New Vegas: Sheason's Story

Chapter 3: Whiskey Rose

You're listening to Radio New Vegas. I'm your host, Mr. New Vegas. You know, I feel something magic in the air tonight and I'm not just talking about the gamma radiation! It's time for some news. Unconfirmed reports say NCR's General Lee Oliver may have uprooted from his post at Camp McCarran in order to be present at Hoover Dam. NCR sources have said that holding the dam against Caesar's Legion has become their main strategic priority and this move would not be unexpected. These headlines were brought to you by Vault 21. Everything's better when you experience it in a Vault. Got a song for you right now that's about a man that's cold on the exterior, but deep down, you know he's got a good heart, and his name is Johnny Guitar.

It was morning when I finally set off from the outskirts of Primm towards the NCR outpost. ED-E made a good watchdog while I got some sleep in my Corvega though, it was odd waking up to the sounds of laser blasts discharging, and very loud, oddly militaristic marching tunes. Not bad, just different.

The morning was actually pretty nice. The sun was just starting to rise over the mountains to the east, bathing the desert in a warm, golden glow. There was a refreshing sort of cool crispness to the air, holding out as long as it could before the sun got hot enough to burn it away. There were a smattering of clouds, and the sky was a rich, vibrant blue the kind of color you just didn't see anymore at least, not anywhere else.

Maybe I was appreciating the view because I was still just happy to be alive, but to tell you the truth: the Mojave Wasteland is an okay place to live. I've been around, and seen tons of places in the wastes. New Reno, Circle Junction, Shady Sands, Vault City, and The Hub, just to name a few I've even been as far north as Montana, but that's another story entirely. The point is this: most of those places all have generally the same problem. They're all shitholes. A few places are nicer shitholes than others, but you don't have to look all that hard to find places that are truly awful, or even terrifying.

Places like The Glow, which is still so full of radiation 200 years after The War that you can't even get near it. Then there's the Boneyard, where the only things you'll find are the twisted metal frames of Los Angeles skyscrapers and thousands upon thousands of human skeletons, flash fried in their last moment of living. And let's not forget New Reno where the sky is green, for some goddamn reason When you realize that the whole world what's left of it is just one horror show after another, you can learn to appreciate a place like the Mojave.

Maybe that's why I took the job. I just wanted to see a place that wasn't as bad as everywhere else.

It's just too bad the price of admission was getting shot.

"Caravan, citizen, pilgrim, or" Major Knight asked me from behind his desk. Knight was an NCR officer like Hayes, distinguished by a green beret (which was hanging on a coat rack behind his desk). Unlike Hayes, however, he seemed to lack the discipline of a frontline combat soldier; he also lacked the armor. He was wearing a tan collared shirt, a simple nametag over one pocket, a few ribbons over the other, and a dark green tie that hung suspiciously loose around his neck. It was difficult to get a bead on how old he was, mostly because I couldn't tell if the lines on his face (he had many under and around his eyes, around his mouth, along his cheeks, etc) were from age or stress.

"Courier," I said simply, sitting across from him, my arms folded across my chest. I was surprised and kind of amused when he actually wrote it down. He looked up and explained.

"Just need something for the log book, keeping tabs on traffic through the Outpost although mostly just in, not out these days. Now, what about your robot?" His pencil was at the ready. I blinked, not understanding.

"ED-E? What about it?"

"I'm going to need to put something in the log book about the robot as well. What's his business?" I tried to stifle a laugh.

"You need to why?" I asked, still somewhat confused at something that, to me, seemed absurd. He sighed.

"Do you know how many sentient robots I've had to check through this outpost in the relatively short time I've been stationed here?" Before I could get a chance to offer up an answer, he continued. "13. After the fifth, I decided to ask about every robot, just in case." Fair enough, I thought.

"I don't know," I said honestly. "I repaired ED-E in Primm, and based on its actions so far, it seems to have some basic algorithms to simulate thought, but I don't think it's actually sentient. Hell, I don't even think it can talk. I've only heard beeps so far." He seemed to accept that.

"Alright," he scribbled something in the log book, and looked back up at me. "What is your purpose and intended destination once leaving the Outpost?"

"My destination is back in the Mojave, towards Novac" I said, reaching into my jacket and pulling out the note from Hayes. "My purpose here is to just to pick up some supplies, and to act as courier for this."

