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Standard disclaimer: None of the characters, places, etc. in this story are mine, but are instead the property of Bethesda Game Studios. No copyright infringement is intended by their use in this story.
Author’s note: Not much to say about this one. This is a bite-size fic written as part of my ongoing attempt to figure out the character of my female Courier Samara, while also trying to get a handle on Arcade. Some of this material is a bit redundant with the Courier stuff in my other New Vegas fic “Interrogation.” Not betaed; I thought it was too short to trouble my beta with.
Arcade Gannon sighed, shaking out his blankets and spreading them over the aged, cracked floorboards. The two of them were alone; Doc Mitchell had long since retired. He looked over at his companion. “Well, looks like it’s another night spent on the floor again. Hey, maybe tomorrow night, why don’t you take the floor and I take the couch?”
The Courier Samara didn’t respond, simply letting the unassuming blond doctor’s words wash over her. Arcade glanced at her, and resettled his glasses on his nose.
“You know, you have a perfectly good suite in the Lucky 38. I don’t understand why we keep on crashing with Doc Mitchell here in Goodsprings—“
“I don’t like Mr. House and I don’t trust him,” Samara said shortly. “I’m not going to get any more involved with him than I have to.”
“Okay, fine, your call,” Arcade said, shrugging. He shook out his blankets again, trying to arrange them to take most advantage of what little comfort there was. “I just don’t understand why it’s okay for all your buddies to hang out there but not you.”
Again, Samara said nothing, simply concentrating on her work. They had found a pair of 10-mm submachine guns in their last attack on the Fiends, and she was working on repairing them, stripping parts from one and using it to fix the other. Eventually, once she had restored one of them to perfect condition, she would sell it. Clicks and popping echoed through the room. Arcade frowned.
“You know, could you take that into the front room? It’s kind of loud, and you know me—I need my beauty sleep.”
“In a bit.” Now she looked up at him. Arcade tensed under the touch of those pale blue eyes. “Let’s talk about your tactics first.”
Arcade shrugged again. “I’ll defer to your judgement, naturally. Shoot. No pun intended, of course.”
Samara nodded. “I like what you’ve been doing so far in battle,” she told him. “That’s good. But I just wanted to be clear: You got a little far off today while were engaged with the Fiends. I want you to stick close to me. Don’t attack enemies until I engage them. Got it?”
Arcade raised one eyebrow. “I’m hardly a whirlwind of death when left to my own devices, but all right. If that’s what you want.”
He turned away from her, straightening his blankets and preparing to lie down, but then hesitated. There’s more. I can feel it. He looked up to find Samara was watching him, her pale eyes thoughtful.
“Something on your mind?” he asked her.
“Why do you say that?” she asked quizzically.
“Why do I say what?”
“What you just said about yourself. You’re great in combat. You’re an excellent shot with ranged weapons and not bad in melee either.”
Arcade could hear the presence of some hidden meaning in her words. She fell silent, but that penetrating stare held him. He shifted uncomfortably.
“Yeah, well….Thanks for the compliment—“
“It’s not a compliment. It’s a statement of fact.” She didn’t sound complimentary in the slightest. Arcade drummed his fingers nervously.
“Maybe….I just don’t like combat. I’m good at it, I suppose, but I don’t enjoy it the way some people do. I don’t find the effects of sympathetic nervous system arousal to be very pleasant. My stomach clenches, my chest tightens, my hands start shaking…In the end, I’d rather be anywhere else. Even when I was—“ He broke off, then lamely finished, “Well, never mind.”
It didn’t matter, though; he’d already said too much. He could tell from the way Samara’s gaze sharpened. He waited for her to push further, but she held her peace for a moment, turning her attention back to the submachine gun she was repairing. Again, the small clicks and pops of her work filled the room. He was just starting to relax when she spoke again.
“Your weapon. The plasma defender.” Startled, he glanced up at her. “It’s very unusual. I don’t think I’ve seen one like it. Not around here, anyway.”
Arcade was silent.
“Your melee weapon is a Ripper, too. Pretty high-powered compared to most of the stuff out here.”
Again, he didn’t answer. Samara simply stared at him, waiting. He felt his shoulders tighten. Her eyes pressed him, demanding, and the silence between them stretched out until it became unbearable.
“Yeah, well, you know,” he said at last, just to say something.
Samara pounced. “No, as a matter of fact, I don’t. What do I know? Or rather, what should I know?” Her voice was sharp.
Shit. Arcade stared back at her directly. “You know the old saying: Ask me no questions and I’ll tell you no lies.”
Their eyes met, steel against steel. Drop it, Arcade told her silently. I’m not going farther with this, and you can’t make me. You aren’t going to get what you want. At last, Samara lowered her gaze, considering.
“Fine,” she said curtly. “But now here’s an old saying for you.” She leaned forward as she spoke, each word glinting diamond-hard. “Don’t. Fuck. With the Courier.”
He drew back, blinking. “Samara, I don’t understand. What do you mean?”
“Then I’ll tell you.” Her face was a mask of stone. “The only thing I remember about my life is kneeling up at the cemetery with my hands bound while that rat bastard Benny put a gun to my head and pulled the trigger. Ever since I woke up, it seems that except for Doc Mitchell, just about everyone I meet is trying to use me, play me or kill me, and I’m pretty fucking sick of it. I’m sick of being a pawn.” Her voice rang in the stillness of Doc Mitchell’s living room. “Now, I may not know all of what’s going on, but I do know this: You’re hiding something.” She leaned forward, glaring at him, and he reflexively flinched. The coiled violence in her voice sent a chill down his spine. “You don’t want to tell me, that’s your choice. But I will tell you this: If I find out you’re selling me out, your life will rapidly become very short and extremely unpleasant. Understand?” She paused. “Now, is there anything you want to tell me?”
He studied her, gauging her resolve. “You have nothing to worry about from me, Samara,” he said at length. Her harsh expression did not soften.
“From you. How about from anyone connected with you? That fascist, paramilitary organization you mentioned once?”
“That was a joke,” he protested lamely.
“Was it. Strangely enough, I didn’t think it was very funny.” She stared at him. “So how about it, Arcade? Any old friends of yours I need to look out for?”
His mouth twisted a bit. “Not anymore.” He sighed. “Relax, Samara. I honest-to-god don’t have the knife out for you. Swear it.”
She ran her gaze over him, studying, probing. Arcade held himself still under her scrutiny, trying to let her see that he meant what he said: there was no danger. At last, whatever she saw must have satisfied her; she gave a curt nod. “Fine. Just remember what I said.” She turned away, going back to repairing the weapon on the floor in front of her. Arcade felt himself relax as the pressure was released. He drew a breath, watching her for a moment, then ventured his own question.
“Sounds like you’re pretty pissed off at the people who tried to kill you.”
She didn’t look up. Her voice was flat. “Yeah. Wouldn’t you be?”
“And yet you let Benny live.”
She shook her head, still not raising her eyes from her work. “Benny was just the guy who pulled the trigger. It was strictly business with him. I want the guy who loaded the gun. I want the guy who put me into that position in the first place.”
Arcade sensed where she was going a moment before she said it, and drew in his breath.
“I want…House.”
Finis.