When I Watch the World Burn, All I Think About is You (3)
Part 1 Part 2
CW: usage of wh*re as an insult, degrading talk to women, misgendering, typical canon associated violence, the concept of caesar's legion as a whole (ew)
“Mind explaining why we have to take the long way into the city?” Ghost asks as he continues to blindly follow the Ranger out of Goodsprings, armed with a fresh pack of supplies and a new pistol from Chet as a treat for the ghoul. Elliott looks over upon his summoning, eye briefly making contact before he averts his gaze again and fixes it on the road ahead of them. A crumbling shell of what the highway used to look like, broken and battered beyond usage by a car, though it wasn’t like they were driving the things around anyways. He makes a mental note of the mile marker denoting Goodsprings and they keep walking down the lonesome, broken asphalt.
Alone together.
“Deathclaws. It’s their territory between Goodsprings and New Vegas.” Elliott replies, never taking his eye off the road.
He hasn’t been this far South in a while.
Being so near the border between California, Nevada and Arizona is reminiscent of a time in his life that he’s actively tried to avoid. It would seem it found him regardless of his attempts to dead-sprint away from it.
“Deathclaws? Is that a literal naming, or is that the, uh, binomial nomenclature?”
“Bi-what-the-fuckinal?”
“I’ll take that as a no.”
“No, they’re -- you’ve never seen one?”
“I’m not from around here.” Ghost states and Elliott sort of nods in acknowledgement. Confusion, more like. He doesn’t quite understand where the hell this ghoul came from, then, because most folk in the Mojave have at least heard of the thing from a sign stating ‘NO PASSAGE, DEATHCLAW TERRITORY’ to keep them from becoming human spaghetti. “I’d prefer to never see one, for that matter.”
“Well, we’d all rather not.” Elliott murmurs. “We’ll stop in Nipton for the night. It’s safe, not far from an NCR Outpost guarding the Long 15. S’the old highway heading back to Cal proper.”
“Stop? But we just--” Ghost huffs, but the Ranger cuts him off.
“I don’t know how much sleep a ghoul needs, but I need eight hours or I’m fucking useless. We’ll find an empty trailer, crash there and head out in the morning. Daylight is safer than darkness, I don’t care how much you glow.”
The dirt sweeps around them in the night as they pass under cover of the moon, kicking rocks and tumbleweeds, picking off the critters of the wastes as they come from their hideouts and threatening the pair’s continuing to live. Fire geckos, radscorps, whatever the fuck else decided to mutate and creepy-crawl around the Mojave with the direct intent to kill. The Ranger doesn’t quite know what to make of Ghost, because for a short while he falls silent on their walk across the desert, silently passing Jackal raiders and wrecked cars. The NCR Outpost is a similarly passing face, a memory in a matter of minutes.
Elliott’s been there a million times, he doesn’t need to make a return trip.
The statue of the Desert Ranger and the NCR Ranger shaking hands is a scrap metal daydream as they wander forth.
“So this Benny guy…” Ghost starts to ask, both hands clasped around the strap of his Mojave Express messenger bag, toying with the various wasteland trinkets hung from the metal hardware. A charm from a Nuka Cola plant, a poker chip from a casino that Elliott doesn't recognize, and the bullet that Doc Mitchell had fished out of his forehead the previous morning with forceps. Tied up with scrap wire and wonderglue, a testament to his inability to die, hanging alongside what Elliott could assume to be similar reminders.
Elliott would much rather talk about these things than Benny Gecko, but Ghost hasn't quite figured out that the Ranger isn't keen on the subject yet.
“Aren’t you just content with killing him?”
“No. I want to know how he earned his death-by-Ranger, I mean, short of the fact he robbed me.”
“What’s there gotta be a reason for?”
“Killing for the helluvit seems like something the New California Republic would frown upon, doesn’t it?”
“I’ll kill you for the helluvit if you keep asking about Benny.”
“I’d like to see you try, Mr. Ranger.” The smug temperament plastered on the ghoul’s bandaged, glowing face is nothing short of frustrating to the Ranger. It’s quickly replaced (much to Elliott's approval) by something else, a slight disgust (which is much to Elliott’s chagrin.) “What’s that smell?”
“I don’t smell that bad, for fuck’s sake.” Elliott barks, then the realization settles into his expression as well. Something does smell bad -- putrid, burning, rotten. “Oh.”
He stops dead in his tracks and squints, eye straining to see the black smoke rising above Nipton against the darkness of the night sky. He almost missed it. There’s a moment where he doesn’t believe what he’s seeing so he rubs his eye and tries again, wide open this time as he looks up at the rising plume of abyssal mist.
“I’ll be damned.” The Ranger huffs.
“We aren’t gonna go check that out, right?” Ghost cocks a white eyebrow up and Elliott shrugs his shoulders. “Last I checked, humans are a bit more susceptible to roasting alive than irradiated meat sacks such as myself.”
“I have to. Rangers don’t run.” Elliott shakes his head and checks Lila’s magazine to ensure its fully loaded, then reaches for the shotgun on his back. He holds it by the pump and firmly shakes it to chamber a round, brow raised as he dangles it out towards Ghost enticingly. “I know you have the pistol, but better safe than sorry. This’ll show ‘em.”
“Show who?”
“I don’t know yet.” The Ranger shrugs and begins walking again, eye still attempting to fix on the surroundings of Nipton, attempting to pick out some sort of inkling as to what the hell happened there. As they draw closer to the burning pile of a town, it starts to become clear that, quite literally, hell had ascended upon the place.
It’d been razed by Legion slavers.
Red flags emblazoned by the brazen bull.
