#cheatdeaths

Something had irrevocably changed after their visit to Caesar's tent. The work became different, more direct and more final, the visage of war on the horizon closer and more real now with a face behind it.

And Boone had been quieter. It wasn't a tortured, brooding silence as much as it was something more sullen and pensive; he'd stared into the face of the devil, and had gotten away with it unscathed.

But Six-- things had changed with Six. The quiet moments of tension between them were fewer, shorter, whether Boone was trying to avoid them or simply staring them down the barrel with more bravery was hard to tell. The work was all frantic; it was hard to tell when they did crop up. Maybe he'd avoided his feelings unscathed, and better for it. Maybe those feelings were just lying in wait for a quiet moment.

But for the time being it wasn't on his mind-- there was something more pressing, taking up that space.

It was the looming canyon spread before them just past the lip of the highway, layers of ancient red rock and signage of NCR make: BITTER SPRINGS CAMP. Six had taken him along for a reason; his experience with the place and his former military was impossible to pass up on a mission like this. But she knew what was lying beneath, the storm behind his glasses as Craig Boone looked over to Coyote Tail Ridge. Silence.

❝ It was like I was holding the world when I held you. ❞

Her words are so sweet, and earnest... so why does @cheatdeaths look like she might cry? What sorrows had she locked away in her chest that love, of all things, caused her to tear up.

"You say this like I won't be here when you get back." Halsin smooths some strands of blonde hair away and behind her ear, finger tracing around the shell of it and back down to her jaw. His pointer and thumb gently grips her jaw, more so to draw her attention to him.

The ex-archdruid bows his head, hesitating a moment with just brushing his nose against Dorothy's before he releases her and draws her in for a kiss.

"I will be yours to hold still when you return, this I swear."

"i ain't bein' fickle."

a sudden snap of temper before kaj reins it in. she closes her eyes to gather herself. talking about the future with six feels a little like talking to a brick wall--a really earnest, sweet brick wall with beautiful eyes. saying kaj is tolerating robert house is a stretch, and god, does she feel stretched thin with it. so many opportunities to backstab, to take it all and damn the consequences, all slipped through her fingers for the sake of those eyes. they promise a better future if kaj can just trust them, an easy task for anyone but kaj.

she's been through so much. they've both been through so much. kaj wants nothing more than to just nod her head and agree, like so many others that six has convinced to act against their own interests. but it's hard. maybe impossible. maybe she's just too fucking broken to adhere to anyone's ideas except her own, but damn it, she's trying. kaj cares about six. she likes her. but kaj also wants everything done her way, because she's a control freak.

kaj leans back in her chair, nearly tipping it over, perfectly balanced on the back legs. they're alone in the empty casino floor of the 38, so kaj feels both vulnerable and comfortable. not an unusual feeling, alongside the other woman.

Loki had been out on the balcony bickering with a bird for nearly five minutes-- one of his messengers, if the white streaks of a Magpie wasn't obvious. When the Trickster finally returned inside, he carried himself with the resentful posture of a teenager who didn't want to go to class. He hadn't done his homework, clearly.

Hands settled on his hips and he tilted his head to Six, the posture turning again-- I've got to say something that I haven't told you before. You may not like it. "...Honey buns?"

Kotallo had been sitting at a table at this ruin of a bar for days now.

The owners had offered him a place to sleep, although it wasn't much more than a cot on the floor in the back rooms. They'd offered it out of pity for the still-bandaged and swollen stump on his shoulder, or maybe out of fear from the steely look of cold fury on his face.

His people were duly feared out in the Terminus Systems, considering every time they'd shown face off of their home planet it was with a river of bloodshed coming with it. And he made it no secret that he was Tenakth-- and a Marshall at that. His body was a mural of Tenakth tattoo work and paint, armor of repurposed machine parts, pallid grey skin visible between its seams. At least it earned him the respect of nobody bothering him to pay his mounting bar tab.

Nobody quite bothered him at all, really. It made it all easier to think, as silver eyes fixed on the far wall and he sipped his beer.

But no matter how many drinks he had, or how much he focused inwards, Kotallo had made note of the new face that had entered the bar-- and it seemed like she had clocked him just the same.

Something had changed after his conversation with Hancock. Nick wanted to say it just had something to do with him saying the quiet part out loud, at least in a private conversation with an old friend. But it was more than that; Six had been notably quiet. Maybe she was feeling embarrassed about her behavior during her illness, but any assuring and affectionate gestures Nick tried to replicate it with seemed to make her shy away.

No poetry, no metaphors. You gotta be crystal clear. But the courage the old synth was working on seemed to deflate with her silence. All that was left instead was the task ahead of them: a trip to a subterranean vault, and the final wish of a long-dead detective. Maybe once that was out of the way, he'd have the heart to tell her the truth.

It felt good to be back on the road again, even if it was carefully weaving through the Boston streets on a cold afternoon to head South. The Prydwen was looming above them like a shadow over the sun, casting a long shadow across their city. It was still enough to make Nick's heart drop. Maybe that's what prompted him to speak.

He hated all this, and somehow he couldn't get away.

The frumentarius smeared the blood from his face upon noticing the other soldiers. Everyone in the camp was covered in their fair share of muck, but they could tell the splatter on his uniform was fresh and still dripping off the plating. Moreover, knowing Gabban’s role in the camps, they were sure someone had been recently punished. Whether this person was a prisoner of war or one of their own men was always a mystery. But did it matter? The men still avoided his gaze and gave him space wherever he went. No one would ever speak to him in earnest. 

When had he become such a loathsome thing? This wasn’t something he chose for himself. This wasn’t the life a younger Gabban had dreamed of. Then again, when had he ever dreamed of anything beyond surviving his horrible teens and living into his twenties? 

Gabban felt miserable, he already knew there was nothing else to hope for. So with that in mind, he pushed his way into the medical tent where he knew the women were receiving their lessons in medicine.