the outfit. I realized I'd probably need a hat in this desert sunlight, so I settled on a light brown uncured leather cowboy hat with a slight peak, a thick, flat brim, and a thin black band at the base, which I recognized as a rawhide cowboy hat. Sadly, women's underwear just wasn't something an NCR garrison's requisitions officer carried, nor did he have anything I could really use to bind myself.
Figuring that the Long 15 was technically part of the Lonesome Road DLC, I asked the requisitions officer if he had a breathing mask handy. Sure enough, they had quite a few. I couldn't wear it constantly, since I did need to eat, but I could at least use it to conserve puffs on my inhaler.
"We'll need to arm you, too," Colonel Royez pointed out. "We can't offer much ammo or a very powerful gun, but we can at least give you a sidearm for self-defense."
Wow, that was more than I expected! Call me a softy, but I didn't wanna take advantage of the Colonel's kindness, so I just picked out a 9mm and about twenty bullets for it. The Colonel loaded my pack up with what water, sugary snacks, and stimpaks the garrison could spare, then I was ready to go. I also stuffed my Snuggie into my new backpack and, again likely because this area was native to the Lonesome Road DLC, the garrison was able to set me up with a bedroll that I could attach to my pack.
"Take care out there, Matilda. Don't get taken advantage of by raiders again," Colonel Royez told me, giving me a pat on the top of my head.
I grinned up at him through my breathing mask, leaning in and giving his power armor-clad body a hug. The ghoul seemed a bit taken aback by my show of affection, awkwardly patting my back as I held the hug for several moments. When I finally let go, I turned and headed off to the Mojave Outpost, which was already in sight further down the wrecked road.
"Thanks, Colonel Royez! I hope we meet again someday!" I called over my shoulder, giggling.
The NCR colonel waved back at me, a few of his soldiers gathering around to wave goodbye as well. Hey, nine Charisma. Give me some time and I could probably endear myself to most people with a heart. Hee hee!
-o-
When I arrived at the Mojave Outpost an NCR trooper directed me to the main office. I looked around as I walked, marveling at the sight of the caravan guards, merchants, troopers, and brahmin. It was one thing to see them in the game, quite another to see them in person! Something that the graphics of Fallout: New Vegas couldn't really convey was the smell. I could smell the brahmin dung from the pens. Something else that the technical limitations of the Gamebryo engine couldn't handle without mods was that everyone had vastly different body types and heights. True to Fallout 2 lore, I spotted a few dwarves, though likely due to the hard work and scarcity of food, I didn't notice many people I would call overweight. I stepped into the main building to find Major Knight, one of the highest-ranked NCR military officers in the Mojave, holding the third-highest rank you could have, situated behind a counter.
"Caravan, citizen, pilgrim, or...?" He droned, not looking up from his papers. Wow, just like he did in the game!
"Just a traveler," I replied, smiling at him from under my breathing mask. I figured it would suffice. I wasn't technically an NCR citizen and I don't think I qualified as a pilgrim.
"Just need something for the log book," Major Knight explained. "Keeping tabs on traffic in and out of the outpost, though mostly in these days."
I nodded. "Yeah, bureaucracy and all that. Anything I can do to help?"
"What, you mean like... work? Well, talk to Ranger Jackson. He's in charge around here. He should be in the back," the Major explained, a bit surprised that someone was actually offering their services like this.
"Thanks, Major." I gave a goofy salute to him, which caused the man to give a small chuckle.
Making my way into the back of the building, I recognized Ranger Jackson from his sunglasses, hat, and sweet mustache. He was walking down the hallway from one back office to another, looking over some reports as he sipped a mug of black coffee.
"Hi there! You must be Ranger Jackson!" I chirped.
Jumping a little at my sudden introduction, Jackson looked me up and down. He was quite a bit taller than me, something that the engine limitations of Fallout: New Vegas didn't really convey. Considering I was a statistically average five foot six, that probably implied that people in positions of power tended to be tall in the Fallout world, just like in the real world.
"That'd be me. Can I help you, miss...?" He traied off, clearly expecting my name.
"Matilda! Matilda Flynn! And I was hoping we could help each other," I explained, clasping my arms behind my back and rocking back and forth on the balls of my feet.
The seasoned ranger quirked an eyebrow at me. "I'm flattered miss, but I'm afraid my husband might not take lightly to me sharing our bed with a woman."
