Fallout NV fic: Ain't That A Kick In The Head?
Title: Ain't That A Kick In The Head?
Characters: f!courier, Benny, assorted Khans.
Rating: Worksafe, gen.
Word count: 978
Summary: Written for the Fallout kinkmeme, for the 'write a short piece of fiction introducing your version of the LW or Courier' prompt. Tweaked slightly.
--
When Providence was a little girl, she was taught a few basic things about gambling. Don't play every hand. Bluff in moderation. Know your opponents. And, above all, don't be greedy. If something seems too good to be true, then it probably is.
She wishes she'd kept that last part in mind when she took this delivery job.
The offered payment had been substantial - not unusually so, but enough for her to accept it without asking too many questions. She wasn't told who wanted the package, and didn't feel particularly inclined to pry. Her employers didn't seem like the sort of folks who'd look too kindly on nosy people. The job had seemed plenty straightforward - not necessarily easy, granted, but simple enough for a courier of her caliber - and she'd figured it was going to be a milk run. She'd even made a list of the stuff she intended to spend her wages on: she needed a better radio, a few medical supplies, a new hat... Yeah, definitely a new hat. Her current one still stunk of the dead guy she'd looted it from. (Whenever she stood in one place for too long, she had to worry about bloatflies catching up and trying to lay eggs behind her ears.) All she needed to do was deliver the package, and then maybe she could buy some clothes that didn't smell like an open grave, and everything would be just swell... That's the problem with the promise of money: it has a way of turning you into the most dangerous kind of optimist.
For the most part, though, the job was straightforward. The walk from Primm to Goodsprings was unusually uneventful. At the very least, she'd expected some trouble from the local gangers. She'd kept her eyes peeled for figures on the horizon, straining her ears for the distant boom of dynamite - but, apart from one nasty run-in with a radscorpion the size of a dog, there was nothing. Plenty of critters, sure, but no sign of any humans (or humanoids) who might want to do her harm.
It all turned to shit when she reached Goodsprings.
One moment she was walking along, scratching her ass, trying to stay alert. The next moment, she was being ambushed. They'd been waiting, obviously. They must've known she'd be coming that way. They outnumbered her, so fighting wasn't an option, and she had no desire to stick around and negotiate, so she ran. Unfortunately, they ran faster.
Now, somehow, she finds herself lying on the floor, with a mouth full of grit and a headache like the devil's hangover.
She opens her eyes and doesn't recognize her surroundings. There are stars in the sky, although she remembers it being barely dusk when she was attacked. She sits up, very carefully, and tries to ignore the ensuing wave of nausea. Her hands are tied. She tests the bonds - they're tight, but she just needs to find a sharp rock, and then...
She can hear men's voices, despite the ringing in her ears.
"You got what you were after, so pay up."
"You're crying in the rain, pally."
"Hn. Guess who's waking up over here."
Shit. They're Khans, and they've got a friend along with them: some slick fucko in a suit. Common sense suggests they were after the package, since it's the only thing of any value that'd merit the trouble of an ambush. Well, there goes my paycheck, Providence thinks. So much for a new hat.
Her mind races. The Khans are slavers, so she's worth more to them alive than dead. That's good. As long as she's alive and they have ears, she has a hope of negotiating with them. She might not have much to bargain with - if they want something from her, then they're just gonna take it - but she still has skills to offer. She's not a bad medic, and she's pretty adept at fixing stuff. That's something.
There's still the problem of the slick fucko in the suit, however.
Providence tries to speak, but her tongue sits heavy and dry in her mouth. It seems to be glued to her teeth with dust and blood. She wants to spit, but there's no moisture. She can only watch as Slick takes one final drag of his cigarette, then drops it on the floor and grinds it into the dirt with his heel.
"Time to cash out," Slick says.
There's some grumbling from one of the Khans. "Would you get it over with?"
Slick holds up a hand. "Maybe Khans kill people without looking them in the face. But I ain't a fink. Dig?" He reaches into his jacket.
Providence's heart sinks. She tries to say 'wait', but her throat feels like it's rusted up. Everything is suddenly happening too quickly.
Instead of drawing a gun, though, Slick takes out a silvery poker chip. "You've mad your last delivery, kid. Sorry you got twisted up in this scene." He looks genuinely apologetic - sure, the sympathy could be an act, but why would he fake something like that for Providence's benefit?
Then he draws the gun.
Providence wishes she could speak. At the very least, she wants to inform him that he's a meretricious dogfucker with questionable taste in outerwear.
"From where you're kneeling, must seem like an 18-carat run of bad luck," says Slick as he levels the gun at her temples. Providence has already seen what a gun can do close-range to a human skull. She can picture it now: the black hole in the middle of her forehead, the ragged exit wound at the back, the way the blood will plaster her hair against her skin...
Wait.
"Truth is," says Slick, "the game was rigged from the start."
