The Team
Carter Castillo
Sherrington Tenpenny, Hayley Clarke, Duke Phillips
Sweet Gin
Del
Poe
Fox
Scrappy
Rebecca
Sabin
Dallas
Stalking Bear
Elizabeth
Javier
Mr. Zero
Outside New Reno
The smell hit first.
Hot garbage mixed with decomposition, sweet and sickly. The smell made his dry mouth moist, the body’s preparation for oncoming vomit. Before his eyes even opened, Carter Castillo gulped back an oncoming stream of vomit.
Then the light broke through, first too bright to see, like a lingering flashpoint from a nuclear blast. Shapes broke through the bright, slowly focusing into rotting, dried out pillars of wood. Bodies, still decomposing, dangled from some. Others sported skeletons.
Castillo tried to breath out a curse, realizing his captors were dragging him into the burial ground of Golgotha, but could manage only a wheezing cough. This was where cheaters, liars, thieves, and all variety of malcontents from New Reno came to die. Graves, posts, and corpses lined the desert.
He felt hands now. Pressure under his arms, on his hips. They hoisted his limp body from the sand, slamming him hard against a jagged wood post all his own. His vision went again, giving way to darkness. It was only momentary, as his eyes again opened. He was staring at his feet.
He could feel his arms being bound behind the post, the pressure in his shoulders giving way to pain. His feet were next for binding. This he could watch, as he had yet worked up the strength to lift his head.
The drugs. They filled him with drugs. He was dehydrated, and his mind was scrambled. He, Castillo, was in there, but there was a disconnect between the mind and the body, as he failed to regain any semblance of control over his limbs.
The binding took several minutes. His captors, three members of New Reno’s Wright family, one of the ruling families of the biggest little city on the planet, were fumbling around his legs, struggling with a knot. By the time they completed their task, Castillo had found the strength to lift his head.
“One last drink?” He coughed out, sand rolling from his lips onto his unkempt beard. His voice was hoarse from his dehydration.
“Whiskey?” One of the Wrights asked, standing to face the bound and broken caravaneer.
“Water.”
“Sorry buddy.” The goon said, chuckling a bit. “You don’t want that. It’ll just take longer. Trust me, you wanna be gone before nightfall. Better the thirst take you than the radscorpions.”
Castillo groaned, his head rolling a bit to the side. His shirt was torn, and his dark pants were ripped through each leg. With so much skin exposed, he hoped the sun would end him before the monsters.
“Better than you deserve, you junkie loser. This is what you wanted, right?” The leader of the thugs said, stepping into view. He slapped Castillo. It wasn’t an especially hard slap, but it was enough to jar the bound man. “You take our money, you trash our casinos, you take advantage of our hospitality? You wanted to die. You were practically asking for it.”
Castillo didn’t answer, though a hint of a smirk crossed his face. The mobster wasn’t too far off.
“Hey boss, what the hell is that?” One of the thugs said, pointing at something behind Castillo.
Castillo’s constraints didn’t allow him the movement to see what was drawing all the attention. He didn’t care anyway. Unless it was a benevolent mercenary troupe with a barrel of water, it wasn’t of much use to him.
“What the-- looks like one of those robots from Vegas.” The boss said, walking out of Castillo’s view. The others followed, leaving the caravaneer to stare at the vast expanse of graves surrounding him.
The sound of voices were slightly distant now. The wind picked up, and Castillo’s head was already ringing from the combination of high and dehydration.
“You’re a long way from home, robot. Best you turn around and roll back to wherever you came from.” One of the gangster’s voices said, muffled from the ringing.
Hallucinations now. Or were they? Surely that metallic “howdy” wasn’t coming from the robot. He was losing it.
Mobster laughter. It stopped, suddenly. Their voices lowered. Castillo couldn’t make it out. Now loud. Very loud. Alarmed. Yelling.
Energy weapons?
One blast. A series of metallic tings. One explosion. Nothing.
A few moments later, he could hear the whirring of machinery, and the sound of a wheel turning on axle, sand crunching beneath something heavy.
The robot, a securitron from New Vegas, came into view. It turned to face the bound caravaneer. This was not how he expected to go.
“Howdy pardner!” The robot exclaimed, the face of a happy cowboy displayed on the robot’s facial screen. “Sorry about the negative exchange, I hope I didn’t rustle your feathers!”
“...Hey…” Castillo stammered out. “...Why?”
“Well compadre, I was sent to bring you back to New Vegas. Those unfortunate hombres didn’t seem inclined to let you go. But now they do!” The robot’s optimistic voice describing the slaughter unnerved Castillo.
“...Why?”
“Aw well that’s not for me to say amigo, just that I need to bring you on back. So lets get you off that stick and hit the trail. It’s a bit of a ride!”
