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Most horror stories start in a cold, dark place; so thankfully, Marston’s Bar was neither of those things; it was the one place off the I-88 where travelers from all places could stop by and relax, without worrying about too many questions. And in the Mojave, known for its… strangeness, strangers liked to keep things under wraps as much as possible. Marston’s Bar dealt in discretion, making it as good a spot as any for this tale to begin.
On a night that couldn’t be called hot but was far from cold, a stranger entered Marston’s Bar. A courier, as he introduced himself- likely on account of being a courier. He was short and spindly, like a cactus, or several Sunset Sarsaparilla bottles stacked up together. Which, wouldn’t have been noteworthy on its own, except for the large gun he had on his back- a rifle, just awkwardly big enough in comparison that everyone gave the Courier the side-eye as they nursed their drinks. The Courier paid them no mind, and instead, plopped himself down in a chair. Marston’s Bar was not quite quiet enough to be considered ‘serene’ or ‘calming’, but the Courier didn’t mind, just kept staring contentedly out the window, and occasionally sipping from (and grimacing at) a cup of coffee.
It was only a matter of time until the other patrons decided to try and mess with him. Well. Perhaps not ‘mess with’. But you have to understand, the type of strangers that the Mojave bred, and the type of people that hid away in the recesses of Marston’s Bar. Largely harmless, for sure, but not without some expense paid for by others. Which is why two patrons in particular cleared their throats and called to the Courier.
“You there. With the coffee,” a male voice beckoned. The Courier glanced up, eyes catching on the booth in the corner.
“Yes, you. Come over here,” a female voice continued. The Courier looked down at his coffee for a moment, then shrugged, struggling out of the chair and scuttling over to the booth in the corner, coffee mug in his hands like an afterthought. He curiously peered into the shadows of the booth, eyes picking at the crevices and then shallows. Two figures made themselves known, male and female, both smiling to varying degrees, and a set of cards on the table. Caravan, it looked like. At least to the Courier.
“Oh! Hey,” the Courier waved, then gestured to the cards on the table, “Do you guys play? Caravan, I mean,” the Courier awkwardly shuffled the coffee cup around in his hands, “Because, I can play. If that’s why y’all called me over here?”
The two suspicious persons hunched over in the booth glanced at one another, before the female beckoned, “Take a seat. That is, if you-”
The Courier plopped down without preamble, the coffee cup set down elsewhere. The table shook slightly from the sudden movement, a few of the cards awkwardly fluttering on the surface. The male fixed them wordlessly, as the Courier shifted to accommodate the oversized rifle on his back as it dug into the seat. After a few moments of this, the Courier finally seemed to shrug, leaning back. He clasped his hands in front of himself with a smile.
“How’s it going? My name’s-” a sudden wave of noise drowned out whatever came next, “and I’m a courier, working for the Mojave Express. How ‘bout you two?”
The man smiled underneath the brim of his hat, a certain mirth, “Carn works for me, Courier.”
And before the Courier could ask, the woman tilted her head, rested on her hand, “... Let’s call me Loss.”
If the Courier was phased by these names, he didn’t show it. In fact, he only grinned happily, “Pleased to meet you both! So, y’all called me over for Caravan? Or, is something the matter? I’m happy to help whatever way I can.”
There was a certain earnestness to the Courier’s words, which could have been considered unusual for the Mojave- or just about anywhere, after the War. A single-minded determination to do good, bundled up in a man who sat sprawled in the booth of a rundown bar, his heart too big for the world. Loss picked up a card in her hand, studying it, before looking at the Courier through a comb of black hair, with slanted dark eyes. Carn, too, examined the man that sat across the table, the gun on his back and the fire in his grin. Both came to the same conclusion.
“Would you like to play a game? Nothing serious. Just a little game we’re fond of,” Loss offered. The Courier nodded, and Loss smiled, “It’s a game about the future.”
“You just need to pick three cards from here,” Carn gestured to the cards spread out on the table. The Courier didn’t hesitate for a moment before he drew three, and then Carn set to work. Loss shifted her head.
“Have you ever been to the Mojave before, Courier?” Loss asked.
“Well, yeah. I don’t normally stay in one place for long, though,so.”
“Have you ever noticed anything strange?” Loss pressed, “Things you’ve seen that… perhaps, shouldn’t have existed? Strange.”
The Courier scratched his neck, then shrugged awkwardly, “Sorry, I can’t say I have. Whole Wasteland is pretty strange, if that counts,” and Loss furrowed her brow.
“Your cards,” Carn intercepted, “Would you like me to read them now?”
The Courier nodded exuberant, “Sorry, sorry. What’s it say?” the Courier eyed the three cards curiously. But Carn and Loss wore different expressions. Loss glanced at the cards of past and present, and flipped them over quickly, while Carn handled the future card carefully.
“Oh, don’t worry about those ones, they’re not important,” Loss assured before the Courier could ask, and a combination of the dark lighting and parted hair hid the way her expression was tinged with a concerned sort of fear.
“You said you were delivering a package?” Carn clarified.
“Did I? Well, I mean, I am. I’m picking it up first thing tomorrow morning. Gotta deliver it to New Vegas, if you can believe it,” the Courier leaned back, smiling good-naturedly. Carn set the card down, and he and Loss shared a look.
“Could you do us a favor? We hate to ask, but it’s important. A small favor,” Loss whispered, eyeing the card like a snake, “In Freeside, right near New Vegas.”
“Sure thing! No bother at all, just tell me what ya need,” the Courier perked up, the movement shifting the table and sending the future card drifting. It landed face up, upright: death.
“A man in the old Mormon fort. His name is Arcade Gannon. He’ll need your help with something- tell him we asked,” Carn explained with a subdued voice.
“Done. Happy to help.”
But then the clock near the entrance made a choked buzz, and the Courier glanced over, before hastily beginning to worm out of the booth, “Oh, damnit- it was nice talking to you both, but I really gotta get moving if I wanna be on time. Sorry-”
“Don’t apologize,” Carn interjected, slowly considering the words, “Just. Hm, before you leave, we…”
“Be careful on your way to New Vegas,” Loss took over, “And be wary of the Mojave. There exist stranger things than you could ever imagine.”
The Courier shot them both a beaming smile, before waving a final goodbye, and quickly hurrying away. In the sudden silence they were left with, the man and the woman in the booth seemed to blend in with the darkness, before once finally spoke.
“He hasn’t a clue, does he?”
And the weary response, “Less than none."
"God help you, Courier, because no one else will.”