I was speechless. I could feel the blood draining from my face as the realization of what I had agreed to do swept over me like a suffocating wave of emotion. I've never killed anyone before. I don't even know if I can! My hands clutched the beer bottle as if it were a lifeline to sanity and I managed to lift it to my mouth shakily and take a swig. MacCready sat silently watching me, waiting to see what I was going to do next. I took a deep breath, staring at the lip of the bottle, trying to rationalize things.
All right. This is a different place with different rules. If I'm going to survive long enough to get home, I need to roll with it.
Breathe.
To survive, I obviously need to be armed. Guns cost money, caps. Therefore, I need caps. To earn caps, I need to do work. That work apparently involves killing other people.
Breathe.
Hancock, Fahrenheit, and MacCready all act like this kill or be killed attitude is normal. Hell, Hancock killed a man right in front of me and later gave me his jacket! Fahrenheit is a bodyguard, she's had to have killed people. MacCready is a hired sniper. All killers, all able to survive.
Breathe. I glanced up at MacCready, who was still watching me quietly. I studied his face while I thought.
MacCready advised me to look out for number one. Hancock hired him, the best gun in the Commonwealth he said, to help me. I think I'd better follow his example if I'm going to stay alive. Guess I'd better learn to... to kill... on command.
I may have come to a decision, but it didn't sit well in the slightest. I knew I was heading for some serious nightmares, but what other choice did I have? Best to dig deep and revive the fighting spirit that got me through the military, and grow a pair.
"All right." My voice cracked a little, despite trying my best to sound confident. "Let's do this."
"You got it, Boss." MacCready stood up at that, grabbing the backpack and hitching his sniper rifle more firmly in place. "Come on, we'll need to get an early night." He crossed the room with a wave to the singer, climbing the steps to go back outside. I hastened to follow.
At the entrance, instead of turning right to go back to Hancock's office, he headed left. I caught up with him, looking around at a second open area. Immediately in front of our path was the neon sign for The Memory Den that he had mentioned this morning, but that was not our goal. We passed a small group of drifters milling around in the early evening. It became apparent where we were headed when I spied the neon sign announcing the Hotel Rexford. Lots of neon, sheesh. MacCready was humming quietly under his breath, pleased. When he saw my inquiring look, he explained. "Perfect example of brilliant negotiating; I got Hancock to provide us a room here while I'm under contract to you. Learn from me and you'll be rolling in caps."
We entered the run-down hotel, heading for the front desk. A no-nonsense black lady with a neat head of stark white hair sat behind it. She barely looked up, her voice stern, "MacCready. Hancock already arranged everything. Here," and she held out a key on an old hotel-style keychain. "Top floor. Long hallway. Last door on the right. Don't disturb the other guests. Complaints about the room? Two words: 'Care' and 'Don't.' You tell me when you're finished with it, since the mayor didn't know how long that was going to be." Her speech over, she hunched back over the terminal on the desk in front of her. Dismissed, we made our way upstairs.
The room matched the rest of the hotel décor. It was worn down, not quite clean, and had obviously suffered quite a bit of damage in the past, most of which had been haphazardly repaired. There was a long couch near the door, one double bed in the back corner, and a couple of low tables and desks placed about. The filthy windows were covered in old, tattered curtains that had probably not been moved in decades. A small door led to a tiny bathroom, dingy and water-stained. I was appalled. MacCready however had flung the backpack down, sinking into the couch cushions with every appearance of satisfaction. "This is more like it," he announced. "Okay, Boss, time for another lesson before we catch some shut-eye." He dumped the contents of the backpack on the table and motioned me over. "I'm going to act as if you're a complete bonehead, okay?"
"Considering I pretty much know nothing about anything, that's just fine." I said, sitting down at the opposite end of the couch. "Go for it."
A variety of objects, mostly medical chems, were scattered across the tabletop. One at a time, MacCready showed them to me, telling me what they were, explaining their use, and splitting up the items so we each had some. The palm-sized injector was a stimpak, and was probably the most important item I would ever carry. If injured, stab the stimpak near the area and the drug would go to work, swiftly stopping bleeding, closing wounds and speeding healing far beyond normal means. Even broken bones couldn't defeat the compound. It was a literal lifesaver. Next were some painkilling syringes called Med-X, self-explanatory. Then came a set of tablets to help withstand radiation, "creatively" named Rad-X. Lastly, for now, was a small IV bag containing an orange liquid and the words "Rad-Away" scrawled in thick black letters across it. Another amazing scientific breakthrough, Rad-Away was able to remove radiation and its effects from the body. A couple of cans of purified water ("this is the stuff you should be drinking") rounded out the lot.
Looking over the scattered meds, I didn't see the canister that Hancock had given me the night before. "Hey, MacCready? Hancock gave me an inhaler thing, a red one, last night to help me breathe more easily, but I don't see it here. What was it?"
His expression grew stern. "And you took it? Trusting of you, but stupid. You're lucky that Hancock was trying to help you, you know. Some of the chems here can really mess you up."
I met his frosty gaze with my own. "I couldn't breathe! He had already helped me..." I threw up my hands in defeat. "All right, it was stupid; the stuff opened my airway, but knocked me out cold. What was it?"
"It's called 'Jet'." MacCready started to sort through the scattered medications. "Raiders like to use it. It's supposed to calm you down, help steady your hands, that kind of thing. Use too much and you get jumpy and jittery. Since he's a Ghoul, Hancock has amazing tolerance for the stuff. I don't think you should take it any more,though, if it affected you that strongly. Stick to what we have here, and only if needed."
"No worries,MacCready," I assured him, shaking my head. "I prefer being in control of my own head."