"Well, we can certainly help you with the supplies, just so long as you fill out the work orders and sign for the parts first." I nodded, well aware of NCR red tape. Knight took the note from me, opened and unfolded it, and skimmed through the documents. He let out a weary sigh, and I could almost swear that I saw a few more wrinkles materialize on his face.

"I should have known Hayes' unit was in trouble. I didn't think it was bad enough that he'd fill out an official reinforcement request, though," He set the papers down on his desk, and looked at me with a pained expression he tried his best to hide. "I'd like to help but we can't spare any more units. We have to maintain a minimum headcount at this outpost. Orders from the West."

I rubbed my temples, utterly exhausted with hearing NCR soldiers lamenting their inability to do anything because of orders. Part of me a big part in fact wanted to just get up, say "Well, sorry to hear that. I'll be leaving now!" and walk out. I'd fulfilled my part of the bargain with Hayes'. What happened after the letter was delivered was not my concern, nor should it have been.

And then I thought about the people who lived in Primm. They seemed decent enough I couldn't let Deputy Beagle be the only law there. That would just be cruel and unusual punishment, inflicting his ineptitude on them. At least if the NCR moved in if only to clear out the escaped convicts then Primm would be better off for it.

"Do the troops have to be from this outpost?" I finally said, an idea quickly forming in my head. Knight looked at me with a raised eyebrow.

"What do you mean?"

"I was under the impression Hayes was only resorting to a written request, asking for reinforcements from this outpost, because his unit only has short-wave radios left. Do you have any sort of long range communication here?" I already knew the answer, but I was trying to get him to actually think, as opposed to just using orders as an excuse to do nothing.

"Of course. This outpost functions as a communication relay hub between NCR forces in the Mojave and the West. What are you getting at?" I sighed. This was like trying to get a brick wall to think for itself. I spelled it out as simply as I could, speaking very slowly just in case.

"I bet a resourceful guy like you can use any one of the radios here at this outpost, find some unassigned unit on patrol somewhere, and point them in the direction of Primm. Hayes will get the reinforcements he needs, Primm will be free of convicts, and the outpost will continue to maintain the needed headcount to satisfy your orders. Everyone's happy!" Knight blinked a few times, almost like he was trying to process this idea.

"That That's a good idea," he said, conceding the point. I clapped my hands together probably with a bit more enthusiasm than I should have.

"Take it then, it's yours. I give you permission to use it like you thought of it," I said, glad he finally got the message. "Now, if you'll excuse me," I got up from the chair, and made for the door. "Where's the bar? I need a drink." Knight looked perplexed, and looked at his watch.

"A drink? But it's only 10 in the morning."

I sighed again, vowing silently to make it a double.

The Mojave Outpost was nothing special. It was just a few squat, one story buildings on the east side of the I-15, on a relatively flat part of the mountain range south of Primm. The buildings were surrounded on all sides by a chain link fence, and a few sandbag dugouts. The north part of the fence had a red sign; "NCR RANGER OUTPOST" written on the top and "MOJAVE" written on the bottom in white paint, with an NCR flag hung in the middle.

I can only imagine the reason the NCR picked this particular bit of nowhere was because the west side of the I-15 here had the remains of a pre-war toll booth. It was rusted, the paint was almost completely peeled, and a few broken cars littered the road under the disused toll. Underneath the sign that said "Prepare to stop" was my parked Corvega, being dutifully guarded by ED-E, who was happily floating in the air right above the car.

Completely eclipsing the outpost, however, was the monument: a massive statue in the middle of the I-15, at least 20 or 30 feet tall if not more, made entirely out of scrap metal. It depicted two giant men, shaking hands. I was not interested in the statue, however; I was more interested in the contents of the outpost cantina, which sat adjacent to the barracks. I'd get a drink (or three), I'd pick up some more supplies, and then I'd head out to Novac by way of Nipton.

Before I could slip into the cantina for a quick drink, a loud, shrill whistle cut through the air. I looked around the outpost I didn't see anyone at ground level. The whistle sounded again, and I looked up. On the roof of the barracks was a woman wearing a cowboy hat, motioning for me to come up to the roof with one hand, and carrying a very large scoped rifle in the other. Normally, I would've ignored her and continued into the cantina, but I've learned from experience that when someone with a high powered sniper rifle wants to have a word with you, it's probably for the best to at least see what they want.

