With the last piece of New Vegas DLC out and deciding to do a definitive run of FO: NV before I uninstall it for the time being, I created a character for purposes of role-playing, and one thing led to another, and I had enough to fill a few pages. If the response is positive, then I might consider putting down a few more stories into Word. But then again, this one in hindsight does get a bit cliched/troperiffic [spoiler:2b8a6d2931]and a bit Sixth Sense-ey[/spoiler:2b8a6d2931].
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There’s a stretch on the Long 15 from Cima to Yermo where the caravans from the Hub would have a breather from raiders and mutants on their way to Primm. Even the Deathclaws left that piece of road in peace for reasons that escaped the OSI and even the Followers. For the caravans and couriers that frequented that stretch, the reasons didn’t much matter. It was common knowledge that for anyone walking the wastes alone, life gets too exciting too many times.
Jordan Roe was one her way back to the Hub from a delivery to Primm, a Winchester 10-gauge lever-action slung over one shoulder, a leather jacket pulled over on the other. A Schofield revolver, with signs that it had been serviced exceptionally well over the years, was holstered on her right thigh. At 21, Jordan had a tall, athletic build at 5’11 and wore a loose tank-top and rodeo jeans, her features sharp yet still beautiful. When she spoke, a sharp listener could make out a slight whistle, as she had lost one of her right canines in a run-in with a gecko.
Jordan neared the end of this stretch as dawn peaked over the horizon. She passed the exit to Baker when she saw a seated figure in the distance. She pulled out a monocular binocular and peered through it, seeing a man aiming a .308 rifle at her, but his finger outside of the trigger guard. Jordan put away the binocular and then raised her shotgun above her head with both arms. The man in the distance obliged and put down the rifle.
The man smiled as Jordan walked up to him and laid down the shotgun in full-view.
“Damn near took you for a raider.” The man said.
Jordan smiled back, but then noted that the man’s left leg had been amputated just above the knee.
“Doin’ alright there?” She pointed at the bandaged stump.
“Considerin’, yeah.” The man chuckled. “I’m out of the caravanning business for good.”
“Really? Who're you with?” Jordan inquired as she sat down.
“Gun Runners.” He said. “You?”
“Mojave Express.”
“Courier, huh?”
Jordan nodded, “Yeah.”
The man pulled out two bottles of water from his pack, opened one, then offered the other to Jordan. Jordan waved it off, but the man pushed it again and Jordan relented.
“Your buddies left you here by your lonesome?” Jordan asked.
“I’d slow ‘em down, ‘sides, I don’t mind.” The man looked wistfully into the distance. “Real peaceful out here.”
Jordan stared into the vast expanse of desert as well and saw the man’s point.
“Why you’re a courier, I guess.” The man said.
Jordan, half paying attention, simply let out an awed “Yeah.” She turned back to him, “Not in a hurry to get back to the Hub. I’ll help ya.”
“No need to trouble yourself on my account.” The man said, “Buddies’ll come for me, eventually.”
“I’ll remind ‘em.” Jordan said as she got up. The man simply gave a slight nod as he gazed out into the wasteland.
“Run into them, just tell ‘em not to feel bad.” He said.
“Sure.” Jordan said, as she picked up her shotgun, and continued on her way back to the Hub.
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Jordan reached the Hub after a day’s hike and checked into the Mojave Express outpost there Her next job would take her out to Banning, but she would have some R&R until then. Maybe it had been for the best; over the past couple of weeks word was that trouble had been brewing across the Colorado about a huge band of slavers. On her way to the Maltese Falcon, she passed by a Caravan bearing all the signs of the Gun Runners prepping the Brahmin for another trip.
“Hey.” She called out to them, “You guys just came from Primm?”
“Yeah,” The lead caravaneer said. “On the Long 15 a little under a week ago, what of it?”
“Ran into one of your guys.” Jordan replied. “Leg got cut off, left him with a .308 rifle?”
“Johnston, yeah.” The caravaneer said, “Poor bastard. Don’t you worry that pretty head of yours, that’s a problem that fixes itself.”
Jordan was taken aback. “Excuse me?”
“Lady, I’m talking Condors. We’ll pick up his gear and bury the bones on our way back… Y-“
Jordan had punched the guard square in the jaw, the other guards drew their weapons, pausing when they saw that Jordan had cleared the leather faster and aimed her Schofield at the caravaneer.
“Woah, woah!” The caravaneer said, “What. Is. Your. problem, lady?!
“So that’s it?” Jordan snarled, “Leave him out there to die and wait ‘till he’s Deathclaw shit, huh?”
“Hey, it’s not what it looks like.” One of the guards said. “Told us to go on ‘head without him. When we got here, asked a ranger who owed us a favor to pick him up. Found that gangrene got to him first.”
