I'm thirty now. My birthday was a few months ago, and I spent it away from the only person I've ever truly cared about. I had tried going home, to our home, just to check on things. Maybe rest, take in the fleeting hints of her scent in the sheets and hope for a pleasant dream or two.
I couldn't even step on the tattered welcome mat, let alone open the door. My gut heaved as my hand reached out for the knob and threatened to reject what little food I had managed to choke down that morning. My bones ached with a constant cold and dull throb, somewhat like the after effects of an adrenaline dump. Fingers sliding over the worn metal conjured up memories of the two of us, of her, strolling home after a day of wandering or a night at the drive-in. The contentment as she pressed against me, my arm over her shoulder or hand in hers, the giggling and teasing and smirking as we both hurried out of our clothes, perhaps aided by the other. It was all too much, the memories crashing over me in waves, threatening to break me down and leave me crumbled on her step.
So, naturally, I determined the best course of action was to crawl into my little hole outside of town and treat myself to a swift libation. Or several.
I mean, that's ok, isn't it? It's not the Prospector. Emma asked me to stop going there so often as apparently people were talking, and while I personally could care less of what some teetotaler thinks of me; their prudish thoughts of judgement and contempt fired from their eyes as they looked down at us less wholesome people, sight of us skittering in the dark obscured by their upturned noses, I still promised her I would spend less time in the local saloon.
I promised her a lot of things.
Like... oh, I promised I'd keep her safe for example.
As did my decision to drink rapidly and heavily on an rebellious stomach and minimal sleep.
I found this strange. I'm a well seasoned professional, after all. One little bottle shouldn't put me on the floor, something is amiss. I managed to claw my way across the concrete floor towards the bunk beds, when I heard a strange sound. Something was gurgling... was it raining outside? The previous owners of this little bunker had cobbled together some piping to gather rainwater and funnel it down into some cisterns, and if it rained hard enough, you could hear it. This was different though, it felt more... direct. Focused.
I was reasonably certain I was alone, as nobody really knows about this place... well, nobody alive anyway, and I distinctly recall being on my own when I entered and unscrewed my belated gift. I was also in no condition to fight, so I did as the disembodied voice instructed. Don't get me wrong; I can shoot fairly well drunk, but this was different. All I was able to do was haul myself across the cold floor and slump against a steel bed frame.
"I meant on the bed. But that is alright. Should you stand, you may fall again and injure yourself. And nobody knows about this place, correct? Nobody to come and help you?"
That voice was so familiar, and my head rang as I tried to pin it down.
"Right... there was a log on a terminal from the previous owners, some Desert Ranger types... the ones that didn't die slipped in with the NCR once that treaty of theirs went down... who are you? Where are you?"
"Who I am is irrelevant, as are my whereabouts. You, however, are very relevant. And the things you have done since she left. You have been a bad boy Samedi, have you not?"
The hairs on my neck stood stock still as my eyes cracked open. They found me. My old compatriots. They tracked me across the country and waited for me to come tumbling down the hole, get good and drunk and helpless, so they could put one in my ear. My hand groped for the gun on my hip, only to find an empty holster.
"I... yeah," I sighed, rubbing the leather with a finger tip. "Yeah."
There was a soft chuckling to my side, low and smooth and deep.
"Not going to deny your true name? Interesting. Your weapons are downstairs on the table. Waiting. As I am. Take your time. Although... I am curious. The trunk to your left."
I don't remember getting up, or moving for that matter. But there I was, looking at the trunk in question.
"It is not the trunk I am interested in. The contents however..."
The lid popped open and I pressed it back down with an unsteady hand. This was getting silly, since when do things just open on their own? The latch on the trunk was sturdy and well oiled, it shouldn't be able to spring open whenever it pleased.
"No? Do you not want what is inside? We both know what is in there. How nice it feels against your shoulder, how your hand envelopes the grip... almost as if it was made just for you..."
I wanted to slam the lid shut. Close the trunk, lock it, weld it, tip it upside down, sit on top. I also felt a growing urge to hit something. But what? There was nothing to strike that wouldn't leave my hand worse for wear.
More chuckling that echoed inside my head.
"Very well. Downstairs. No rush."
My hand lingered on the chest for a moment before I headed through the armory door. Upstairs was home to weapon storage, munitions and components were down a level.
"Fancy yourself a collector? Strange, you only have two hands, and you know how foolish it is to fill both with a pistol..."
"It'd be a shame to leave the walls bare," I grumbled, firing up a cigarette without a thought. "It gives me something constructive to do. Find something I don't have, repair it as much as I can, maybe toss on a mod or two, stuff it on the wall."
