Fallout New Vegas: Loose Ends

Loose Ends

Hot winds carried a haze of dust through the darkened desert as cricket chirps took center stage, not allowing the Khan's incessive digging to interfere with their symphony.

Benny's gaze stretched over the bog of night and across the open Mojave. He nodded to himself as he took in the rough smell of dirt, his eyes landing on the pristine needle that was the Lucky 38. The lights of the strip illuminated the surrounding wastes like a beacon of crafty beauty. It was a real ring-a-ding place, the fancy cat, Mr. House always made sure of it. Benny almost felt a bit of sympathy for the big man, sympathy that was quickly replaced by gratitude for House's keeping of the Strip warm for him. He had spent so much time on the Strip that even now he could hear the never-ending chatter of the gamblers, the rattle of House's securitrons rolling about, and best of all, the tunes of Dean Martin blasted over loudspeakers that made freesiders wish they had a seat at House's table. He licked the bitter dirt from his lips, feeling the warmth of New Vegas' neon lights just within his grasp.

"You better be good for the caps, chessman," said the dark-skinned khan to the right.

Chessman? A bad pun regarding Benny's tasty fit, a white and black checkered suit and pomade hair. He paid the fink no attention, instead, readied a cigarette and with a single hand, gave a flick with his engraved lighter. He took in a puff as he nearly felt the khan's glare burning a hole into his cheek.

Another three of them stood shoulder-to-shoulder, scoffing audibly at his perpetuated silence. They wore those common coal-colored vests of theirs, completed with the crime-of-nature logo on the back that looked worse than the cats in the Ultra Luxe. Most of their faces were partly hidden by the darkness, a small oil lantern being their only source of light. Though considering they had just bushwhacked another courier of the Mojave Express who was now unconscious and waiting to get his ticket punched, the lack of light was a good swing—they didn't need the extra attention from the locals from the town just down the hill. Good ol' Goodsprings.

Benny flicked his head towards the Khan whom was digging the grave for courier six; the man who had introduced himself as Jessup at the beginning of their tryst.

He had an atrocious orange mohawk that stuck high above his head and a tarp headband that did only one thing right, make him look like nothing but a low-roller. It had been twenty long minutes and the pit was only ankle deep. "You Khans regularly take this long to bury a man?" He did little to camouflage his sneering tone. "You should stop by the Tops after this caper, try your luck at the tables—the patience you got."

Jessup scoffed. "Soil's harder than a fucking rock, you think you could do better? Pick up a shovel."

Benny put up a hand defensively, joined by a smirk. "The Ben-Man doesn't dig, dig? Deal's a slice-cut deal, you dirty your hands so I can keep mine clean enough to hold a hand of cards, hey?" He snickered. "I'm just surprised that even with all the jet you swim in, don't know how to swing a spade, baby."

The courier who had remained still through the entire encounter writhed about, dirtying his farmer-looking clothes further. You'd think with the carat he was lugging around that he'd have better digs. Maybe House promised him something real swell once he got to the Strip. Though that time was up, the kid was in too deep and there was no folding now.

The dark-skinned Khan beside him threw out his arms, gritting his filthy teeth. "You got what you were after, so pay up."

Benny shook his head. "You're crying in the rain, pal-ly."

Jessup climbed out of the hole; shovel still in hand he motioned it towards the courier who sluggishly rolled up to his knees. He let out a playful scoff. "Guess who's waking up over here."

Benny took a final puff from his cig before tossing it aside and crushing the bud into the dirt. He abandoned his frisky tone, for what he was about to do demanded a bit of sincerity, at least from a sophisticated Top's Chairmen like himself. "Time to cash out." He took a few steps towards the courier.

"Will you get it over with?" blurted out the bothersome Khan.

Benny put up a finger without turning. "Maybe Khan's kill people without looking them in the face—but I ain't a fink, dig?" He reached into his checkered suit and pulled out the item they had taken from the carrier, Mr. House's platinum poker chip. "You made your last delivery, kid. Sorry you got twisted up in this scene." He pocketed the chip before pulling his high-roller's 9mm from his coat. It was an elegant gold-engraved piece of heat; Maria, faultlessly nicknamed for the pristine 'Virgin Mary' grip.

The kid's face was still somewhat groggy, like a kid awakened mid-night, as if he didn't know what was going on.

Benny eyed his 9mm, glad that the kid wasn't all in there. Not knowing he was about to buy the farm made it easier to look the carrier in the eye. Or maybe it was just his way of coping with the gravity of the script he was in. "From where you're kneeling it must seem like an 18-karat run of bad luck." He aimed for the kid's in-between, the center above his eyes. It'll fly in quick, painless. "Truth is...the game was rigged from the start." He squeezed the trigger.             

(Novelisation of intro to FNV, I write these novelisations of scenes from games or shows as a way to challenge my writing skills and practice using other types of characters, setting, and tone. Fanfiction is not my go-to, My original writing is what I'm most proud of. My Book Direwolf can be found via my account if interested.)

[𝗘𝗻𝗱]
𝗧𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗸𝘀 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗱𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗳𝗼𝗹𝗸𝘀. 𝗜 𝗽𝗼𝘂𝗿 𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗿𝘆𝘁𝗵𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗶𝗻𝘁𝗼 𝗺𝘆 𝘄𝗿𝗶𝘁𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝘀𝘁𝗼𝗿𝘆𝘁𝗲𝗹𝗹𝗶𝗻𝗴. 𝗕𝘂𝘁 𝘄𝗵𝗮𝘁'𝘀 𝗮 𝘀𝘁𝗼𝗿𝘆 𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗵𝗼𝘂𝘁 𝘀𝗼𝗺𝗲𝗼𝗻𝗲 𝘁𝗼 𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗱 𝗶𝘁? 𝗜𝗳 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗵𝗮𝘃𝗲 𝗮𝗻𝘆 𝗾𝘂𝗲𝘀𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻𝘀 𝗼𝗿 𝗽𝗲𝗿𝗵𝗮𝗽𝘀 𝗳𝗼𝘂𝗻𝗱 𝗮 𝗴𝗿𝗮𝗺𝗺𝗮𝗿 𝗲𝗿𝗿𝗼𝗿 𝗳𝗲𝗲𝗹 𝗳𝗿𝗲𝗲 𝘁𝗼 𝗹𝗲𝘁 𝗺𝗲 𝗸𝗻𝗼𝘄 𝗱𝗼𝘄𝗻 𝗯𝗲𝗹𝗼𝘄.