When I made my way up the plank that led to the roof, the woman had gone back to sitting in her chair, her feet propped on a few sandbags on the edge of the roof. She faced north-east in her chair, towards the Mojave, and was directly beneath a few metal pipes and camouflaged netting, creating a sort of awning against the desert sun. Next to her was a table; on it was a pair of binoculars, a half finished cup of coffee, and an ashtray with a still smoking cigarette placed on the ashtray's rim. She turned to look at me from beneath her cowboy hat, but I couldn't see her eyes behind her mirrored sunglasses. I could tell immediately that this was no rank-and-file NCR soldier; she was a Ranger. I had a lot more respect for Rangers, mostly because the ones I'd met in the past could actually think for themselves and because they seemed to know when to follow orders, and when regulations could go hang.

"Hey there," she said, taking a sip from her coffee. "You're that courier with the car, right?" She motioned to my Corvega ED-E still floating silently above it, circling the area with her coffee cup.

"Yeah," I said simply. "What of it?"

"I have a job that someone with a car would be perfect for. Interested?" She asked.

"What's the pay?" As much as I wasn't really all that interested in any job other than finding the man who shot me, I conceded silently to myself that I needed more caps. Sure, I had a decent supply in that hidden compartment in the trunk of my car, but I'd put that there for emergencies only. I needed some every day spending money.

"The pay? The pay is a good goddamn thanks from the heart of the Republic!" She said with well practiced enthusiasm. I said nothing, and she turned her head back to look towards me with a grin. She chuckled.

"Don't worry, I'm just shittin' ya with the NCR line. Mock if you like, but its done wonders for morale around here. Especially since President Kimball keeps saying 'getting shot at is its own damn reward' every chance he gets." She scoffed, and took a drag from her cigarette. "Do this job for me, though, I'll do what I can. People around here know I hate most everyone, so if I put in a word for you, that's gold."

"I'd much rather have caps," I said honestly. "But alright, I'll hear you out. What do I call you?"

"Ghost," she said simply. "My callsign. That's all you need to know 'bout my name, at least."

"Ok, Ghost, what's the problem?"

"I think there's trouble in Nipton. There's no traffic from there on the roads. I can explain that away easily enough, but the smoke from the town I can't."

"Smoke?" I asked. She handed me the binoculars, and pointed to a spot in the valley below.

"Here, use these. 12 miles, due east."

I looked through the binoculars, and followed the path of the Nipton highway, until I found what Ghost was pointing at. It was far enough off in the distance that I couldn't really make it out all that clearly, even with the binoculars, but there were a few small squares I assumed were buildings, and a few dark blotches that was probably smoke. While I looked at the town, she continued.

"I'm sure it's been hit. What I need to know is if there's anyone from the town who survived. It might be Powder Gangers with all the smoke in the air, but it could just as easily be one of the local raider gangs, like the Jackals, or the Vipers, or even the Fiends but I can't imagine what they'd be doing this far south. If there's anybody left, they'd be in the Nipton town hall. Go there, check it out, and let me know what you find."

I considered what she said for a moment, and decided to voice a question that had been nagging me since she mentioned it.

"Why do you need someone with a car?"

"I'd prefer someone with a car because you'll be able to get there and back in about an hour, rather than half a day. I'd go myself, but if I left my perch for too long, not only would Jackson tear me a new one, but I just know that'd be the specific moment a pack of ghouls would come knockin'. And I can't send a scout to check on it, because -"

"You have to maintain a minimum headcount at the Outpost orders from the West?" I cut her off, helpfully. She just laughed.

"Heard the line before, have you? Alright, who told you Knight or Jackson?"

"Knight."

"That figures," she said, taking another sip from her coffee. "You didn't hear this from me, but Knight is way too soft for military life. He's a bit too fabulous, if you catch my meaning." I bristled.

"About the job," I said, trying to steer the conversation back on track. "What exactly do you want me to do?"

"Just eyes and ears, that's all. Head there and poke around a bit, find out what you can, and come back for your payment. But if there really is something wrong, come back immediately. I don't want you getting killed for this."

"Wouldn't dream of it," I said. "Alright, if you supply the caps, I'll get you some intel." She nodded, and gave me a half wave, half pseudo-salute.

"Mind yourself on the plank going down."

