Chapter 1
I managed to zero the rifle properly at 100 yards just outside the station. Used a nearby boulder for the first two shots, adjusting my holdover. Final confirmation came from popping the tip off the empty Nuka-Cola bottle I drank from. Clean break.
The rifle was still holding zero. No cracks, no stress damage. A miracle, considering where I found it.
My guess? They took it off a caravan. The loot in the armory supports that. None of the Jackals I dropped had the finesse or the discipline to be proper marksmen. They could barely operate sidearms, let alone a Remington bolt-action.
Speaking of loot...
I made my way to the evidence lockup. I had a hunch the Jackals never got it open.
Lo and behold, a sealed security door with numerous bullet pits and scuffs, of which I'm guessing came from the junkies literally rotting in the cells.
The key's missing so I'll have to finesse the door open it seems.
A few parasite enhanced kicks to the door's hinges and it fell inwards. Groaning before hitting the ground, raising a cloud of dust that was covering the floor.
Taking a gander inside, I spotted copious amounts of cocaine bricks, opiates, decayed marijuana (sadly), and other assorted drugs and chems.
Now the bullet marks made sense.
They were desperate to get in here and get high off their asses. Most of the stash probably lost its edge—degraded over time, dried out, or chemically broken down. Except for the coke bricks. Those were sealed. The purity was likely shot to hell, but they'd still have street value to someone with no standards and a broken nose.
I rubbed at my chin, debating whether or not I actually wanted to sell off the salvageable narcotics. Morality wasn't the issue—it was logistics. Who'd I sell to? NCR? Too clean. Raiders? Too twitchy and try to kill me. Freeside locals? Maybe. How would I move so much product? Fuck if I know; I'm not making multiple trips.
I shelved the moral quandary for later.
My attention drifted to the other items stacked around the lockup.
That's when I found it.
A Pro Snap Deluxe camera, buried under a pile of evidence bags. Still intact. Film compartment loaded. Out of curiosity, I cranked the wheel, popped open the exposure window, and let in a sliver of light from the hallway.
Photos.
Of a drug lord, by the look of it. Posing like he was on the cover of Time Magazine, standing atop crates of product like some discount Scarface. One shot showed him snorting a line off a woman's derrière.
Classy.
Surprisingly, the film hadn't degraded. Maybe film tech in this timeline got a boost before the bombs fell. Lucky me. Still enough left for maybe thirty more photos.
I pocketed it.
Might be good for taking shots of the monuments out here. You know, in between all the mercenary work and bounties. Might even make jokes about the perfect shot.
Yeah. That's it. That's the story. I'm a tourist. Sniper on vacation. Wasteland wanderer with a camera and a kill count. Take jobs, snap photos, survive the Mojave. Rinse, repeat.
I chuckled to myself, the sound echoing off the shelves and walls.
Why not?
The pièce de résistance of the locker finds though is this garishly gold plated 44. Magnum, ivory grip, engraved. Obviously, why wouldn't it be? Alongside a "tasteful" quote on it 'King of kings'.
Both halves of my experience—the one from Earth, the one molded by Quiet—look at it and sigh in unison.
It's a .44 Magnum. Obviously I want to use it. Power, stopping force, the sound.
But also?
It's a gilded invitation for someone to try and mug me. Or at least think about it. This thing practically screams "I'm compensating for something."
I holster it anyway.
Instead of waiting for nightfall, I decided to take advantage of the sunlight.
There's no telling what mutated abomination might be lurking once the sun dips below the mountains. Even if I'm confident in my ability to run—or vanish—thanks to the parasite, I'd rather not test it without intel.
I gathered everything I could carry. Guns. Ammo. What food and meds hadn't spoiled or rotted away. And, of course, a suspiciously brick-filled duffel bag.
As I stepped out into the open light, a Rorschach pattern bloomed across my face.. My body eased into a partially dematerialized state, black mist curling from my arms and shoulders, flecks of aquamarine light pulsing within the mist.
Then I moved.
Short bursts. High-speed. Controlled.
The landscape blurred around me. Dust clouds bloomed in my wake, kicked up from the cracked, sunbaked road as I flickered in and out of cohesion—here one second, gone the next. Not teleportation. Just speed the eye wasn't meant to follow.
I headed south.
According to the maps back in the station, about seven miles down this stretch of highway should be a pre-War checkpoint—likely reoccupied by the NCR. That would put me somewhere near the Mojave Outpost, assuming the roads hadn't been nuked into a new zip code.
I mulled on the thought as I moved.
California.
Shithole then. Still a shithole now.
And somehow, despite one and a half lives of experience, this was the first time I'd set foot in it.
After around four to five minutes of burst-running—covering about five miles with some rests between phases—I slowed my pace. Better to walk the last stretch. No need to give the enlisted NCR troopers a heart attack by phasing into their line of sight.
