New Vegas: Sheason's Story

Welcome back, ladies and gentlemen. This is Mr. New Vegas. Thank you very much for listening. Have I got news for you. First up, the Helios One solar power plant remains dormant, despite NCR's effort to reactivate the facility. The chief scientist at the plant vowed to fix the problem, blaming it on an atmosphere of quote 'severe under-appreciation.' Also in the headlines, a number of scavengers close to Sloan have reported seeing hulking individuals moving about Hidden Valley after dusk, but have been unable to confirm their sightings due to low visibility. Promotional consideration for this part of the program has been paid for by the Ultra-Luxe: live life in the lap of luxury. You know, sometimes the journey beats the destination, especially when you meet some nice gals along the way. It's Jingle, Jangle, Jingle by Kay Kyser and his orchestra, up next.

The 188 trading post wasn't anything special. It was just a number of trailers, shacks built out of scrap metal, and tents gathered around the intersection of Highway 93 and Highway 95. I'm sure whoever came up with the name thought they were being immensely clever. There probably wasn't much here, but if Cass was to be believed, they at least had a place to get drinks and food.

ED-E stayed floating by the car after I parked it near the overpass. Cass, unsurprisingly, headed straight for the bar (really, it was only a wood shelf filled with booze under an awning, and a charcoal grill nearby). Boone said he was going to look for some ammo and possibly medical supplies "just in case." Personally, I was fine with a little bit of solitude. I needed to take a walk anyway. I grabbed That Gun out of the glove box, and started walking… not really in any particular direction.

For some reason, watching the Great Khans get slaughtered like that was hitting me harder than I honestly thought it should have. I shouldn't have cared about what happened to them. The Khans were one of the three raider groups that came from Vault 15, along with the Vipers and the Jackals. And that was just it: they were raiders. The stories I'd heard working as a courier in NCR territory painted pictures of them living like Mongol warriors from the old world, pillaging towns, burning what they couldn't take, and capturing people as slaves. Even worse, the Khans were thought to be responsible for drugs like Jet and Psycho becoming so common in NCR territory and the wasteland beyond.

That's when it hit me. Sure, the Khans, as a whole, were assholes and raiders and drug runners. Sure, Jessup and McMurphy had helped Benny kill me and leave me for dead. Sure, they probably deserved it. But they were still willing to let the hostages go and work with the NCR peacefully, even if they were only doing it to save their own skin. I'll kill raiders if they're a threat, sure, but if they're giving up willingly…

You don't kill a man when he's on his knees, helpless and begging for his life. That was one of the rules I'd lived by for years. If you wanted to simply survive in the wasteland, then you didn't need rules. Sure, you'd survive, but without rules the horrors and the brutality of the wasteland would eventually beat you down… force you to whittle away pieces of yourself… until one day you'd wake up and you wouldn't recognize who you had become.

I needed to shoot something. That's what I told myself. I'd had this conversation with myself so many times in the past that it was just making me feel ill. Really, I just needed to do something – anything – to get my mind off this train of thought.

And sometimes, the wasteland gives you exactly what you want.

Ahead of me, I saw about four or five geckos: lizards mutated by radiation that stood up on their hind legs. These were some of the smaller ones, and couldn't have been more than two feet tall. They'd make good target practice, and I needed to give That Gun a test anyways. Hell, I might be able to bring the carcasses back and get a good meal. Gecko steak was pretty tasty, if you knew how to cook it properly.

I pulled out That Gun and popped out the cylinder. I had loaded four rounds before I put it in the glove box, keeping the chamber that lined up to the barrel empty. I reached into one of the ammo pouches on my belt, and loaded a fifth 5.56mm round. With a mechanical whine, the cylinder's motors kicked in, and it clicked back into place. Aiming it with both hands, I leveled the massive revolver and pointed it at the head of the nearest gecko, squeezing the trigger.