When I opened up the door to the cantina, I was hit in the face by the distinctive smell of stale alcohol mixed with cigarette smoke. The inside wasn't too brightly lit, but the wooden shutters were closed to keep out the sun. The dust and smoke swirled around the slowly spinning fans on the ceiling. There was a poster behind the bar (NCR trooper: YOU bring DEMOCRACY to this land!) next to shelves of booze, a bored looking bartender, and a girl in a cowboy hat sitting at the corner of the bar, with a bottle of whiskey beside her. And it was actual whiskey, mind the label read "Olde Royale Premium Whiskey," rather than a bottle with a piece of tape that had "whisky" scrawled on the side like in Goodsprings.

I sat down a few stools away from the girl in the cowboy hat, and ordered a glass of whiskey. I don't know why, but for some reason the girl caught my attention. The rattan cowboy hat on her head had a few holes in the brim, a black band, and it covered a head of red hair pulled back in a ponytail. She had a shotgun slung across her back and wore a brown suede jacket, a pink and white plaid shirt with black buttons, black gloves, torn jeans, and a pair of old cowboy boots that were almost as scuffed as my own. There was a strange looking diamond shaped pendant that hung around her neck.

I must have been staring, because she looked up at me with a pair of piercing grey eyes, downed the rest of her drink in one gulp, poured herself another glass, and said to me: "Lookin' for trouble?"

I looked away, just as my whiskey arrived, and decided to focus on that instead.

"No just looking around."

"Well, you keep those eyes up'n turnin' or I'll set 'em spinnin'," she said, downing the drink she'd poured seconds earlier, and refilling the glass. "Got no time for gawkers or anyone lookin' for somethin' I ain't sellin'."

I nodded, but I had to wonder where the hell was she putting all that stuff? I took a drink myself. "Surprised you can see me from that deep in the bottle" I said with a smirk. She just laughed.

"Hah! Deep? Ain't deep by half. Closed down the bar yesterday gonna close it again today. Rinse'n repeat. Drinkin' to forget, but it's only gettin' me pissed instead. Whiskey's always got my temper up now more'n ever." She downed another glass. "Drinkin' used to cause all sorts of trouble back West before I punched enough people, that is, and they all learnt to lay low when the whiskey hit."

"What are you trying to forget?" I asked.

"Hmph. Lost my caravan headin' north the driver burned t'ash. An' the fuckers that hit it didn't even take the cargo, just burned that, too," She lifted her glass, but before she took another drink, she looked at me and said "Y'know, you're the first person to ask about that." I thought about what she was describing while she downed another drink. Burned to ash could mean fire but it could also mean energy weapons.

"Doesn't sound like raiders" I mused out loud, half to myself.The sourc𝗲 of this content nov(𝒆l)bi((n))

"My guess is Legion," she said, taking a drink. "They've been tryin' to cut NCR supply lines, and this fuckin' outpost is proof. Got us locked up tighter'n a New Vegas virgin. No caravans in, out, and just try arguin' with Jackson about it. 'Roads aren't safe,' he says. No shit, you washed-out ol' fuckup! I didn't need a goddamn Brotherhood Scribe to tell me that!"

"Who's Jackson?" I asked honestly, taking another drink. I'd heard Ghost mention the name, but I still didn't know who he was.

"NCR officer, trooper, ranger, whatever. Jackson runs this place. This fucking outpost it's like a brahmin drive gone wrong. Supposed to be a gate north, but you come here, you get caught in the pen. Better to head back home. If you don't have a gun an' a will, don't matter much what you do when you reach here, except stare at that fuckin' monument outside."

"The monument?" I asked. "What about it?"

"Don't even try'n tell me you missed it coming in. It's like NCR showing its dick to all the East! If the Republic put as much effort into protectin' the East as they put into those two asinine giants outside, then they'd be worth that monument. Statues of two men shaking hands 'n covered in blood don't seem to be nothin' to brag about."

"You know, I saw a lot of scrap metal, but I don't think I saw any blood." She scoffed and poured herself another glass.

"I'm speakin' figurative, y'know? Isn't any blood on their damn hands. 'Course, when Caesar comes walkin' through here, there'll be blood f'real. An' after the blood dries in the sun, he'll melt that piece of Jet-induced sculpture down, an' reshape it into a bull which by my reckonin' is makin' up for a deficiency on his part. But no matter what the state of his pecker, he's sure givin' the West a good fuckin'." I chuckled a bit. I liked this girl. She certainly had a way with words, at least. Not exactly the most refined conversation I've ever had, but certainly the most entertaining in recent memory.

"So what's that damn thing supposed to be anyway?" I said, taking another drink.

