A rough hand shook me awake. Groggily, I flailed upright in the dark room, grabbing for my glasses. "Whaa?" MacCready's lean form came into focus, lightly splashed with the reflected red neon light from outside. Satisfied I was up and moving, he retreated back to the couch to finish his own preparations. To my disgust, he looked ready to go, idly scraping the stubble from his cheeks with a wicked-looking combat knife. I blinked a few times, chasing the scattered fragments of sleep from my head before stumping to the bathroom to splash some water on my face. Feeling a bit more awake, I returned to see a can of purified water and a small cardboard box of unidentified food sitting on the low table.
"Thanks," I muttered, tucking in. The water was very welcome, and the food filled the gnawing in my stomach, tasteless but hopefully nourishing.
"No problem, Boss," came the reply. "I'll just add it to your tab."
"What? You're keeping count?" Geez, what a money-grubber.
"Always. Gotta keep things even." He sheathed the knife, checked his sniper rifle one more time and quietly sauntered to the door. "Ready?" he asked. "Lead the way."
True to his word, the street was nearly deserted as we made our stealthy way towards the first warehouse. The location markers Charlie put on my Pip-Boy proved accurate and extremely useful, pointing us to the exact door we needed without my having to hunt around the unfamiliar area. We crowded into the recessed doorway, crouching to stay out of sight. MacCready kept watch for any wandering patrols while I focused on the lock.
Exactly like the day before, the minute I touched the lock with bobby pin and screwdriver, I felt the tingle of electricity whisper through my arm, guiding my fingers to the sweet spot. In only a few seconds, the low-quality lock had popped open with a small click, giving us access to the interior of the building.
"Some skill you have there," commented MacCready, sardonic approval lacing the quiet murmur. I shot him a quick, nervous half-grin. Moving as quietly as possible, we crept inside, pushing the door closed behind us.
Once inside, we hugged the wall, crouching our way along until we were half-hidden behind a stack of wooden crates. The warehouse floor was large and open, piles of crates and shelving shoved in random stacks. A staircase ascended into the shadowy second floor near the back of the room. There were a few open hanging bulbs lighting the area, providing a mosaic of light and shadow that may prove either a benefit or a hindrance. Quiet voices floated across the open area, and my mouth went dry as I spotted our first targets, two men dressed like 1950's gangsters standing watch.
MacCready had already unslung his sniper, maneuvering to get into a good shooting position. I couldn't believe how cool and professional he looked, my stomach was doing somersaults in apprehension. I shakily took out the laser pistol, taking position near MacCready to fire through a gap in the crates, then paused. Feeling his curious gaze on me, I quietly re-holstered the pistol, swinging my rifle into position. I met his gaze, mouthing my explanation in a barely audible whisper.
"Tracers work both ways." His eyes widened, then narrowed again as he nodded and resumed his position. Yes, the laser pistol was quieter than my rifle, but it speared a bright line of red light every time it fired. The last thing we wanted was to announce our exact location. Sitting with my back against the crates, the realization of what I was about to do crashed upon me uninvited.
I'm going to kill these men.
I struggled with that thought, my morality colliding with this new reality of kill or be killed. How can I just shoot them, and live with their blood on my hands? I fought to keep my breathing quiet and even, needing to keep us from being detected. MacCready glanced up now and again in annoyance, waiting for my signal. Wait, he's a hired gun, isn't he? Maybe it won't be as bad if...
I caught MacCready's gaze the next time he glanced up at me. Pointing to the two gangsters, I gave a whispered command, the three words that would forever change my life, "Take them out."
Crack! Crack!
No, that didn't help at all.
The men fell, blood spurting from what remained of their heads, their bodies going instantly limp in the echo of the deadly shots. The gorge rose in my throat at the crimson spray and I had to turn my head away from the sight. They're just targets, they're not men.
Upstairs, all hell broke loose. Multiple shouts overlaid the sudden pounding of feet as several more men pounded down the stairs. MacCready coolly fired again, blasting the first man to appear on the staircase. I belatedly swung around to aim through the gap of the crates, adrenaline pumping as the situation flipped from contract murder to self-preservation. By this time, there were two more bodies sprawled on the stairs, slowing the progress of the rest of the armed men. I sighted down the barrel of my rifle, aiming for center mass of the next target. Almost as if it were at one remove, I saw my shot blossom shockingly red on the man's chest, and he fell. First Blood, the realization hit like a train. What came out of my throat was a gurgled whimper.
No more gangsters came down the stairs. I took in a breath, metallic and sour, and forced myself to move from behind the crates. The job was to clear the building, and I knew there was probably at least one or two more men smart enough to not run into an ambush. We were going to have to find them and eliminate them. MacCready shadowed my steps, moving silently. I sidestepped the growing pool of blood in the center of the floor, ignoring the headless corpses for the time being.