That Gun going off sounded like God slamming a car door. The kickback was immense; I was expecting some significant recoil, but it felt like it might damn near knock me off my feet. Of course, now that I knew exactly what to expect, I doubted that would ever happen again. I took a look at the gecko I'd shot – a considerable chunk of its head was missing. The other geckos had noticed me, and started rushing towards me on their stubby little legs, their mouths open and ready to bite. I leveled That Gun again, and fired.

Four more shots and a pair of ringing eardrums later, I was heading back to the 188 with several gecko carcasses in hand. As silly as this probably sounds, getting some target practice with That Gun really did make me feel… a bit better. The knowledge that I'd actually get a decent meal tonight probably helped considerably, as well.

The walk back to the trading post was longer than I'd remembered. Just how out of it was I when I was fuming? I shook it off, reaching the overpass. I was about to head up to the "bar," when something strange caught my eye. I saw a flag hung on one of the walls holding the overpass up. It was an old world flag with thirteen horizontal stripes (7 red, and 6 white), and a blue box in the upper left corner that contained thirteen white stars in a circle, with a single large star in the center.

The flag of the United States.

Beneath the old world flag was a large clutter of junk and debris. For half a second, it almost looked like a shrine, full of bits of the old world, shrouded beneath the flag of a dead country. Sitting on the curb was a young boy, turning a multicolored box over in his hands. Each side of the box had 9 squares, all different colors. I almost didn't see him: there was so much junk scattered around, and he was so small. At first glance he seemed like he was part of the pseudo-shrine. The child was deeply engrossed in what he was doing… turning the multicolored box over and over in his hands, shifting the multicolored squares from side to side. I walked towards him, and he suddenly started speaking to me without looking up from his work.

"Bull and Bear over the Dam, at each other's throats… but a light from Vegas? Ball spinning on the wheel. More than two at the table. All placing bets. All lose in different ways. A dam of corpses. Towns of corpses, scattered across the sand. But whose and in what shares? Even the dealer doesn't know. Forecast: A rain of blood will flood the desert, and not purify it."

His voice had an odd quality to it. It wasn't otherworldly and echoing, like Jason Bright's voice – he was still obviously a human child – but there was something… unnerving about the timber in the words he spoke. And even more unnerving was the content.

"Hey, kid? Are you alright?" I asked, getting a bit closer. He merely continued turning the box over in his hands, and spoke again.

"Local, local, the here and now… little of interest… things to buy, false hopes, and regrets watered down, washed down in dirty glasses. With regret comes a girl… smiling sad, brown robe, named Veronica. Half here, half there. Wraps her and her heart up like a pack, in the pack, a key, some say. Forecast: Cloudy, with a chance of friendship."

"What the…" I said, more to myself than the kid. He turned the box in his hands one final time, and with a click he cradled it in his hands. He looked up, and stared directly into my eyes.

My blood ran ice cold and the hairs on the back of my neck stood up, like a frigid wind from somewhere up north had whipped past. I didn't understand it, but for some reason, I couldn't pull my gaze away from his, no matter how hard I tried to look away. The longer he stared, the more I became aware of an odd tingling sensation in the back of my head that I couldn't explain. Looking into his eyes was deeply unpleasant… it felt like he wasn't looking at me, so much as through me. Impossibly old, unblinking eyes staring further and deeper than anyone I'd ever met, and yet no matter how uncomfortable he made me, I couldn't look away.

"Your face does the thinking – two to the skull, yet one gets up. Odds are against you… but they're just numbers after the two-to-one. You're playing the hand you've been dealt, but you don't let it rest. You shuffle and stack, and gamble… a gamble that may pay off? But how? Forecast: Rapidly changing conditions." When he finished, he tossed the multicolored box at me. I caught it, and was finally able to break his gaze. When I caught the box, I became acutely aware of a cold sweat that had formed on the back of my neck… and I let go of a breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding. I looked down at the box in my hand… each face was now a single solid color: white, blue, red, yellow, green, and orange.

I had, quite literally, no idea what just happened.