Jordan’s eyes widened. “How long ago did you hear back from the ranger?”
The guard gave Jordan a puzzled look, but Jordan could see that it held no sign of uncertainty or deceit. “Four days ago…”
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There’s a stretch on the Long 15 from Cima to Yermo where the caravans from the Hub would have a breather from raiders and mutants on their way to Primm. Even the Deathclaws left that piece of road in peace for reasons that escaped the OSI and even the Followers. For the caravans and couriers that frequented that stretch, the reasons didn’t much matter. It was common knowledge that for anyone walking the wastes alone, life gets too exciting too many times.
Jordan Roe was one her way back to the Hub from a delivery to Primm, a Winchester 10-gauge lever-action slung over one shoulder, a leather jacket pulled over on the other. A Schofield revolver, with signs that it had been serviced exceptionally well over the years, was holstered on her right thigh. At 21, Jordan had a tall, athletic build at 5’11 and wore a loose tank-top and rodeo jeans, her features sharp yet still beautiful. When she spoke, a sharp listener could make out a slight whistle, as she had lost one of her right canines in a run-in with a gecko.
Jordan neared the end of this stretch as dawn peaked over the horizon. She passed the exit to Baker when she saw a seated figure in the distance. She pulled out a monocular binocular and peered through it, seeing a man aiming a .308 rifle at her, but his finger outside of the trigger guard. Jordan put away the binocular and then raised her shotgun above her head with both arms. The man in the distance obliged and put down the rifle.
The man smiled as Jordan walked up to him and laid down the shotgun in full-view.
“Damn near took you for a raider.” The man said.
Jordan smiled back, but then noted that the man’s left leg had been amputated just above the knee.
“Doin’ alright there?” She pointed at the bandaged stump.
“Considerin’, yeah.” The man chuckled. “I’m out of the caravanning business for good.”
“Really? Who're you with?” Jordan inquired as she sat down.
“Gun Runners.” He said. “You?”
“Mojave Express.”
“Courier, huh?”
Jordan nodded, “Yeah.”
The man pulled out two bottles of water from his pack, opened one, then offered the other to Jordan. Jordan waved it off, but the man pushed it again and Jordan relented.
“Your buddies left you here by your lonesome?” Jordan asked.
“I’d slow ‘em down, ‘sides, I don’t mind.” The man looked wistfully into the distance. “Real peaceful out here.”
Jordan stared into the vast expanse of desert as well and saw the man’s point.
“Why you’re a courier, I guess.” The man said.
Jordan, half paying attention, simply let out an awed “Yeah.” She turned back to him, “Not in a hurry to get back to the Hub. I’ll help ya.”
“No need to trouble yourself on my account.” The man said, “Buddies’ll come for me, eventually.”
“I’ll remind ‘em.” Jordan said as she got up. The man simply gave a slight nod as he gazed out into the wasteland.
“Run into them, just tell ‘em not to feel bad.” He said.
“Sure.” Jordan said, as she picked up her shotgun, and continued on her way back to the Hub.
----------------
Jordan reached the Hub after a day’s hike and checked into the Mojave Express outpost there Her next job would take her out to Banning, but she would have some R&R until then. Maybe it had been for the best; over the past couple of weeks word was that trouble had been brewing across the Colorado about a huge band of slavers. On her way to the Maltese Falcon, she passed by a Caravan bearing all the signs of the Gun Runners prepping the Brahmin for another trip.
“Hey.” She called out to them, “You guys just came from Primm?”
“Yeah,” The lead caravaneer said. “On the Long 15 a little under a week ago, what of it?”
“Ran into one of your guys.” Jordan replied. “Leg got cut off, left him with a .308 rifle?”
“Johnston, yeah.” The caravaneer said, “Poor bastard. Don’t you worry that pretty head of yours, that’s a problem that fixes itself.”
Jordan was taken aback. “Excuse me?”
“Lady, I’m talking Condors. We’ll pick up his gear and bury the bones on our way back… Y-“
Jordan had punched the guard square in the jaw, the other guards drew their weapons, pausing when they saw that Jordan had cleared the leather faster and aimed her Schofield at the caravaneer.
“Woah, woah!” The caravaneer said, “What. Is. Your. problem, lady?!
“So that’s it?” Jordan snarled, “Leave him out there to die and wait ‘till he’s Deathclaw shit, huh?”
“Hey, it’s not what it looks like.” One of the guards said. “Told us to go on ‘head without him. When we got here, asked a ranger who owed us a favor to pick him up. Found that gangrene got to him first.”
Jordan’s eyes widened. “How long ago did you hear back from the ranger?”
The guard gave Jordan a puzzled look, but Jordan could see that it held no sign of uncertainty or deceit. “Four days ago…”