“I won the lottery!” A man screams in joy, running full tilt out of the burning town, clutching a piece of paper between his thumb and index finger. He waves it around frantically, jumping in excitement as he approaches Ghost and Elliott with nothing short of pure ecstasy painted on his expression. His eyes are wide as dinnerplates and wild as march hare as he damn near runs Elliott over, grabbing the Ranger’s shoulder and giving him a firm shake. “Smell that air! Couldn’t you just drink it like booze?”
“Are you alright?” Ghost asks, nearly chuckling. Elliott shoots him a glare and he shuts up.
“Are you kidding me? Never felt better!” The man cackles and lets go of Elliott, stumbling into the night unarmed. “Ain't gonna see me up on a cross or my head on no pole, uh uh! That's for lo~sers!”
“What’s got him full of Pork’N’Beans?” The ghoul asks, nervously holding onto the Ranger’s shotgun.
“Legion. They’re liable to shoot on sight. Brace for it.” Elliott replies, nearly storming the gate alone before Ghost grabs him by the bicep and yanks him backwards, huffing a ‘hold on a second’ as the Ranger stumbles back, Ghost still gripping his arm with more force than is reasonable for a half-dead bag of bones. The brunette tries to yank his arm free, but he can’t quite get it, so he stops fighting back. “What’s your deal?”
“Who the fuck is the Legion? What the fuck is the lottery?”
“Bad men, Ghost. Bad, bad men. We’re doing the world a fucking favor by wiping them off the face of it.” Elliott shakes his head and tugs against Ghost’s hold again. “If you don’t mind, can we please deal with these fucking scumbags?”
There’s a silence that’s only occasionally penetrated by the crackling of flames.
“...okay.”
It’s moments before Elliott stomps up to the Nipton entrance, rifle already raised to fire position as he rounds the corner and takes in the scene that has played out before him, very recently. It would seem that the fellow who had escaped this place had only done so a mere minute ago, maybe two. The main street that leads into the town is lined on both sides with wooden crosses, men crucified upon them brutally, their bodies lacerated and bleeding beyond recognition in some cases, some still twitching and crying in pain as Elliott walks between the rows of crucifixes.
The smell of burning flesh and wood invades his senses alongside the pungent stench of death and blood, the sound of bones cracking a grim reminder of the recency of these nightmarish events. A Legion Frumentarii, head draped in the pelt of a coyote, bashes a club into the already-broken legs of who Ranger Bates can only assume to be the second-place winner of the lottery. He reels back and brings the club down, shattering bone with the heft of the swing, but the barking of Legion mongrel dogs cuts him just short of another blow. The Frumentarii looks up and makes eye contact with Bates.
“My, my…a Ranger. Well, isn't this a surprise. I was just finishing up here -- to think that we might have missed each other!” The Frumentarii laughs, dropping the club to clasp his hands together. He stutters, though, when he makes eye contact with Elliott. It makes the Ranger feel sick to his stomach. He watches the slaver pull his sunglasses off and take a few steps forward, halting the Legionary recruits behind him that threaten to start firing upon the Ranger and ghoul. “I think I’ve seen a ghost. Did I not spill your guts upon the Hoover Dam’s hallowed ground?”
Elliott could’ve thrown up, if he’d eaten anything, though the morning’s Sunset Sarsaparilla threatens to make a reappearance.
“You fucking fascist pig!” Elliott snarls, charging forward with the threatening of gunfire. It’s not until his rifle is pressed to the Frumentarii’s forehead without contest that he starts shaking. “You don’t fucking know her -- or me, for that matter.”
“Oh, but I did, generational profligate scum like Rosie Bates is hard to forget, for she gave me one of my finest Praetorian Guards.”
In an instant, the bared teeth and pinned ears are now a sign of fear.
Ghost doesn’t budge from where he’s standing at the edge of the main street, watching his newfound companion stand toe to toe with the perpetrator of these atrocities and tremble. He'd come in guns primed to be blazing -- what happened? What could the ghoul not quite overhear?
“What did he say his bitch sister was named? Elliott, is it?”
“I’ll kill you.” The Ranger whispers.
“You’ll let me and my men walk, won’t you, Elliott?”
“Cut it the fuck out, pig.” Still, he stands.
“That’s Frumentarii Vulpes Inculta to you, Miss Bates. Now, what you’ll do is stand aside and allow us to exit Nipton, won’t you? Nipton was a wicked place, debased and corrupt. It served all comers, so long as they paid. Profligate troops, Powder Gangers, men of the Legion such as myself - the people here didn't care. It was a town of whores. They earned what came their way, as did your whore mother, as you will.”
“They were *innocent* and so was she--”
Vulpes scoffs. “Innocent? Hardly. Cowardly, though. They outnumbered us, yet not once did they try to resist. They stood and watched as their fellows were butchered, crucified, and burned, one by one. They stood and hoped their turn would not come. Each cared only for himself. The Rangers are the same, as are you in that costume, playing the role of a man. Need I remind you what Caesar thinks of your ilk, woman?”
“Enough!” Elliott barks, flicking the safety off of his rifle. “I’ve heard e-fucking-nough.”
Bang!
Vulpes’ brain matter paints the sky red and the rest of the Legionnaires present are quick to follow their leader down.
Elliott Bates leaves no survivors.
Ghost watches him in utter silence, shocked horror as he decimates an entire Legion raiding party alone, as he stands up covered in blood from his fingertips to his forearms, hair stained red in some spots, a tremble in his entire body that’s noticeable from a distance. He bends over and grabs ahold of the Legion mark pinned to Vulpes Inculta’s uniform, holding it up like a trophy as he looks to the ghoul at long last.
“...what was that about?” The blonde asks quietly, just loud enough for Elliott to hear him over the flames gossip about the events that just transpired, stench of fresh blood still rife in the air.
“Pick a trailer to camp in, couldja? I need to get changed."
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taglist; @simonrriley
woo! part 3!