"Sorry, mister," the kid said. He took a strange looking device – a red-painted metal crown – from behind one of the debris piles, and placed it on top of his head, fastening it in place with a strap under his chin. "I need to put my medicine back on. No more thinking for today."

I didn't mention the child when I caught up with Cass. She was already halfway through a bottle of whiskey, and was in the middle of a game of Caravan with the bartender, a man who went by the name of Samuel Kerr. Caravan was one of those weird card games that everyone seemed to play nowadays… honestly, I could never get the hang of it. Call me a bluff old traditionalist, but I preferred poker.

I handed the geckos and a handful of caps to Kerr, who said the steaks would be ready in about twenty minutes. Then I slipped away to my car as fast as I could. I still had the multicolored box in my hand, and for some reason I felt like I should keep it. When I got to my Corvega a few minutes later, ED-E was hovering above the car, but there was a figure nearby that I didn't recognize. The person was wearing a hooded brown robe, leaning against my car. It looked like whoever was wearing the robe was… talking with ED-E?

"Hey there!" I called out as I approached. "Mind telling me what you're doing to my car?" The figure turned to me, revealing the smiling face of a young woman. Her robe looked like it was made out of burlap, or some other kind of brown cloth; her hood covered her entire head, except for her face. Her right hand was further wrapped in the sleeve of her robe, obscuring it entirely.

"Oh! Hi! I wasn't doing anything to the car, honest. I was just taking a look at your robot. I just wanted to get a closer look," ED-E beeped happily, zooming around her as she spoke.

"I see," I said, tossing the multicolored box through the open window and onto the driver's seat. I was about to put That Gun in the car as well, when the woman bent towards me, looking at my face with an odd expression.

"Uh… something wrong?" I asked.

"No offense," she said, holding up her left hand. "But you look like you've traveled a long way down some bad roads. Where'd you come from?" I thought about it, and decided to have a little fun with her by telling her a half-truth.

"Me? I came from the grave."

"Oh," she said, seemingly taking it at face value. "Well, in that case, I take it back." I raised an eyebrow, confused.

"Take what back?"

"You look pretty good, given the circumstances," she said with a smirk. I let out a chuckle and she continued, waving at me again and smiling. "My name is Veronica. I live in a hole in the ground."

"I'm Sheason," I said, and then I paused, thinking back to the child: … a girl… smiling sad, brown robe, named Veronica… I shook it off. It was probably just a coincidence. "You live in a hole in the ground?" She shrugged.

"Well, a bunker, if you want to get technical about it. Personally, I think it sounds a lot more interesting my way. But I'm not there much anymore. I'm usually out here picking up food and whatever supplies my family might need."

"Wait, you just leave your family in the bunker?"

"Yeah, but I'm not worried," she said, nodding. "They can handle themselves. But somebody has to go out and get the groceries, know what I mean?"

"I suppose," I said. Except for that short time in Shady Sands, I'd never really stuck around any one place for too long. These days, it seemed like I mostly just lived out of my car.

"Actually," she continued. "These days… I think they'd rather have me out here anyway. But that's a whole other story."

"Hmm…" I leaned against my Corvega. ED-E buzzed through the air around the two of us. "So, tell me: if you're out here picking up the groceries, why are you so interested in ED-E?"

"Who?"

"ED-E. That's the name of my robot," I said, pointing to the floating metal ball. ED-E swiveled in the air in front of her, showing off the license plate bolted to his side.

"Oh! Well… I just like robots. Technical things in general, really. I guess you could say I'm kind of a gear head. Plus, I've never seen a robot quite like ED-E before. I mean – it has a General Atomics anti-gravitation field repulsor, but much, much more advanced than you'd see on a Mr. Handy or a Mr. Gutsy, the antennae and sensor array is the most advanced I've ever seen on a robot of its size, and unless I miss my guess, this looks like a highly condensed and stripped down version of an AER-12 laser rifle's wave-particle diverter and focusing crystal, but much more heavily reinforced, and modified to work with a microfusion breeder…" She was talking a mile a minute, pointing out things on ED-E as she spoke. ED-E kept beeping happily, and floating just within reach of Veronica; I could tell, he was just soaking up all the attention.