I jumped. Wow, I knew Major Knight was gay, but Ranger Jackson, too? Maybe they… Dammit, fujoshi thoughts later! I waved my hands frantically in front of myself. "No, no, no! I meant I could be of some use around the outpost!"
Jackson smirked at how flustered he'd gotten me. "How do you figure that? Before you begin, I feel you should know that we're not allowed to contract mercenaries here at the outpost."
I giggled. "That's where you're in luck! I'm not a mercenary, I'm just an ordinary traveler, and you're not contracting me! See, I'm going to be at the outpost for a while. Kinda waiting on someone to arrive. I could do some odd jobs around here just to pay for my keep. Cooking, cleaning, shoveling brahmin crap, running messages. So long as it doesn't involve fighting or leaving the outpost, I'm happy to do it in exchange for a place to sleep, food, and maybe some spare caps if you can manage it."
The man shifted stance from one leg to the other, tapping his boot-clad foot. He seemed to be mulling the decision over as he took a sip from his black coffee. "I dunno... I mean, I don't know you from Adam. How do I know you're reliable for something like this? A job like this at the outpost isn't exactly precedented. Most of the people expected to stay here for a while are more content to eat, drink, sleep, piss, and stink up the place."
I clasped my hands together, looking up at him with big, puppy dog eyes. "Please? Just give me a chance. I promise what I don't know to do I can learn and I'm real easy to get along with! I won't make any trouble, honest!"
The ranger seemed to be struggling internally for a bit, if his twitching mouth was anything to go by. After a while, he sighed, visibly relaxing. Did I just pull it off? "Fine. I do need some serious results around here and a gopher could certainly be handy. I can't pay you officially, but I can at least set you up with free room and board, and I can't stop any of the troopers from tipping you if they feel like it." Yes! Score!
I saluted the ranger, grinning up at him through my breathing mask. "You can count on me, ranger! I won't let you down!"
Ranger Jackson chuckled, reaching up to adjust the brim of his brown ranger hat with what spare fingers he had on the hand holding the reports. "Look at you, all fired up. I could use more enthusiasm around here."
"Oh, I've got enthusiasm in spades! Count on me to bring some energy to this place!" I chirped.
"Great, great. Just be careful you don't give all of us diabetes. First thing's first... Head out to the brahmin pens and get shoveling," he instructed, grinning mischievously.
I grimaced, grateful he couldn't see it under my breathing mask. Great, so he was testing me right off the bat. Well, if there was ever a time to get over my mysophobia, that'd be about now. A bit uneasily, I saluted the ranger. "You got it, sir!"
I headed back out and over to the brahmin pens, no doubt leaving a very amused ranger behind. When I got there, I noticed a caravan guard taking potshots at some tin cans. Hmmm... Idea.
I walked up to him and tapped him on the shoulder. He jumped a little. Damn, even in the Fallout world, I tended to sneak up on people without meaning to. "What's up?" He asked, raising his goggles up to his forehead.
"Hey, I can't help but notice your target practice over here. Think you can give me some tips on how to shoot? I'm from a pretty safe place in the NCR, so I never really learned how to use a gun," I explained.
He seemed a bit amused by that notion. "Well, I don't suppose I have anything better to do while waiting for my boss's papers to go through. Gimme an hour or so to get shit set up, then I can give you some lessons. Should keep me entertained for the next few days."
Score! With luck, I could ask another caravan guard to teach me when this one left, and by the time the Courier got here, I'd at least be able to hit a target! Granted, actually being able to kill was another thing, but at least I could handle the local wildlife and might be of use in a shoot out. For now, though... time to scoop some dookie!
-o-
Well, that was pure hell. One hour of shoveling brahmin crap does not count as sufficient enough exposure therapy for one's mysophobia, though thankfully my breathing mask reduced the smell to an occasional unpleasant whiff. Luckily I wasn't the only one out there shoveling and I managed to get a bit of info on current events from the locals.