Finally cresting the incline, I get a proper look at the Unification Monument.
It's… not made out of scrap metal, actually. Bronze, maybe steel. Well-crafted, considering the usual Mojave standards. The weather's eaten away at the polish, and there are bullet marks pockmarking the base like acne scars—but all things considered, it's held up.
Fishing out the camera, with a whir, I take a picture of it. Might make copies when if I manage get the materials to do so, then sell them to actual NCR tourists in Vegas.
That's when I hear it.
Boots on asphalt.
Steady. Heavy. Coming in from just past the sandbag perimeter—long before I should be able to hear them. But the parasite sharpens more than just reflexes.
200 feet away from me, maybe more.
The guy's young, around my age, early twenties. He looks absolutely miserable under all that gear.
"Afternoon, sir. Didn't see you coming down the road. Heading for the outpost?" He asks while eyeing the sheer amount of shit I'm carrying at the moment.
The duffel bag, the rifle, the garish six shooter, the rucksack, the guns sticking out of the rucksack.
"Yeah," I nod. "Pretty light on my feet."
I shift the rucksack forward and open it a bit.
"Quick question—any open bounties on Jackals right now? I've got a bunch of cutouts from the backs of their shitty denim vests. Little dog-skull logo and all."
I pull out a fistful of ragged patches. He eyes them, then smirks.
He cracks a grin.
"Yeah, those'll count. Go on in—first building past the fence on your left, that's the barracks. Talk to the quartermaster at the front desk and check in. Ranger Jackson runs a tight ship. We're on high alert, so don't take it personally."
Snapping my left hand's fingers at him. "Gotcha… the Legion giving that much trouble these days?"
He exhales hard
"Yeah. That and—some convicts from the Correctional Facility got organized a couple weeks back. Took the place over. Call themselves the Powder Gangers now."
He shakes his head slowly, like he's still not sure he believes it.
"Name's stupid, but they're causing problems. They've set up along Highways 93 and 95, ambushing trade routes. Then they went and kicked up the Deathclaw equivalent of a hornet's nest over by the quarry off the Long 15 using some damned dynamite."
He pauses, adjusting the sling on his rifle.
"So now caravans trying to reach Vegas are being funneled east—straight into Powder Ganger territory. And the Crimson Caravan Company is losing their shit."
"Sounds like a fucking nightmare," I mutter.
"You're not wrong," he replies. "And that's before you factor in Legion scouts getting bolder near Nipton."
His jaw tightens just slightly.
I give a nod, adjust my strap, and start walking toward the gate.
Behind me, he calls out, a little less formal this time, a sly grin on his face as I turn.
"Stay sharp, tourist."
Continuing forwards I wave at him using the camera.
Entering the barracks, I feel my shoulders ease slightly. The shade and humm of half working HVAC is a blessing even with my well above baseline tolerances.
The place is utilitarian—dust, sand, old fluorescent lighting humming like it's dying. A fan rotates in the corner doing a whole lot of nothing. Bunks line the far wall, and a few NCR troopers sit at a table nursing lukewarm drinks. There's the bar in the center of the room and a little old desk right in front of me.
The quartermaster looks up from whatever he's reading. Grin ready.
It dies the moment he sees me.
At first glance I probably look like some overgeared caravaneer dragging half a weapons cache through the desert.
He starts, "Sorry, sir, we can't allow you to—"
I raise a hand. "Relax. I'm not looking for a room. I'm looking for work. And offloading the junk I've been hauling."
I unzip a pouch and drop a handful of shredded denim onto the desk.
"Jackals. Took care of a nest of them. Figured I'd cash in."
The grin crawls back across his face. "Yeah? I can work with that. You're leagues better than most of the traders limping through here." He snorts. "They come in with sunburns and attitude, want miracles and handouts."
He pulls a drawer open and grabs a clipboard.
"Alright—if you're selling weapons or ammo, I can process that here. I'll also get your bounties logged. But if you're seriously looking for work," he says, tapping the form with a pen, "you'll want to talk to Ranger Jackson. We're neck-deep in red tape right now. A little external help would lighten the load."
He sets the clipboard in front of me and leans forward, elbows on the desk.
"Standard paperwork for the bounties and sale... nothing too painful."
I don't say anything, but the deadpan on my face must be doing all the work. I catch the brief smirk he tries to hide.
Scanning the form, he pauses when he hits the name field. "Dimitri Kolanov, huh. Don't see names like that every day."
I don't answer. No reason to. The silence stretches just long enough to land.
"Right," he continues, clearing his throat. "Here's your caps..."
He counts them out, then winces a little as he slides them over.
"Try not to spend it all at the bar, yeah? We've already got enough drunks here as is."
A.N: This is taking place 2 weeks before the start of New Vegas.