Kaspar
The lumbering caravan convoy pulled its way down the old Route 89, lurching and churning like a schizophrenic and tumorous snake. The stay-over at Ash Fork had been uneventful, and had done nothing to lighten the spirits of the travelers as they moved to reach their final destination at the ruins of Chino Valley. Some, along the route through the old tribal lands of the Twisted Hairs, had given up and settled down wherever they found an intact building - their hearts turned to stone at the thought of continuing any further. They were marching to the edge of civilization, but in truth, they already crossed into the wild frontier when the caravans moved over the Hoover Dam.
At the head of the road serpent, on a mangy horse, rode Kaspar Morgan. He had exchanged his Followers' white coat with a duster, already now caked with the kicked-up sand from the brahmin pack animals and the constant trek from their staging point at Boulder City. Under his brown Boss-of-the-Plains hat, sweat boiled out from his forehead. The heat was intolerable, worse than anything he had ever experienced in his life. It clouded his very mind, making it increasingly difficult to focus on the task at hand. It was hard enough to ride a horse, having never really taken lessons to heart when he tried to learn in the past, but to have the weight of the entire expedition on his shoulders was unbearable.
He reached into his duster and produced the Expedition orders. The paper was now a crumbled and folded mess, stained with dirt from having read it countless times on their journey. The edges were beginning to fray and the words on the page were smudged by the hasty folding and refolding. Once more, as he did every time he began to lose sight of the mission, he pulled it out and began to read.
He had let it slip in campfire discussions of their purpose, to secure the factories, and he was sure that by this point most people in the convoy were aware of the true intention of the Courier-King and the Followers. It was so cynical, he mused as he tucked the orders back into his pocket, that the primary goal ought to have been to secure the factory and the secondary goal being the town. Why else would they have come this far, passed by perfectly fertile lands that could build sustainable towns?
No, their true purpose all along was to get into that damned city and to break open all of its secrets for their own benefit. They didn't give a damn whether or not the town succeeded, only as long as they broke into the entombed ruins and restart the old factories so it could pump out more robots to defend Vegas against the NCR. It was a cunning move, to be sure, and he had to acknowledge that. But it was cynical, it was cheap, and he would've preferred if they had just sent him and a few wasteland mercenaries to do it.
But, perhaps, they did. And they met their fate like every other group that wandered into Prescott. They never returned. The city was a myth in the East, and at the very thought of it the tribals they encountered on the roads warned them to turn back to the Mojave, or to settle elsewhere. The city was a bad omen to them, in fact that entire expanse south of Flagstaff and north of Phoenix was a bad omen. It brought great anxiety to the warriors from the Hualapai Tribe as they escorted them through their land from Kingman to Ash Fork, warriors who fought off wasteland creatures and roving raiders with tenacity unmatched.
It was a sobering thought, and Kaspar had to shudder and banish it from his mind as the convoy neared Chino Valley, and neared their destiny.
Horace
A bunch of nonsense! Curse upon it all!
Horace, along with the martially-inclined men of the convoy, rode on their horses along the sides of the caravan, covering the advancing settlers from attacks in this unknown and lawless land. In his old ranger outfit, the helmet replaced with well-worn Stetson, he felt a little younger in the heart and the soul. But all the troubles of the travel soon crept into him, and returned him to his old-man ways. The Hualapai tribals refused to go any further than Ash Fork, and that wasn't just because their tribal authority did not extend past that town. No, Horace could tell, the worried looks on their faces as that damned Follower asked them to lead them all the way to Chino Valley told him more than their broken tribal creole could ever do. There was something in this land that struck fear in their hearts, that reduced them to nervous little children at the very thought of stepping foot in this land.
The folly of man, Horace thought. That's all it ever was, the folly of it all! The rumors of Prescott had driven men to their deaths. He wasn't even sure there was anything there worth picking apart. Horace had been there when that drunk Follower Kaspar let it slip that they were really there to start up the old robo-factories, and the man even had a slip of paper to prove it, but it just seemed to ridiculous. There were other explanations, ones that didn't involve killer robots, or a city infested with rabid ghouls, or - his personal favorite - an army of Super Mutants trying to revive the Master. Surely the city just took a direct hit or two or four in the Great War, and was a radioactive wasteland. Anyone who tries to go in gets cooked alive. Simple explanation, and explains why the tribals were petrified of it all.
But it didn't explain why the Courier knew that there were factories there, or why he would even bother to send an expedition to a city that was in ruins. The Securitrons had been here - the pipeline that cast its shadow on the convoy was proof of that - and surely they would've seen if Prescott had been reduced to ash. Clearly it hadn't. And the thought of that unsettled Horace, for it was an unknown quantity, a rogue variable.