It seemed that the Courier had indeed woken up at Goodsprings if Mr. New Vegas's reports were anything to go by, but he'd yet to do anything of note, so he was likely still getting lessons from Sunny Smiles or something. That left me anywhere from a week to a month to get my bearings and gain some useful skills before the Courier showed up here. Nipton was notably still operating as a whorehouse town, but honestly I didn't feel I'd be able to save it with my intervention. Even if I could hire one of the caravan guards to escort me to Nipton, I doubted that scumbag of a mayor would listen to me when I told him that "Mr. Fox" was planning to betray him and burn him on a pile of tires, even if I told him I was a psyker and it was a precognitive vision. Only way I could get him to listen to me was if I gave him a metric ton of money, and sadly I just wasn't a bottle cap collector back home.
I failed my shooting lesson spectacularly, but hey, Rome wasn't built in a day. Enough time and I might be able to hit a Deathclaw. If it were dead. And about ten feet away. With some time to- I was a really awful shot, alright? As I made my way to the barracks for some Sunset Sarsaparilla, I was surprised to see a familiar face at the bar. The hat, flower pendant, and shotgun on her back were unmistakable. Rose of Sharon Cassidy! Was Cass really waiting at the Mojave Outpost for this long before the Courier showed up? If I played my cards right, I might just be able to lay some foundation for recruiting her early, without having to go through the stupid Crimson Caravan quests.
Grinning to myself under my breathing mask, I hopped onto the stool next to Cass and waved down Lacey the bartender for a root beer. When she placed the bottle in front of me, I whipped off my breathing mask, downing the soft drink. Ah, sweet sugar. Cass noticed me grinning at her, her eyes looking at my lack of an alcoholic beverage with clear judgment.
"Looking for trouble, kid?" She drawled.
I pouted, brushing some of my bangs out of my face. Great, looked like it was already starting. "I'm not a kid! I'm twenty-seven!" I whined petulantly, likely not helping my case.
"Ain't like it matters out here, but work on the delivery if you're headed towards Vegas. What's on your mind, kid?" Cass replied, smirking at me.
I pouted, but moved on. She'd buy it eventually. "You look like someone down on your luck. Got a story to share?"
The water merchant sighed, waving Lacey down for another whiskey. "Boy, do I ever."
Well, I likely had anywhere from a week to a month before the Courier showed up. I wonder if that was enough time to convince Cass to hit the road with us and gain enough skill to actually be able to shoot straight?
-o-
About three weeks passed since my arrival at the Mojave Outpost and this world. Something that isn't really apparent when playing Fallout: New Vegas is just how little there is to do for entertainment in this world. Caravan, something I never bothered with in all my playthroughs of the game, now became something I took up purely to pass the time between grunt work around the outpost. I was pretty bad at it at first, but I gradually began to develop my own strategy at the game and a custom deck at that.
I was also worked pretty damn hard, to the point that even with my insomnia I was sleeping pretty good out of pure exhaustion. Well, better than I usually did. Luckily during my idle moments I had plenty of thoughts to entertain myself. I was always good at that, letting my mind wander to keep myself entertained.
In the past three weeks I'd saved up about a hundred bottle caps since the soldiers found my bubbly personality endearing enough to occasionally toss me a tip or two. I also learned to shoot pretty well. Well, marginally well. I mean, no one would dare call me a sharpshooter in good faith, but at least I wasn't hitting things three yards off from my target anymore.
I'd also spent those three weeks working Cass's shaft a bit. Between barfly chats and sharing of personal stories, we'd gotten pretty chummy. She said my optimism was sickening and found my refusal to drink booze was no fun, but she also seemed to see me as something of an annoying kid sister, so... yeah. Relationship goals. Still no progress in getting her to warm up to the idea of coming with me when I left, though. She was pretty adamant about hanging onto her Cassidy Caravans title deed and contracts, which were also what were keeping her from leaving the Mojave Outpost. It was either I convince her to just drop the caravan work altogether or find some other way to get her out of here. I was not waiting until the Courier got to the Crimson Caravan and ran halfway around the Mojave for him to recruit Cass.
It was just as I was heading into the main office building to report my crap-shoveling for the day complete that I spotted him. You know that guy on the cover of the game in the NCR veteran ranger combat armor? Well, it was too early in the events of the war for the veteran rangers to come in and this armor looked notably different to the NCR ranger combat armor.