"Wow," I said eventually. "That is… an impressive knowledge of robotics. How do you know all that?" She shrugged again.

"Like I said, I'm a gear head. Did you build him?"

"Nope," I shook my head. "I found him in Primm, and repaired him. He was pretty banged up when I found him – that license plate was used to cover a fracture in his chassis. But he's been running great since then. Can even keep up with my baby here," I patted the side of my Corvega.

"Nice!" She smiled, and looked thoughtful for a minute. "Hey, can I ask you something – on the level?"

"Shoot."

"I had a run-in recently with this group calling themselves the Brotherhood of Steel. Pretty strange bunch. Do you know anything about them?"

"A bit, yeah," I said. "Never met any of them myself, but I've heard about them. Soldiers in powered armor, carrying laser weapons and roaming the wastes looking for old world tech… or something like that. As far as I know, they're harmless unless you have some kind of tech they want."

"Yeah, well… I shouldn't have a problem," she said, smiling again. "I can't really afford anything like that." I pondered that for a second.

"So where'd you learn about robots then?" I asked. Anyone with that kind of intimate knowledge of robotics had to have had some kind of hands-on experience working with them, but if she couldn't afford anything like that…

"Books," she said, a bit too fast. Before I could question, she spoke up again. "Hey, so where are you headed anyway?"

"The Strip," I said simply.

"Ooo, very exciting! Gonna strike it rich, huh?"

"No. I'm not going there to gamble. You know how I said I was from the grave?"

"Yeah?"

"Well, I'm going there to find the man who put me there. A man who goes by the name Benny, he shot me and left me for dead." I pointed to the scars on my face. She peered at my scars closely.

"Hmm… nine millimeter?" She asked.

"How can you –" I started.

"I may not look it, but I've survived the wasteland just like you have. I've seen enough bullet wounds to know what a 9 mil does to a person. And that should've killed you," she said, pointing at the scar on my forehead.

"Well if you want to get technical about it," I said, repeating her words, "I was pretty much dead for a week."

"And you got back up…" she said with a smile. "I'll be honest, you're the first person I've run across out here that looks like he can really handle himself. There are places I've never been to out in the Mojave that I'd love to see. Plus, you have an amazing robot." ED-E beeped happily again… or was it proudly? Either way, he was continuing to love the attention. "Maybe we could travel together, help each other out?"

I just sort of stared at her, not really knowing what to say. Wait, no, I knew exactly what to say.

"Sorry kid," She cut me off before I could finish that thought.

"I'm 27," she said firmly.

"Yeah, like I was saying," I continued. "No offense? But you don't look like much. And the man I'm going after is dangerous – one of the Chairmen. Do you even know how to fight?" She just smiled.

"Heh… that's good. Not looking like much is exactly the look I was going for. But trust me on this one, though. You'll be glad you brought me along."

"Really," I deadpanned, giving her my best 'unimpressed' face. She put a finger to her mouth, looking thoughtful for a moment, and then started looking around.

"Ah!" She said, apparently having noticed something. She walked to the side of the road, reached down and picked up a rather large rock. She lifted it with one hand easily.

"Here," she said, placing the rock in my hands and backing up about 10 feet away from me. It was deceptively heavy – I was already surprised that she could've held it one handed that easily. She didn't look that strong. "I'll give you a demonstration of what I can do. I want you to throw that rock at my face as hard as you can."

"Wait, what?" I don't know what I was expecting her to say, but it certainly wasn't that. "Are you crazy?"

"Nope!" She said, that cheery smile ever present on her face. With a wink, she said "Trust me."

"Okay…" I said with a shrug. I grabbed the rock with both hands, braced myself, and heaved the rock directly towards her.