At the base of the stairs, MacCready temporarily took the lead, his combat knife a blur of motion as he ensured our targets were dead. He gave me a quick nod after the last body. We crawled up the stairs, not daring to move the splayed limbs in case of noise. Reaching the landing, we moved even more slowly, inching around to ascend the second half. All was quiet. We moved ahead.
As soon as my head came into view of the second floor, a shot rang out from the darkness. I dropped to my belly, but MacCready surged forward with a yell, charging unerringly towards one corner. "Here! Over here!" he called, voice an angry growling shout. Belatedly, I scrambled back up to the second floor, grabbing the laser pistol from its holster. My bodyguard was strafing back and forth, sending rounds towards an upended desk where an unknown number of shadows were hiding. I rushed the desk from the opposite side, hoping the distraction was enough. When I lifted the pistol to fire, my Pip-Boy's V.A.T.S. kicked in and the world slowed as I unerringly focused on one target's profile.
Bzap!
The red beam speared my target through the head, and he slumped to one side, jostling the arm of another gangster holding a small machine gun. With a curse, he took a moment to shove free. It was one second too long. MacCready's sniper rifle rang out with one last Crack! and it was over. I sank to my knees. We did it. It had taken surprisingly little time, but we still had two warehouses to go.
MacCready was already looting the bodies by the time I shakily joined him. Moving with a ruthless efficiency, he picked out caps and ammunition, going so far as to drop the magazines from the machine guns before setting them to the side. While probably valuable, the firearms were too large to lug around for the rest of the mission. My pack was put to good use storing a couple of small caliber pistols and unneeded ammunition. I let him do most of the looting, my mind still not quite able to fully grasp my transition to paid mercenary. Mercenaries are professionals, though. You're just a lucky sap with a paid gun to pick up your slack. A gun you didn't even pay for, no less. I sighed. Two more to go... you need to do better.
The second and third warehouses were nearly identical hits; picking the lock to MacCready's growing approval, sneaking into cover in the shadows, taking out the dogwatch guards, and decimating the forces awakened above. The second loot of spoils also saw a couple of stimpaks, and some unopened bottles of hard liquor that had MacCready chuckling greedily. We had some trouble in the third warehouse, and my first introduction to a molotov cocktail as one of the gangsters upstairs tossed it onto the landing as we reached it. Fortunately, MacCready saw the arc of flame heading towards us, and roughly pulled us both back to tumble down the stairs, bruised but not burned. My Pip-Boy's assistance came in handy when the remainder of our targets charged down the stairs after us almost before the flames had died down. Hitting a moving target was just as easy as a stationary one with the electrical pulses guiding my hands. I made a better showing of myself, taking out almost as many targets as MacCready, but not as swiftly or cleanly. I still firmly refused to even think of them as men, or I'd lose my nerve.
After everything was said and done, we stepped out of the final warehouse door into a sky just turning light with the first hint of dawn. Our packs were full of scavenged loot, and the pockets of my jacket held a reasonable haul of bottlecaps, shared unstintingly with MacCready. No one was immediately about. None of the shops would be open at this early hour, and I turned to head slowly back to the Rexford. Bartering could wait. My steps shuffled zombie-like across the brick courtyard towards the dubious refuge of the hotel room. The disgust at what I had just done followed me like an invisible miasma of self-hatred.
Once inside the room, I let my pack and rifle slide on to the table as I made a beeline to the tiny bathroom. I shut the door behind me and proceeded to vomit my compassionate humanity into the dirty toilet, sinking gracelessly to my knees and clutching the cold porcelain with numb fingers. Tears streamed down my face and I shuddered in reaction. Soon I was reduced to dry heaving, sobbing quietly at the horrid necessity of it all. I hate this world. I want to go home. Small noises from the room without informed me that my mercenary babysitter was there. I didn't want to look at him, shuddering at the thought that he was a paid gun, the heartless killer I needed to become in order to survive. I hate him, too.
He kept you alive, you know. Stop projecting your abhorrence to violence on him.
I don't care. I don't want to be like him, devoid of compassion and ethics.
You don't know that.
He wasn't the least bit disturbed. He even looted the bodies!
And you've been decisively informed by more than just him that looting the dead is normal. This world is harsh, more violent, more primal than yours.
I know that now. I want to go home.
How else are you going to find the way? Adapt, or die.
Almost mechanically, I stood up, legs still shaky, and leaned over the sink. A few moments splashing cool water over my face removed the worst of the tear stains, but I still looked awful, my dark green eyes bloodshot and swollen, cheeks flushed red. Averting my face, I quietly left the bathroom, stumbling over to collapse in a miserable fetal position on the bed.
After a few minutes of silence, I heard MacCready's quiet, neutral voice. "The first time is the worst."
His words hung in the air between us.
"Look," he continued, still carefully emotionless, "I know it's hard now, but it gets easier."
I didn't bother to acknowledge him.
"For what it's worth," he added, "you did better than I thought you would..."
"Just," I finally replied, my voice half a sob, "just leave me alone... please?"
"All right, Boss."
Sore and bruised, I eventually drifted into a drained sleep.