It looked newer and was greener in color. The helmet had built-in low light optics, a combination IR/white light lamp and gas mask, and a small spike protruding from the tip of it. The brown duster had two pouches on each sleeve and two green arm bands. Unlike the standard ranger combat armor, this set had brown military pants and brown boots. It took me a few moments of recollection, since I'm not really visually oriented, but I eventually recognized it as a set of "riot gear" and matching helmet from the Lonesome Road DLC. Considering in the Courier's backstory he'd been through the Divide before its destruction many times, he might've picked it up during a trip through it. The ensemble was accented with a canteen at his hip and a satchel around his waist.
On his back was a semi-automatic battle rifle with the words "WELL THIS MACHINE KILLS COMMIES" carved into the left side of it, causing me to instantly recognize it as the unique battle rifle This Machine. On his right hip was a pistol that took me a bit to recognize, but luckily my playthroughs of Fallout 1 and 2 caused me to realize it was That Gun, the unique .223 pistol. On his left hip was a bowie knife, though I couldn't tell if it was Blood-Nap or not because unlike most unique weapons, Blood-Nap looked no different from an ordinary bowie knife. I had to assume that, like the riot gear, he had gotten the bowie knife during a pre-detonation trip through the Divide. Besides that, a bandoleer was strapped across his chest packed with grenades, leading me to think he occasionally peppered his shootouts with tactical uses of grenades on grouped enemies. Perhaps his Tag Skills were Small Guns, Melee Weapons, and Explosives?
The battered eyebot with the Illinois license plate and Roosevelt Academy bumper sticker proved it. This was the Courier. It took him three weeks, but he'd finally arrived. I had to assume he was here to seek aid for Primm. A quick listen in on his conversation with Major Knight proved that he was looking for a pardon for Meyers, the convict from the NCR Correctional Facility who would make a great sheriff for an independent Primm. Well, that worked out nicely for me. Though it seemed Knight wasn't hearing any of it, even when offered some caps to "buy" a pardon. Charisma and Speech, don't fail me now!
"Couldn't help but overhear your conversation, gentleman," I said, sliding up to the counter. The Courier seemed a bit taken aback by my sudden appearance.
"Oh, hey, Matilda. Not that I don't enjoy your company, but I don't think this really concerns you," Major Knight said, dismissing me with a wave of his hand.
"I dunno. From what I've heard, this Meyers guy has no affiliation with the Powder Gangers. He was just an ordinary inmate. His crime wasn't all that bad and his sentence was almost up. Think about it. Primm is of great strategic importance to the NCR. Having a guy in a position of authority there who owes you a favor could be really useful," I said, crossing my hands behind my back and swaying my girlish hips back and forth.
Knight brought his hand to his chin, nodding in thought. "Huh... I can actually see the wisdom in that. Okay, Meyers can have his pardon. But we expect some real law up in Primm."
Yes! Score one for me and my nine Charisma! I pumped my fist and did a little dance, drawing a bewildered look from Knight and a confused head tilt from the Courier. I froze when I caught their staring, quickly righting myself into a straight posture and clearing my throat in an exaggerated fashion.
"Hi there," I said to the Courier, offering my hand to shake. "I'm Matilda Flynn. Kinda the chore girl around here."
A bit stiffly, the Courier gave me his hand as well and we shook. "Vickers. I'm a courier." The eyebot behind him beeped, shaking in the air a bit as if annoyed. "And this is ED-E," he said, gesturing back at the eyebot with his thumb. "How'd you know about Meyers?"
"Yeah, that's a good question," Major Knight cut in.
Speech checks, don't fail me now! "Oh! I'm a Psyker. Precognition-dominant with a clairvoyancy minor," I explained, clasping my hands behind my back and leaning forward, grinning up at the two from behind my breathing mask.
"Bullshit," they both said at once. Speech check fail!
"Every psyker I've met had debilitating mental issues that crippled them as a trade-off for having their powers," Knight explained, receiving a nod of agreement from Vickers.
I chewed my cheek, reaching up to push up my glasses with my thumb and forefinger. "I have Aspergers and pretty heavy ADHD."
"Ass... burgers." Vickers stated more than asked.
"I admit, the ADHD certainly explains your enthusiasm, but I've never heard of ass burgers," Knight pointed out.
Great. Made sense that no one had heard of that in this world. Education wasn't exactly commonplace. I sighed, crossing my arms over my breasts. "It's a developmental disorder characterized by significant difficulties in social interaction and nonverbal communication, not to mention restricted and repetitive patterns of behavior and interests."
