#wildwastestuff

His eyes open again. Words. Definitely words. He sits up, sleep already fleeing from his body as he stretches his arms out in front of him and reaches instinctively for his rifle. “How many seas must a white dove sail, before she sleeps in the sand?” Not words. Singing. Strange thing to hear in the middle of the Mojave, during the deadest hours of the night. He pauses and looks towards the Courier's bedroll. Empty. Despite the traces of grogginess, he's able to put two and two together. He sets the rifle down and gets quietly to his feet. “And how many times must the cannonballs fly before they're forever banned? The answer, my friend, is blowin' in the wind The answer is blowin' in the wind” The song isn't unfamiliar. The guards down at the Old Mormon Fort sing it from time to time, he's come to associate it with them. Even caught Arcade humming it one day while he made Stimpaks. He glances around the area. About a hundred feet south of their campsite is a ruined building with nothing left but some of the wooden beams and a single crumbling wall. Boone starts towards it. “Yes, and how many years can a mountain exist, before it is washed to the sea?” The singing is clearer, louder, as he approaches. It's a surprisingly deep tenor, doesn't really seem right for the song. But it's pleasant. The tone is steady, and the words seem to have more weight. He draws in closer, finally able to make out the top of the Courier's shadow in the dim moonlight, creeping out just slightly from behind the wall. Even as a shadow, his tangled mass of hair makes him easy to spot. “And how many years can some people exist before they're allowed to be free?” Boone approaches silently. Until he's standing on the other side of the wall, wondering what has driven him to spy on the Courier in such a way. It's uncharacteristic of him to be so nosy, and he knows that's exactly why the Courier tends to travel with him more than the others. He's the only person who never does this kind of thing. Yet here he stands. As bad as the rest of them. There's a soft sniffle, and a long sigh. Is the Courier.. crying? He shifts uncomfortably, ready to head back and pretend like this didn't happen. "And how many times can a man turn his head and pretend that he just doesn't see?” The words cause something in his stomach to drop. He creeps just slightly closer, and quietly presses his back to the wall, almost able to feel the Courier on the other side. “The answer, my friend, is blowin' in the wind, The answer is blowin' in the wind...” Boone hears the Courier take a loud gulp of air, followed by a shaky breath. Boone allows himself to slide down the wall, until he's seated. Without really thinking about it, he reaches a hand into his pocket and withdraws his harmonica. Hardly uses it anymore. Not even sure why he still carries it. Only reason he learned was to pass the time while he was with the NCR, only kept doing it because Carla liked to listen. He holds it to his lips, feeling a small tug inside his chest as he does. “Yes, and how many times must a man look up...” He blows into it. Trying to match the tune. It's slow enough. Simple enough. There's a pause. “...Before he can see the sky? Yes, and how many ears must one man have Before he can hear people cry?” The music is shaky at first, but manages to steady out, lining up perfectly with the song. Boone closes his eyes and listens to the Courier's voice gain strength. “Yes, and how many deaths will it take till he knows that too many people have died? The answer, my friend, is blowin' in the wind The answer is blowin' in the wind...”