A deep hum reverberated off the walls of the bunker as well as my skull. I could feel it in my bones and my eyes, and I fought down the terrible urge to vomit as I descended the stairs, as the act would surely leave me falling head over ass, showering myself with bile until I lay broken at the bottom. Sure enough, my usual guns were waiting for me, as was the bear.
At least it wasn't wearing my hat or glasses anymore.
"Those are mine, alright. I suppose it's foolish to ask how you got down here..."
"A better question: Is a man the sum of his parts, or is he more than that?"
"I don't fu... I don't know. I was working on a perfectly fine bottle of whisky when you came calling."
My response was met with more humming and a quiet chuckle.
"Yes, I saw. Now, what if the parts change?"
A fancier revolver and a semi automatic rifle, .223 and .308 caliber respectfully.
"Does the man change with them?"
"I don't know! Guns are just tools to me! I use what works or what I feel comfortable with! I might change 'em out if need be, but once I find something that works well, I tend to stick with it!"
"Temper, Samedi. I do not mean to upset you. I'm curious as to why you have the rifle down here, I thought you were not proficient with them?"
"Am I not allowed to try and learn something new? Oh! I should rephrase that to keep the theme going! Is a man not entitled to better himself?! What is this all about, really?"
The walls seemed to press in against me and the pounding in my head intensified. I shut my eyes tight and fought down the bile churning in my gut.
"Flattery will get you nowhere. Mockery will take you places even you cannot return from. Still... interesting that you chose this particular pistol."
"I... yeah, I suppose. I managed to work up a couple of loads for it that give good expansion and penetration, better than the stuff I've seen for sale. The longer than usual barrel adds velocity... why am I even explaining this to you?"
Another hum, softer than before, almost comforting.
"I am well familiar with your firearms, my friend. Why would I not be? Surely you have noticed how observant I am of you. However, a lesser man would make a crude joke following such a statement of penetration. But given your recent... indiscretions with the tribal girl, perhaps you are not feeling a need to compensate for something? Even more interesting is how willing you were to let her penetrate you, and to say nothing of how much you enjoyed it... ah! I guess I am not above crass humor after all..."
I slammed a fist down on the table as I felt my blood begin to boil. This had gone on long enough! Maybe in my haste I had grabbed a bottle of absinthe rather than whisky, and now things were getting weird. It happened, almost without fail, when I drank the stuff.
"It was either that or kill somebody again! Maybe it wouldn't be somebody so deserving of it! Maybe someone I just didn't like the looks of for whatever bullshit reason I came up with! What do you want from me!?"
The room went frigid, and I could feel a terrible pressure over my chest.
"What I want? Why, that is simple my friend. I want you to stop feeling sorry for yourself. You spent so long being your own worst enemy, and how many times did it nearly get you killed? You need to start treating yourself better. Sexual needs and wants matter not to me. Wanton violence does not bother me in the least. I only care that you are satisfied regardless of the path you choose. A clear head results in an able body. Do you not remember Quincy? Your mind in a fog, cleared away as the rope grew tight, your breath hitching in your chest and your vision dimming as those on the other side took hold of you? And when you were freed from the gallows, and your clambering out of the burning barrel, do you not remember how focused you were afterwards? You certainly put on a display... what was it, nineteen? Twenty people killed by your hand that night?"
That was it. I was done. The air in my lungs had long since escaped, and the room had begun to tilt and spin.
"Twen... twenty-three... fourteen men, nine women," I stammered, steadying myself on the table with a rubbery arm. Whatever this was, I wanted clear of it. I wanted to wake up in my bed next to Emma. That's all I ever wanted.
"Impressive for a man that was mere minutes away from his end... amazing what you are capable of when you put your mind to it. I fear our time however is at an end. Before we part, I want you to say it."
"It? What? What do you want me to say?" I was drawn to my hat. I knew that if I had it in my hands, I'd be ok. Things were growing dim and distant as I reached out, fingers brushing the brim before I collapsed on the floor.
"You know. The thing you've been wanting to say ever since it happened. Do not play dumb with me, Samedi."
I curled up by the table, clutching my sides.
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry I let her down. I'm sorry I couldn't help her..."
I could feel a hand brushing my cheek, and the humming had become a quiet sigh.
"That is all I wanted. You may hear from me again, I do not know when. I do hope you are feeling better by then. Please, do take care of yourself, Samedi. If not for yourself, for her. As you know, without her, the alternative is... well. You can figure it out."
"You may think you will not remember this night, but you will."
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