They both gave me blank stares. Ugh, probably too big of words for them.
"I-It also gives me a pretty big vocabulary," I said, blushing a little and rubbing the back of my head.
That caused them to both nod in understanding. "Layman's terms, then," Knight requested.
"I tend to be pretty obsessive over my hobbies, I have trouble reading body language and facial expressions, and you guys might've noticed how I tend to look away in the middle of eye contact a lot," I said, sighing in exasperation.
Vickers the Courier sighed. "Look, that's all well and good, but can you prove you're a psyker? Tell me something that I would know that you'd have no way of knowing about me."
"Same here," Knight said.
I bit my lip. Okay, here goes. "Vickers, you just woke up in Goodsprings about three weeks ago after getting shot in the head by a guy in a white and black checkered suit. You were dug up from the shallow grave him and his Great Khans dumped you in by a cowboy Securitron named Victor, helped out by Goodsprings' unofficial sheriff Sunny Smiles, and helped organize a militia out of the citizens to fend off some Powder Gangers led by a man named Joe Cobb. You then made your way to Primm, where you helped rescue the deputy, a coward named Beagle, and now you're working on getting Meyers pardoned and instated as Primm's sheriff. You picked up that eyebot in the Mojave Express main office, which you repaired and now is sticking to you like glue. After you're done getting Primm law, you plan to head to Novac through Nipton because Beagle told you your assailant headed there and you're on a quest to get answers and revenge."
The Courier crossed his arms, tapping his foot. "Okay, most of that stuff, anyone could know if they'd been paying attention to the radio, had a network of information brokers, or had been following me."
"Nope. I can assure you, sir, that girl has been here for the last three weeks, and she'd spent the rest of her life in the NCR before arriving. She hasn't set foot out of the outpost at all. And what about me, Matilda? Anything you can tell me with your psychic powers?" Knight asked, smirking.
"You're a confirmed bachelor, but you keep it under wraps since you're afraid you'll get teased for it," I replied, smiling sweetly up at the major through my breathing mask.
His spine went ramrod straight and he waved his hand at me like swatting a fly. "Not so loud!" He said in a hushed tone.
"Aw, don't worry, Major. I swing both ways, myself," I assured him.
"As do I," Courier Vickers said. I got the sense he was smirking from under his helmet. Huh. That was a bit surprising, but then again, you could totally play a bisexual Courier if you took both related seduction perks.
"Okay, I'll give you the benefit of the doubt, Miss Flynn," Vickers said, crossing his arms and staring me down through his helmet. He was pretty tall, about six feet of muscle. "Was there a reason you were telling me this?"
"Yup!" I chirped. "How about I go with you on your-"
"No," he stated flatly.
"Aw, c'mon!" I whined. "Why not?"
"Look, I don't see what use a kid-"
"I'm twenty-seven!" I cried, stamping my foot.
"-with psychic powers has on my quest for answers and revenge, as you put it."
I pouted, crossing my arms over my breasts. "Well, obviously I can tell you where you need to go next, advise you on the right course of action, and help you get through stuff when you're lost."
"And why would I want that? Kinda takes the fun out of life when I know what's coming," he said. Damn, I didn't think about that.
"Well, I'll only help when you need it! I promise, my powers can be really useful!" I pleaded, clasping my hands together as if begging.
"You don't look like you can bring much to the table. Skinny arms, young-looking, kinda immature, a bit emotional. You have pretty hair and big tits, though... Okay, I admit, you're nice to look at, but I need more than just eye candy. I just don't think you'll be much use with that peashooter and those glasses."
"Hey, I can shoot just fine!" I lied. He was giving me a flat look through his helmet's visor. I could just tell. "Okay, I'm a fair shot. But I can help in other ways! You don't have to pay me or anything! I can cook, I can carry your stuff-"
"Deal."
I jumped. Wow, really? Was it the cooking, the carrying his stuff, or- His stomach growled as he reached into his waist satchel and tossed some supplies in my direction. Ah. It was both. Ah well, at least I was on board. Turning, he began walking back out.
"Wait! Where are we going?" I asked, running after him and stuffing what spare supplies he had into my backpack.
"Didn't you say you were psychic? We're headed back to Primm so I can tell Meyers he's been pardoned," Vickers explained.