His eyes fell down upon the convoy moving beside him. He had made it a point, since their "leader" was so woefully incompetent it wasn't even worth mention, to get to know at least some of the settlers he was to get to know intimately over the next few months - perhaps even years. There was the Follower, but he didn't deserve a goddamn mention. He was worthless. There was that Valdez doctor that gave him the willies, something about the last name sent shivers in his spine. A former NCR Ranger, that Horace felt nothing but contempt for but couldn't quite figure out why.
Then that fucking mercenary from Freeside, the one that ran the Blackjacks, that had tagged along for some godforsaken reason. Now Horace well and truly despised that man. Even the very thought of that wicked Californian brought anger in his heart, who exemplified the worst of the NCR and everything they had brought to the Mojave and elsewhere: greed, corruption, and imperialism. He spit impulsively at the Arizona sand just thinking of his face. But he would never say it to his face. That man, he was capable of great and terrible things indeed. There was also that slave couple, with the strange fucking names. They were suspicious, to say the least. There was something about that couple that was too familiar for Horace to just ignore. He would figure out what it was, or by the Lord, he would eat his goddamn hat.
And then there was Lily.
She was too familiar for him to ignore. Even though they had never said more than a few words in passing to her, he felt a distinct attachment to her - and it wasn't just because they were both coming from Westside. Maybe it was his old heart getting sentimental in his advanced age, or maybe it was senility creeping up on him as he mistook her for Eunice. Either way, whatever the justification he made up in his mind, he made sure to keep his eye on her from his perch on the horse.
And, as he turned back to the head of the convoy, he could see the Follower dithering and reading that fucking note for the tenth time this hour.
God, he hated that man.
Razor & Wire
"Listen, we're gonna be fine. Stop your fuckin' worrying!"
Razor hissed at Wire under his breath, as they walked in the tangled mess of man and beast in the convoy. They couldn't afford a pack brahmin, and even if they could, they didn't have enough belongings to justify it. Razor carried the heavy backpack containing their cooking pots, some spare clothes, ammunition, and their caps, while Wire had on her back their bed rolls. Each of them were armed with makeshift pipe rifles, some of the few in the convoy who were carrying rifles.
They had tried their best to keep to themselves on the journey, avoiding the prying eyes of the busy-bodies that would soon be their neighbors. Spending some time with them by the campfire was one thing, but they sought to avoid associating too much with them on the travel there. The other settlers eyed them with suspicion, but it wasn't anything the pair wasn't used to. But there were times, especially at the stopover at Ash Fork, where they regretted their march and wished they had stayed in Sloan. At that mining town, they had a stable job - Razor working the mines and Wire tending to their injuries. It was a hard life, with little pay and little comforts, but it was a peaceful one. This adventure was anything but that, except being hard work.
At Ash Fork, the whole charade almost came crashing down. Apparently there was another ex-Legion slave in the party, and when he pulled them aside to ask about their past, they found it difficult to explain anything to him. He had been with a farming plantation near Albakerkee, and escaped only by virtue of being purchased by a caravan trader who took off his slave collar and let him run into the night. He barely made it past Legion sentries along the road, and took the long route to the Mojave, going south through the Mexican lands and catching a caravan heading to Baja. He wondered, openly, how they were able to break the slave collars off, remarking that every time he seen it tried, the poor soul had his head blown off.
They couldn't give him another answer except that they had gotten lucky. And while, at the time, the ex-slave seemed satisfied, it didn't fail to arouse suspicion within the party as the rumors of the exchange spread like wildfire. But Razor felt fine about it. What did he know anyway? Their collars were different, simple as that. And they had gotten lucky, for if it wasn't for those troopers, they would've shot 'em dead. But Wire had grown more agitated, more concerned that the jig was up. She asked, at every turn, if they could just turn back and go back to Sloan. But what would they go back to? There was no guarantee their jobs were still there when they came back. And even if they were, the roads were perilous. Only through the intervention of tribals - secured only by the skill of the expedition leader - had they been able to pass through the Hualapai lands.
No, the die had been cast. They had to stay the course. And once they reached their destination, they could begin again. Like they always said they would. They could settle down, for once in their lives, and leave the past behind. But even as Razor implored Wire to leave it be, and to stop stressing, he himself felt the doubts creep into his mind. Would it really be possible, to run away from it all? To start over like this? Old habits don't die so easily, and he deeply feared that it would all catch up with them.
But, he dismissed it, and kept on the walking with the rest of the human herd, "baby, we're gonna be golden! Just think, we're gonna have our own place! Our own lil farm? Who woulda thought?" He let his bolt-action rifle hang in one hand, as he wrapped his free arm around Wire, "we'll have our future kiddies run around us, and we'll get to live to be old and grey."
"I didn't even think we'd get to be almost thirty!" She laughed, the anxiety fading only for a brief moment.
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