"One's a Nevada ranger, an' one's an NCR trooper. Supposed to represent unification of West an' East or some such idealistic shit. As far as those two iron lovebirds go, they've got more spine than you'll ever see in a year from the NCR government."

"So, why are you here?"

"I'm here, 'cause whiskey an' me are ol' friends. Keeps me goin' when times get rough. Like now. Got me into the caravan business y'know had to start transportin' water instead of liquor, though. If I hadn't switched over, I'd just end evr'y one of my trips with nothin' but glass bottles rattlin' on the back of the brahmin." As if to punctuate the point, she downed yet another glass.

"Actually I meant, why are you here at the outpost?" She looked up at me curiously.

"What'cha mean?"

"Well, it's like what you said earlier it's the people without a gun and a will that are stuck here. I can see the gun strapped to your back, and you certainly seem to have the will." Or maybe just the mouth, but I decided not to mention that for my own safety. "So what are you doing here?"

For the first time since I'd stepped in the bar, she'd stopped drinking whiskey. She just sort of stared at me with a depressed look on her face, and then she looked down into her empty glass.

"I I dunno. For a while, I was stuck here, 'cause my caravan papers were keepin' me here. Technically, I was still owner of Cassidy Caravans, even though it was nothin' but ash, so I couldn't leave. But then, a few days ago, this runner from th' Crimson Caravan comes down here, with an offer from Alice McLafferty. At first, I told him to just fuck off. Even times bein' what they are, I wasn't lookin' to sell, even for all the whiskey in Reno. But that offer had a lot 'o zeroes attached to it, 'an ev'ryone in the caravan business knows Alice McLafferty'd be good for a deal like that."

I nodded. "Yeah, I know what it's like. When you need the money, sometimes you just gotta let go of the past so you can live to see the future." I've had to let go of a lot of my past, I thought to myself.

"Tradin' my name for a goddamn slip of paper" She said that with a tone of utter disgust. I couldn't tell if she was disgusted with herself for having done it, or disgusted with Crimson Caravan for giving her the offer. "Just doesn't seem right, you know? I mean, hell, I bet my pa would be spinnin' in his grave, wherever the ol' bastard ended up, if he learned I sold our name for anything. So, I guess, technically, I don't got nothin' keepin' me here anymore. Leastaways, not paperwork. But I dunno what to do or where to go, now that my caravan is gone. So I've just sort of stayed here, spending the money I got from my caravan on whiskey."

The two of us just sort of sat in silence for a minute. The only sound in the cantina came from the slowly spinning fan blades above us. Finally I decided to break the silence.

"You could always visit your caravan, pay your respects." She looked up at me quizzically, and then seemed to consider that for a moment.

"Yeah, I s'pose but its miles to the north, past raider territory. It'd take days just to get up there. Fuck that shit, the caravan ain't mine anymore, ain't my problem." She started to pour herself another glass.

"I could give you a ride, if you need it," I told her. She stopped pouring and deadpanned.

"Are you comin' on ta me? Cuz I already told you, that shit ain't gonna work."

"No, I'm serious. My Corvega's parked right outside. I'm gonna be heading up the 95 towards Novac, because of some business I gotta take care of, but if you want to ride shotgun, I can give you a lift." I told her earnestly. To be honest, I don't know why I was offering. Maybe I felt sorry for her. Maybe I felt like she was a kindred spirit someone like me just trying to make an honest living who got fucked over because the world is cruel. Hell, maybe I just wanted the company, and someone to talk to.

I could almost see the gears turning in her head as she stared at me, mouth open and eyeing me in disbelief. Eventually, she shook her head, shrugged her shoulders, and said "What the hell? Why the fuck not." She held up her glass to me. "Cheers."

"Cheers," I replied, clinking our glasses together. "My name's Sheason, by the way. I gotta pick up some supplies first, but when you're ready, just head to the car guarded by the floating metal ball." I paused, then added "Oh, and we will have to come back here for a few minutes after checking out Nipton that sniper on the roof, Ghost, hired me for a job, but it shouldn't take too long." She nodded. I dropped a few caps on the bar to pay for my whiskey.

"Yeah I should probably close out my tab here. Which may take a while." She took a final drink, then looked up at me and said "The name's Cass. Rose of Sharon Cassidy."

"Nice to meet you, Rose -" I said as I got up, but she cut me off.

"CASS." She said, emphatically, and finally. I decided not to press the issue.

"Cass it is then."

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