"Oh, right. I mean, I knew that!" I said. I could tell the Courier was unimpressed and unconvinced.
-o-
As we headed north back to Primm I walked along beside the Courier, grinning up at him.
"So, Vickers, was it? Is that your first name or your last name?" I asked.
"Yes," he flatly replied.
I pouted. "How old are you?"
"Old enough to know better, kid."
"I'm twenty-seven! Ugh. So, you mentioned you swung both ways? Got any ex lovers I should know about?"
"A lover in every port and a cap in every ass if you keep bothering me."
I sighed. Wow, looked like the Courier wasn't all that talkative. I slowed my pace to walk beside ED-E a bit, casting a side glance at the eyebot. "So, been with Vickers long?"
ED-E beeped happily at me. Was that a yes?
"He says he hasn't been with me long but he likes me and he already likes you," Vickers piped up from the front, sounding quite unamused.
I paused, blinking. "You can understand her? I mean... him?" I'd always considered ED-E female and even Lonesome Road couldn't shake that headcanon from my... well, head.
"Yes," he deadpanned.
Another pause. "Okay, then. So, we gonna make camp before we reach Primm? Or can we make it there before-"
He stopped walking, thrusting his arm out in front of me to halt my steps. People were approaching from further down the road and judging from their blue jackets and black pants, they were Powder Gangers. As they neared, they drew their guns, but surprisingly they didn't shoot.
"Hand over everything ya got and we'll let you live," the one in front ordered. I guess that was more realistic than them shooting on sight like in the games. More self-preservation that way.
I swallowed hard. Uh oh... He was shouting. Confrontation... I felt myself breaking out into a cold sweat, but I still had enough sense to draw my gun and shakily aim at the group of escaped convicts.
Vickers just chuckled, surprisingly confident despite the danger we were in. "Oh? Hand over everything I got? Okay." He plucked a grenade from his bandolier, pulling the pin and rolling it at the Powder Gangers' feet. "You can have that to start with."
The escaped convicts ducked for cover and Vickers drew That Gun and started firing. ED-E joined in with her-I mean, his lasers, providing reliable cover fire. A few well-placed shots from both and two of the Powder Gangers were already dead before they could get up oh my god they were dead.
I aimed my 9mm at one of the convicts but my hands were shaking so hard that the gun wasn't even near steady. I pulled the trigger, the bullet imbedding itself in a nearby boulder. As the remaining Gangers began shouting, the flashbacks started. Panicking, I ran behind the boulder I hit and ducked and covered pathetically.
When the shooting stopped, I was still having aftershocks, trembling and coming down from the adrenaline and flashbacks. Oh god, why did I think Fallout: New Vegas was a good idea for an SI?
Calm footsteps went around the rock. I glanced up to see Vickers' boots. He took a seat on the ground next to me, back resting against the boulder. Reaching over, he patted me on the back, causing me to flinch. I didn't even stop the sobs when they started racking my form.
"There there, kid. It's all over but the crying."
- Location
- Mass
I don't see why more people haven't commented.
Awesome premise
Not a Mary Sue
Realistic reaction
Only downside is that it's a ROB fic which done right is cool but it's average here
Oh another thing is that the courier seems like a badass so far which I'm glad for. Hit their character on the mark perfectly.
Awesome premise
Not a Mary Sue
Realistic reaction
Only downside is that it's a ROB fic which done right is cool but it's average here
Oh another thing is that the courier seems like a badass so far which I'm glad for. Hit their character on the mark perfectly.
- Location
- New York
Thanks! I'm so happy you like the fanfic and don't think I'm a Mary Sue! <3
We're largely going with the general fan theory that, given his history with the Divide and the hints from in-game dialogue that he's been all over the NCR and surrounding states, the Courier is quite seasoned, hard-boiled, and has been around the block more than most people. He's new to the Mojave area, but not at all new to travel or survival in the wasteland. Spoken and I feel that this characterization also helps balance out the fresh-faced, idealistic, and emotional SI (me). Of course, Spoken and I can't resist giving him a few quirks, so... look forward to those. XD
Also, the BROB is actually the same BROB from This Bites!, the One Piece SI, as is hinted by the chat client communication and mention of CV12Hornet. Spoken and I are both members of the Cross-Brain that writes This Bites!, being the Aural and Tactile of their Neurofeedback.