Providence's last thought is that she'll won't have to worry about buying a new hat ever again.
Characters: f!courier, Benny, assorted Khans.
Rating: Worksafe, gen.
Word count: 978
Summary: Written for the Fallout kinkmeme, for the 'write a short piece of fiction introducing your version of the LW or Courier' prompt. Tweaked slightly.
--
When Providence was a little girl, she was taught a few basic things about gambling. Don't play every hand. Bluff in moderation. Know your opponents. And, above all, don't be greedy. If something seems too good to be true, then it probably is.
She wishes she'd kept that last part in mind when she took this delivery job.
The offered payment had been substantial - not unusually so, but enough for her to accept it without asking too many questions. She wasn't told who wanted the package, and didn't feel particularly inclined to pry. Her employers didn't seem like the sort of folks who'd look too kindly on nosy people. The job had seemed plenty straightforward - not necessarily easy, granted, but simple enough for a courier of her caliber - and she'd figured it was going to be a milk run. She'd even made a list of the stuff she intended to spend her wages on: she needed a better radio, a few medical supplies, a new hat... Yeah, definitely a new hat. Her current one still stunk of the dead guy she'd looted it from. (Whenever she stood in one place for too long, she had to worry about bloatflies catching up and trying to lay eggs behind her ears.) All she needed to do was deliver the package, and then maybe she could buy some clothes that didn't smell like an open grave, and everything would be just swell... That's the problem with the promise of money: it has a way of turning you into the most dangerous kind of optimist.
For the most part, though, the job was straightforward. The walk from Primm to Goodsprings was unusually uneventful. At the very least, she'd expected some trouble from the local gangers. She'd kept her eyes peeled for figures on the horizon, straining her ears for the distant boom of dynamite - but, apart from one nasty run-in with a radscorpion the size of a dog, there was nothing. Plenty of critters, sure, but no sign of any humans (or humanoids) who might want to do her harm.
It all turned to shit when she reached Goodsprings.
One moment she was walking along, scratching her ass, trying to stay alert. The next moment, she was being ambushed. They'd been waiting, obviously. They must've known she'd be coming that way. They outnumbered her, so fighting wasn't an option, and she had no desire to stick around and negotiate, so she ran. Unfortunately, they ran faster.
Now, somehow, she finds herself lying on the floor, with a mouth full of grit and a headache like the devil's hangover.
She opens her eyes and doesn't recognize her surroundings. There are stars in the sky, although she remembers it being barely dusk when she was attacked. She sits up, very carefully, and tries to ignore the ensuing wave of nausea. Her hands are tied. She tests the bonds - they're tight, but she just needs to find a sharp rock, and then...
She can hear men's voices, despite the ringing in her ears.
"You got what you were after, so pay up."
"You're crying in the rain, pally."
"Hn. Guess who's waking up over here."
Shit. They're Khans, and they've got a friend along with them: some slick fucko in a suit. Common sense suggests they were after the package, since it's the only thing of any value that'd merit the trouble of an ambush. Well, there goes my paycheck, Providence thinks. So much for a new hat.
Her mind races. The Khans are slavers, so she's worth more to them alive than dead. That's good. As long as she's alive and they have ears, she has a hope of negotiating with them. She might not have much to bargain with - if they want something from her, then they're just gonna take it - but she still has skills to offer. She's not a bad medic, and she's pretty adept at fixing stuff. That's something.
There's still the problem of the slick fucko in the suit, however.
Providence tries to speak, but her tongue sits heavy and dry in her mouth. It seems to be glued to her teeth with dust and blood. She wants to spit, but there's no moisture. She can only watch as Slick takes one final drag of his cigarette, then drops it on the floor and grinds it into the dirt with his heel.
"Time to cash out," Slick says.
There's some grumbling from one of the Khans. "Would you get it over with?"
Slick holds up a hand. "Maybe Khans kill people without looking them in the face. But I ain't a fink. Dig?" He reaches into his jacket.
Providence's heart sinks. She tries to say 'wait', but her throat feels like it's rusted up. Everything is suddenly happening too quickly.
Instead of drawing a gun, though, Slick takes out a silvery poker chip. "You've mad your last delivery, kid. Sorry you got twisted up in this scene." He looks genuinely apologetic - sure, the sympathy could be an act, but why would he fake something like that for Providence's benefit?
Then he draws the gun.
Providence wishes she could speak. At the very least, she wants to inform him that he's a meretricious dogfucker with questionable taste in outerwear.
"From where you're kneeling, must seem like an 18-carat run of bad luck," says Slick as he levels the gun at her temples. Providence has already seen what a gun can do close-range to a human skull. She can picture it now: the black hole in the middle of her forehead, the ragged exit wound at the back, the way the blood will plaster her hair against her skin...
Wait.
"Truth is," says Slick, "the game was rigged from the start."
Providence's last thought is that she'll won't have to worry about buying a new hat ever again.