There was enough there for both of us to get at least one of the items, and two stimpaks. MacCready handed me the backpack. "Here," he said, opening one of the side pockets. "Put those in there. Keep this, a pack comes in really handy when you need to carry loot."
Aid safely stowed in the pack, we proceeded to take out our weapons to clean and go over them for our upcoming mission. I tried not to think too hard about what we were going to do, but needed to get MacCready's expertise on how to go about it. During the span of our maintenance session, we hashed out the plan to get an early night's sleep and sneak out to hit the warehouses a few hours before dawn. The neighborhood watch, he told me, was pretty thin at that time, and not very alert. We would probably have to break in, but I was pinning our hopes on my newfound lockpicking assistance. Once inside, we would try to eliminate our targets (I couldn't let myself think of them as people) as quickly as possible, preferably from hidden cover. Any loot on the targets was fair game, ammo and caps being prime finds, but chems like stimpaks were also extremely welcome. If we could carry it, extra guns could be sold to KL-E-0 or Daisy for additional caps. I let him talk, listening carefully. MacCready had a pleasant voice, a melodic baritone that was full of emotion. When he wasn't being a sour bastard, he was almost agreeable to be around, if a bit condescending. Once he wound down with his lesson, he took a few moments to reassemble his sniper rifle in silence. His hands moved almost hypnotically, precise motions that spoke of long familiarity to weapons use.
"How," I began quietly, testing his mood. "How do you know all this?"
"I've been doing this kind of thing since I was a kid." he replied, adding "Living in the Wasteland is often a matter of life or death. Being able to shoot, especially from a distance, that's a talent I had to discover. Earning caps doing it is a bonus." He leaned against the arm of the couch, giving me a somber look. "You can't tell me you haven't learned that lesson yet."
"I'm learning it now," I countered, stung. Finishing my own ministrations, the rifle snapped together with a satisfying click.
"I thought you said you were in the Army," He pressed, a hint of doubt crossing his face with a frown.
"I was!" I protested. "But I never saw combat," was my feeble caveat.
"O-kay" drawled the response, his eyes widening skeptically. "How can you be in the Army, but never see any fighting?"
"Where I'm from," did I really just say that? "the Army was huge... like its own microcosm of society. You had combat arms; infantry, artillery, special forces, rangers, snipers..." and I waved a hand at him from the other side of the long couch, "the guys who did all the front line fighting."
"I get that part."
"Then you have combat support. For every combat Soldier in the field, it takes a whole bunch of other people to keep him in fighting trim. Combat support were the helicopter pilots, military police, communications, et cetera. Those guys weren't primarily the front line fighters, but were usually right next to them."
"Makes sense," was the laconic comment.
"Finally, you have the combat service support. That's everyone else, from cooks, to medics, to administration- the paper pushers who made sure everyone got paid, supply, and every other job necessary to keep a society running." I hoped it was enough to satisfy his curiosity.
"Doctors?"
I nodded.
"Must be nice, though stimpaks are good in a pinch. So what did you do, if there were so many jobs in your Army society?" He was looking at me directly, and raised an eyebrow when I didn't answer immediately. I could feel my face heating up, the blush spreading across my cheeks.
"I was 02 Juliet, which was later reclassified to 42 Romeo."
Rolling his eyes, he scoffed, "Romeo and Juliet? You in the Army or a Shakespeare play? C'mon, Boss, spill it."
I coughed the answer into my hand.
"Didn't catch that, Boss." Now he was grinning at me, an actual honest-to-god grin. His arms were sprawled across the back of the couch in a lazy pose. Huh, in private, he's definitely more relaxed, though why do I feel like he's making fun of me? "Say it one more time... please?"
I stared at my knees. "Clarinet player."
There was a brief moment of stunned silence, then a whoop of laughter. "You're fuc- errr..." he broke off, snickering. "You're kidding me, right?" At my crestfallen head shake, he broke out in a hearty laugh again. "You... played music... in the Army?" He threw his head back voicing a series of unrestrained guffaws. "Ha ha ha ha... Oh! Oh my god, we're going to die tomorrow, aren't we?" He choked out, wiping away a tear. "Wait'll Hancock hears about this one... I'm gunning with a freaking Army musician!"
My face was absolutely on fire now. I stood up and, in a fit of pique, threw the couch cushion at him, hitting him square on the nose with a puff of dust. "Do not tell Hancock, or anyone else." I warned him. "I didn't choose to come here, and I'll be damned if my bodyguard is going to make life more difficult for me than it has to be." I glared at him, wanting to smack that supercilious smirk off his face. "As far as anyone is concerned, I was a Soldier, nothing more. Got it?"
Still laughing slightly, he agreed. "Got it, Boss. No one has the right to know your secrets unless you tell them." He punched the pillow a few more times, each hit dislodging another cloud of dust. "Gah, they make vacuum cleaners for a reason. Anyway, we need to get some sleep if we're going to hit those warehouses tomorrow."
"Agreed." Then the realization hit me. "Um, MacCready? There's only one bed." Turning around, I was relieved to see him stretching out on the couch, arranging his duster comfortably, and pulling his cap down to shade his eyes. He kept his muddy boots on, though.
"And?" He lifted the cap to peer at me briefly. "You're the boss, you get the bed. I'm fine right here. Sure beats the ground." He lowered his cap again and, almost before I could blink, had relaxed into a light doze.
Lucky. It's going to take me forever to drop off. I sighed and prepared to get some sleep. The bed had a thin pillow and an even thinner blanket, but once I had settled into the mattress, it wasn't all that bad. I tried again to follow the sniper's lead and relax, focusing on releasing tension one muscle at a time. The day's activities had finally caught up to me and I soon drifted into sleep.