She waited for the last possible moment to move, but when she did it was almost too fast for me to see. The rock couldn't have been more than a foot away from her face when the metallic blur of her right hand cut through the air towards the rock. There was a crash, like a car smashing into a concrete block, and the distinct sound of pressurized gas escaping from a series of pneumatic pistons. The rock splintered and fragmented, sending shards of stone and dust everywhere but Veronica's face. When the dust settled, I saw what she had on her right hand, no longer concealed by her robe: a bulky, dark metal glove with a metal plate boasting a diamond tread pattern just above the knuckles and attached to a series of pistons on the top of the gauntlet. The whole setup looked like a severely over engineered set of knuckle dusters. This girl, who looked like she could have been about 90 pounds, had a Pneumatic Power Fist on her arm.

"Aw, c'mon! I told you to throw it as hard as you could!" she mock-whined. The pistons on her power fist let off another burst of pressurized gas. I just sort of stared at the power fist in shock. I seriously didn't see that coming.

"I thought you said you couldn't afford tech like that," I said, pointing at the power fist.

"Well yeah, it was really expensive. Why do you think I can't afford stuff like this anymore?" She smirked, and started wrapping her right sleeve around her power fist again. I didn't buy it, but before I could question further, she continued. "So, what do you say? I can hold my own in a fight. Can I tag along?"

"What about your family? I thought you said you had to get the groceries for them." She just waved it off.

"Like I said, they can handle themselves. And besides, I'm not the only one getting supplies." She paused, and then added "It's a big family. They'll be able to handle themselves without me for a while."

"Alright," I said. For some reason, something else the child had said to me flashed through my memory: Forecast: Cloudy, with a chance of friendship. "You can travel with me. Now that I know you have a power fist, I think you'll be able to handle the danger. Welcome to our motley little band of misfits," I said smirking.

"Well, thanks for taking a chance on a naïve young girl from California with stars in her eyes and a pneumatic gauntlet on her hand. There's just… one more question I wanted to ask though…" She suddenly looked a bit sheepish, and her cheeks flushed slightly.

"Go ahead."

"That leggy redhead you're travelling with – she single?"

I introduced Veronica to Cass and Boone (who had apparently found enough ammunition and medical provisions to supply a small platoon of soldiers), and we all talked about nothing, finishing off the gecko steaks. After dinner, the four of us made our way back to the Corvega. Cass, unsurprisingly, called shotgun; Veronica sat in the seat behind her, and Boone sat in the seat behind me.

"So, we're heading to Vegas, right?" Veronica asked after we'd been on the road for a few minutes.

"Not yet," I said, checking the map on my Pip Boy. "There's somewhere I promised to go first." The map was pointing us to the coordinates I'd gotten from Cass of the last known position of her destroyed caravan. I'd promised her we'd check it out, and I keep my promises.

On the way there, Cass and Veronica busied themselves with idle chatter. Boone was silently watching the landscape pass by. ED-E was bobbing about, keeping pace with the car as we drove along Highway 95 past Henderson. And I was being amused by the fact that Cass probably didn't realize Veronica was hitting on her, and not simply making friendly conversation. Or maybe she did realize, and just didn't care.

By the time my Pip Boy beeped at me, letting me know we were almost there, the sun had just set below the horizon and the sky was several shades of twilight. I pulled the car to a stop, and checked the map: we were on a stretch of broken tarmac that had, according to the map, been called "East Sunset Road" before the bombs fell. All around were neighborhoods, and residential houses that were decayed and falling apart after 200 years of neglect. Just ahead of us and less than a quarter of a mile distant, was the wall surrounding "Camp McCarran," the NCR's main base of operations in the Mojave. Apparently, before the bombs, it had been a civilian airport, but after moving in and taking it for themselves the NCR had fortified it extensively. Beyond the NCR base was the truly massive wall surrounding the city of New Vegas. Casinos the size of skyscrapers towered above the top of the wall, filling the skyline completely. They were lit up with so many neon lights that it was almost like the sun hadn't even set.

"Well," I said, turning to Cass. "We're here."