Before Castillo could speak, an energy blast erupted from the robot, splintering the post, dropping the caravaneer to the sand. He rolled on the ground for a moment, slowly writhing his hands out from the bounds. He untied his legs, and struggled to his feet.
“Yeehaw!” The robot exclaimed enthusiastically. “Well, best be moving before it gets dark!”
The robot began wheeling south, a lonely cowboy ballad playing over it’s radio speaker.
“...Wait. I...I won’t make it. Drugged...I need water.” Castillo said, dropping to a knee. The robot whirled around, rolling back to the man.
“Hmm. Well, hop on me amigo! I got plenty of strength to go ‘round!” The robot spun, presenting it’s back to the caravaneer.
Struggling up, Castillo pushed himself with all his might on to the robot’s squared frame. His exposed skin touched his mechanical savior’s metal back. A metal back which had spent two days in the sun.
Castillo screamed, and fell to the ground, clutching his burned chest.
“Tarnation! Guess we didn’t think that one through!” The robot exclaimed, “looking” back at the broken caravaneer. “We’ll need to figure something out!”
Castillo pushed himself to his elbows, absolutely thrilled at the way the new situation was turning out. He scanned the horizon, hoping there was some sign of civilization within walking distance. Then he spotted the gangster corpses.
“Eh...I got an idea.”
***
The New Vegas strip was alive. It was dusk. Tourists and soldiers alike wandered The Strip, drinking, laughing, and roaming from casino to casino, enjoying the respite from the day’s heat. Neon pinks, greens, yellows and reds diced the black night, jutting out from rusted signs and faded facades.
The sea of gamblers and drunks parted as the robot rolled down The Strip, a somber Lorne Green gunfighter story moaning from his speakers. Around his “neck”, a multicolored papoose made from the departed mobster’s clothing bobbed along, a thoroughly sunburnt, but alive, Cater Castillo bouncing along inside.
Castillo was reluctant to stick his head out. He had a reputation. A gambler, a gunfighter, an adventurer.
“Cowboy robot’s weird sunburnt baby” wasn’t something he wanted to be known for.
Castillo’s weight shifted. They were on a slight incline. He looked out the small hole at the top of his makeshift papoose, and saw the mammoth spire of the Lucky 38 casino looming over him.
“What the….” He whispered to himself. The duo passed through the doors, and Castillo became one of the few people to see inside the Lucky 38.
“Good to be back on the ranch!” The robot said. It slid a mechanical hand up, releasing the knot around it’s head. Castillo dropped to the floor, bundled in bloodied gangster clothing.
The man was dehydrated, coming off a high, burned, and severely beaten. The impact of the slight fall was the final straw. Castillo blacked out on impact.
***
The lights faded back in again, for the second time in just as many days.
Castillo sat up. In a bed. Odd.
He felt...refreshed?
The caravaneer shook off the confusion, and took stock of his location.
Baby blue walls. Dean Martin crooning over a nearby radio. His sheets were clean. He was clean.
There were bandages around his arms. As he felt the bandages, he looked to his nightstand. A doctor’s bag sat nearby. Who healed him?
His door creaked open.
“Mr. Castillo?” A voice called out. It was accented, unlike anything he’d heard in the wastes prior. It was...proper. Gentle, yet heavy with authority.
“Yep.” Castillo said, now suddenly aware of his shirtless state.
The voice’s source slipped into the room, with a grace to match the accent. The man was immaculately dressed; flawlessly pressed burgundy suit, matching shoes with no dust buildup, and mid-length hair parted to either side of his head.
The man was handsome, fit, and looked as though he’d never spent a day in the wastes.
“I am Sherrington Tenpenny. I apologize for the unconventional circumstances leading to our meeting, but when I learned of your predicament in New Reno, I was left with few options.” The man didn’t walk so much as glide, as though the world moved under him instead of he across it. Tenpenny gently placed a glass of purified water on Castillo’s night stand.
“I’ll take unconventional. I...I appreciate the assist.” Castillo was grateful, despite still feeling lost. His voice was coming back. Still slightly gruff from years of desert dryness and cigarettes, the scratchy growl from dehydration seemed to have left completely. “So, I can’t imagine you went through pullin’ me out of hell and patching me up just for the warm feelings.”
Tenpenny grinned and nodded.
“If only the world were such a place.” The rich man said, taking a seat at the caravaneer’s bedside. “There are intentions, yes.”
“Let me guess…Black Rock?” Castillo said, almost choking out the last two words.
“No, actually.” Tenpenny said. “While Black Rock is certainly an interesting facet of your life of which I’d love to learn more, I am more interested in your past accomplishments...and the application of your skills to a more current opportunity.”
