Veni Vidi Vici

31. October. 2281

"Truth is, the game was rigged from the start."

Son of a bitch.

I've had bad jobs before. It's inevitable. Sometimes, your employer is a piece of shit who won't pay you what they promised unless you prove to them you won't leave until they do. Sometimes, you have to kill someone you didn't plan on killing just to make sure things keep going smoothly. And, sometimes, you'll spend the better part of two decades dragging your feet on fulfilling your mother's dying wish out of resentment for the person she wants you to track down.

More often than not, the bad jobs are either able to pushed to the side for a while, or can be cut through by force. I've even had a more than fair share of near death experiences on both good and bad jobs.

But I haven't been treated like a goddamn pawn who can be snuffed out like a fucking candle before.

"Steady. Don't mess up my hard work just yet."

"Trust me. If I were going to do that, I'd have picked up my own gun and finished the damn job."

The man who has spent the better part of the last few days patching me up laughs, and, for once, I'm glad some else appreciates my sense of humour.

What I'd appreciate a lot more, though, would be knowing where the son of a bitch who shot me is so I can disembowel him as slowly and painfully as possible.

I've spent just about my entire life working to get to where I am now. Forty five, known for getting just about any job done for the right number of caps, relentlessness, and formidable strength. To have nearly died in a pre-dug grave by some son of a bitch in a pressed suit with some goons is not only embarrassing but infuriating. Decades. I spent two decades as a mercenary, starting when I was seventeen. The job I have now is, theoretically, a more stable, safer, and steadier line of work than just simple mercenary work. In the past five years I've spent as a courier for the fucking Mojave Express, I've made nearly twice what I used to as a simple mercenary in half the time, taking half the jobs. Also theoretically, I could live quite the quiet and cushy life if I stuck to only working when I need to. But I get bored.

Worse than boredom, so much as I hate it, I need to save up as many damn caps as possible to the stupid Commonwealth.

I never liked living in the Commonwealth, and was more than happy when I was ten and mom stole most of what was dad's alongside our own shit and took me out to Colorado. If I had my way, I'd never go back to that wretched place, but, so much as I resent both of my parents, there's the ever so slim chance my father is still alive and in the Commonwealth. Mom wanted me to track him down and kill him. She of all people should have known that wouldn't satisfy me.

I want to track him down to do either one of two things –

Spit on the son of a bitch's grave

Or, in the circumstance I find more unlikely, prove to him, by standing right in front of his face, that he was wrong about me being a momma's girl.

Bullshit. The only reason I liked her a smidge more was because she was actually around.

Maybe you shouldn't have kids if you're going to spend most of your time doing whatever the fuck it is my dad did with his life.

Whatever. The only good thing about him was he taught me how to shoot and stab, and taught me that anything is possible for the right price. Someone wants you to stop killing their family members or sabotaging their farm or business? Pay me more than who's paying me to do it to you, and I'll stop.

"So," I say, narrowly glancing to the man who fixed me up through a mirror. "How much do I owe you?"

He laughs. "Nah, you don't owe me anything. I'm always happy to do a good deed. Seems wherever I go, it's always the same. Folks just never want to leave each other alone or take care of each other."