She stayed silent for a minute. Then, taking a last mighty swig from a bottle of whiskey (downing the rest of it in one gulp) she said "Alright," and tossed the bottle out the passenger window. It hit the ground several yards away with a smash. Cass and I started walking along the road; Boone and Veronica stayed with the car.

It didn't take us long to find what we were looking for. The stench of dead brahmin gave it away. Dumped unceremoniously at the side of the road was a bloated brahmin carcass, the mutant two-headed cow even more disgusting in death than it was in life. Dozens of baby bloatflies buzzed in the air above it. There was a wagon nearby, shattered into pieces. All that was left were piles of refuse… and piles of ash.

"You alright?" I asked.

"I'll be fine," she said, quickly. Cass just stood there, staring at the wreckage of her caravan for a few minutes. Her jaw was clenched. Her fists were clenched. She was doing her best to hide her real emotions, presenting a façade of anger and quiet rage… but the look she had in her eyes betrayed the sorrow right beneath the surface. Without saying a word, I could see in her expression that she felt responsible, like the death of her caravan was solely her fault. That she couldn't blame anyone but herself.

"God…" Cass said, breaking the silence. "There's almost nothin' left. Looks like whoever t'was… was just in th' mood fer killin'…" She looked up and away from the wrecked caravan, out towards Vegas.

"So close to th' Vegas wall, too. Don't that beat all. Must've happened durin' th' day, though."

"During the day?" I asked. "How can you tell."

"Doesn't look like they made camp."

"Why would they attack during the day?"

"No idea," Cass said, shaking her head. "Maybe catch th' sun in their eyes? Maybe they wanted th' caravan to come to them, walk into an ambush?"

I knelt down to get a better look at what was left of the caravan, holding my shirt against my nose and mouth in a vain attempt to block out the stench of rotten brahmin. I examined one of the ash piles closely, realizing that I'd seen ash like this before, and recently. Cass spoke what I was thinking.

"Most o' th' cargo's ash, too… not burned, looks like… disintegrated."

"Energy weapons." I said. It wasn't a question. Cass continued.

"When I heard th' reports, I assumed 'ash' meant 'burned,' not…" she trailed off. I scanned the area, and something shiny caught my eye. I reached over and picked it up. It was a small energy cell, not quite as potent in charge as a microfusion cell, but still used to power energy weapons – usually pistols. Judging by the weight, it had been depleted of its charge. Looking around, I realized that the ground was littered with at least 6 more of these cells. I got up, and turned to Cass.

"Definitely energy weapons," I said, handing her the depleted energy cell.

"Well, that rules out Legion… but not much else," she admitted. Caesar's Legion was many things – brutal, oppressive, ruthlessly efficient and completely merciless. But they were horribly backwards intentionally for some reason. They refused to use 'modern' technology like energy weapons or medical chems like stimpacks or Med-X. As far as anyone knew, the most advanced technology they used was hunting rifles.

"So, if it wasn't Legion, who do you think is responsible?"

"I dunno," she admitted with a waver in her voice, that she quickly covered with a cough. "But… now I'm thinkin' 'bout it… what happened here? S'not th' first time I've heard about an' attack like this."

"It isn't?"

"Nah. A friend of mine, Harvey Griffin, had a caravan. Got hit a few months back. Caravan'd been burned just like this, along with all th' cargo."

"You know where it was hit?"

"Mostly?" She said, sheepishly. "I think it's north-west of Vegas, out near Westside. It's a hell of a ways, though. Hell of a detour."

"Do you think it can wait?" I asked. She shrugged.

"It's been months already, so I doubt there'd be much left. But it's out in th' middle of nowhere. I doubt anyone's gone near it. Why? You want to check it out?"

"Yes. Yes I do," I told her. I turned and took a long look at the brightly lit Vegas skyline ahead of us. "But not right now. Right now, it's time to head to Vegas, and deal with the son of a bitch who put me in the ground."

I'm coming for you, Benny.