Castillo was quiet. The silence hung for a long moment. A flood of thoughts pushed through his head. Another job? Another Black Rock? Did he have a choice? Was this a threat?
Castillo took a deep breath, and raised a skeptical look to Tenpenny.
“I’m listening.”
***
The ornate metallic doors of the Lucky 38’s elevators slid open, and Hayley Clarke passed through the moment a space wide enough was present.
It didn’t take long. She was slender, and quick on her feet.
She walked hurriedly along the circular corridor’s of the Lucky 38’s lower penthouse suites. House himself occupied the upper penthouse, and despite their partnership, had no interest in sharing quarters with herself or Tenpenny.
She received word earlier that morning from Tenpenny. He recovered the caravan boss and, thankfully, Castillo accepted the job.
That was it. The job was on. The trip was on. Everything she had toiled over for the past five years was coming to light. She quickened her pace.
Pushing through Tenpenny’s office door, she was greeted by the rich man’s proud smile beaming at her from behind a marble desk. Champagne flutes were already filled, a glass for him, and one awaiting her.
“So, we’re on?” She said, almost skipping at this point to the chair opposite Tenpenny. She peeled off her brown, brahmin skin jacket, laying it over the chair’s arm. Beneath, a tight olive shirt revealed a small bit of her tanned belly, and worn, blue jeans protected her legs. She excitedly leaned across the desk.
She was no child. Though young, she had traveled the wastes, seen injustice, death, poverty, sadness, plague. But this...the realization of her dreams...the wide eyed child that dies to the adult world was revived for a moment in her voice and step.
“We’re on, love.” Tenpenny cooed, raising his glass to her. “It’s finally time.”
Clarke composed herself, taking the flute, and gently toasting the man across the desk.
“To perseverance?” She asked, grinning.
“To perseverance and opportunity.” Tenpenny replied, clinking his flute to hers.
She sat down, sinking into the leather bound wingback chair. Compared to most chairs in the wastes, hers was a throne. That was not something Tenpenny arranged arbitrarily.
“Where’s Castillo?” She asked after taking a sip from her flute. The woman grew up drinking irradiated water and ancient bottles of nuka-cola while scavenging the plains and following the Followers from one ideological nightmare to another. This was real. This was progress.
“Resting. He’ll be present for the recruiting session.” Tenpenny said, leaning back in his chair. He took a moment to study Clarke’s face. It was a hard face. She was a wastelander at heart. But that did not diminish his attraction to the engineer. He broke his grin, returning to the business at hand. “Speaking of which, have you heard from either of your contacts?”
“I haven’t heard anything yet.” She shook her head. “They’ll come though. Poe is a wanderer, and he’ll jump at a chance to play with the kind of technology we’re dealing with. If Poe doesn’t show at the session, I suggest we send someone after him. He may be as necessary as Castillo, if not more. Have you talked to House about the technology we’ll need for Poe, assuming he accepts?”
“Indeed. He was not pleased to send such technology out into the uncharted wastes...but he is too invested in the project to decline.” Tenpenny said. His voice trailed near the end of the thought. His concerns were on another recruit. “And...the other one?”
“Scrap will almost certainly be here too.” She said, noting the slight hint of disgust in his voice.
“And you are absolutely sure--”
She cut him off.
“Yes, I’m sure.” Hayley sighed, feeling as though she’d had this conversation a hundred times before. “Scrap is well worth any risk he poses. He’s a brilliant mechanic!”
“He’s a Nightkin!” Tenpenny said, dropping his posh presentation for a moment. “They don’t even like being looked at! You understand my reluctance to lock him in a box with weapons, advanced technology, and the few people capable of completing this task, yes?”
“He’s...he’s different. I know, that sounds typical. But he is. He’s harmless. He’s like...like a big dog who can fix almost anything…” Hayley said. Her voice trailed off a bit “...and rip someone’s arm off…”
“‘Harmless’ and ‘ripping off arms’ generally are mutually exclusive attributes.” Tenpenny replied skeptically.
“Have I led you wrong before?” Hayley asked, this time making sure she was flashing him a playful smile. A smile Tenpenny returned after a skeptical glare.
“You have not.”
“So it’s settled.” She said, taking another sip from her champagne. Hayley wanted to lighten to mood, so she curled herself up in her chair, shooting Tenpenny another grin.
“I guess all that’s left to ask is when the freak show starts?”
“The messages are sent. The potentials should be arriving in the next few days.” Tenpenny replied after a chuckle. “Now, not that we need to as House has everything here bugged, but would you inform him of the recent developments? I still have a few “invites” to send.”
“Can do.” She said.
As Clarke passed through the door, she shot a final smile to Tenpenny.
“We’re really doing it!” She gushed.
“It begins today, my love.”