Veronica ducked out from under the redhead's arm. “Uh, that's alright. I think I'll pass.” Six sat up and beckoned at her. “Come on Ronnie, live a little. Hell, even Boone's managed to chill out for once in his goddamned life.” With her free hand, she patted the sniper on the head, knocking his beret slightly askew. He didn't even bother looking annoyed, he simply took another puff from the cigarette before Six snatched it away again. “Stop hoggin' it!” Cass dragged the scribe over to the table and sat down in the nearest available chair. “My turn!” She said, reaching over the table towards Six. “This one's almost toast anyway, why don't you just roll us another?” “How 'bout you do it?” “I would, but I'm trying to smoke this one.” She coughed out another large cloud of smoke, then looked towards the sink. “Arcade, it's all up to you.” “Why me?” “Because Boone's clearly too high, and Cass's joints are always crap. Seriously, they usually look like deathclaw cocks.” Boone huffed a quiet laugh at that, to which Veronica could only gape in amazement. Cass snorted. “What does a deathclaw cock even look like?” Six shrugged. “I kinda thought the same way their horns do, hey Arcade...” “I am not a practitioner of deathclaw medicine, and I'm honestly offended you would think to ask.” “What? No. I was gonna tell you to hurry it up with that joint.” Veronica reached towards the plate nearest her and retrieved the last piece of gecko steak, nibbling at it quietly as she took the seat beside Cass. She looked over at Arcade and noticed that he was crumbling up plant matter with his fingers, and placing it into a careful pile on the counter, slowly building it up into a small green mountain. She turned back towards Six, who was trying to give her a dirty look, but the redness of her eyes lessened the effect. “What?” “That last piece of gecko was mine.” Cass pointed towards the Courier accusingly. “But you probably had all the other pieces too, didn't you?” “She did.” Said Boone, cracking an honest-to-god smile. “Liar! It was you!” Six punched him lightly in the shoulder, “I almost can't smoke with you when we go hunting or you'll eat all the rations while you're on watch.” He only shrugged. “Better that way. Can carry more kills home with us.” “Still not as bad as you though, Cass...” “Woah now, don't make this about me. You know food's the only way I can sober--” “JIMMY! ARE YOU AND YOUR LITTLE FRIENDS PLAYING IN THE KITCHEN?” Cass froze mid-sentence. Six's eyes went wide with horror. Arcade looked slowly over his shoulder at her, eyebrows raised. Even Raul's snoring seemed to suddenly stop. Veronica looked from person to person, stunned by their rapid change in demeanor. Only the sniper remained completely the same, still slumped in his chair, seemingly oblivious to the others' concern. The kitchen door burst open, shattering the small pause. ED-E's battle music blared. Raul toppled out of his chair. Six rapidly scurried to snuff out the remainder of her joint and Arcade swept his arm across the counter, sending the little mountain of crumbled herbs to the floor. Veronica whipped around just in time to see Lily come crashing into the kitchen, and the door cracking the wall behind it from the force with which it was opened. “JIMMY! WHAT WOULD YOUR MOTHER SAY?” Six practically leapt out of her seat. “It was all Veronica's fault!”

Arcade and Veronica had teamed up in a rare moment of genius to override the security measures that disallowed anyone but Six from accessing that floor from the elevator. However, they had concluded that since they did all the technical work, that it was only fair for Boone to do the dirty work. A horrible idea if he'd ever heard one. Boone wasn't in the business of spying on people, and unlike Arcade and Veronica, he also held very little interest in the Courier's private affairs. He also held very little interest in the 'valid reasons' that the two had for their invasive curiosities. Boone, if nothing else, was a soldier. Soldiers follow orders, and even when those orders are insane, it isn't a soldier's job to go questioning the reasons for their CO's insanity. This much he had said to Arcade as the man poorly tried to persuade him. The doctor's response had been cutting. “Isn't unquestioningly following orders where things went wrong for you in the first place?” The sniper had nearly punched the glasses off that idiot's head. It did the trick though, in the end. The doctor was always right, of course, and now here he is, standing in the elevator as it climbs agonizingly slow towards the forbidden zone of the Lucky 38. Killing Mr. House weighed heavily on her, that much he knew. In her eyes, he could see that she felt like a traitor. Felt like she had squashed humanity's salvation and taken the burden onto herself. Seemed stupid to him, but he never said so. Maybe he should have. As the doors to the lift slide open, he moves as quietly as he can and peers down the stairs where he sees first a large control panel with a huge monitor that reads Connection Lost... He then spies the courier sitting on the floor, surrounded by liquor bottles, jet canisters... And something wrapped in bandages. It's shaped like a body, but too impossibly thin to be so. It sits less than a foot in front of her. Something in his stomach drops, he should leave, he really should leave. However, as he starts to back away, he swears he can the Courier talking. Words that are too faint to hear, but as the doors to the elevator slide shut behind him, the murmur of her voice stays inside his head. When the elevator reaches the Presidential Suite, he has no words to to explain to the others what he saw. All he has is a sickening feeling in the pit of his stomach, as the Courier's soft mumbling voice echos through his mind. It won't stop. He knows better. The sickness he feels pushes upwards, and he finds himself suppressing a laugh. Madness isn't contagious, but somehow, he knows he has caught the Courier's madness.