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The Sierra Madre. A paradise. A new beginning. A chance to start again, reborn into a new life, bursting at the metaphorical seams with ripe opportunity for obnoxious fortune.
What a load of bullshit.
The radios that littered the tight walls of the Sierra Madre sang as loud as usual, echoing throughout the streets with their familiar tunes that never faltered. It was continuous. An ongoing replay. Pre-recorded messages. The voices of people who’d been dead in the dirt for centuries that sang so enthusiastically of new beginnings and happy endings.
But no one is supposed to get a happy ending these days. Not anymore.
They’d sometimes malfunction, but never enough to shut off. The high-pitched screeching of a broken radio was almost preferable to the functional ones. At least there was variety in the noise of a broken radio. Changes in the pitch, different tones that would fade in and out between static and soft music. Though honestly, when you hear the same, two-hundred year old message played back-to-back, hour after hour to no end. Anything would sound better.
The chattering of a maniac. A snake walking in the form of a ghoul— skinless and thieving. A mutant with a god complex, or the eerie silence of a mute woman, guinea-pig to all the fun little experiments by Old World doctors.
Ander was hiding. He hadn’t left the seclusion of an abandoned villa house in some time. He’d been hiding away for— what he guessed— was a couple of days at least, maybe three. He wasn’t far off, but it was really more, nearly five days in seclusion, separated from The father, from the ghosts, the holograms. That fucking gas that preserved the villa, kept its walls clean, save for the rust-colored clouds of dust that shrouded it.
He was sitting on the floor of the villa, his back against the wall, right across from the front door. His eyes locked on the only entrance into his little hideout. His only defense from the horrors of the beloved Sierra Madre that waited so patiently outside for his inevitable return.
What does time matter when you can’t even see the sun?
It was blotted out, he hadn’t seen it in so long. He’d never even considered the sight of the sun to be a preference of his, until it was replaced with angry, red clouds that suffocated and poisoned.
His throat burned and his stomach ached. The collar around his neck felt especially tight every time he swallowed, nearly choking on his own dry, sticky saliva while his adam’s apple bobbed against the hard metal clasped tightly around his flesh. He’d eaten the last can of beans a day or two ago— or maybe it was more— but he couldn’t bring himself to leave. He couldn’t really think, either, his mind becoming clouded with more images than thoughts. Horrid images. Things he could never unsee.
The gifts of the Sierra Madre.
The lifeless body of a hostage, just like him, who’d made the mistake of trying to pry off his collar with a crowbar. Ander hadn’t meant to stumble on it, well, over it, literally. He turned a corner and his foot caught on what was left of a rib bone, jutting out of a gory mess that used to be a human-being. The jumpsuit gave it away first, otherwise, he may have thought that it was just an actual pile of bones and flesh— decaying in the middle of the street.
Oh, how Ander used to pride himself on being hardened by the wasteland. He wasn’t much beside the spitting image image of a courier— long legs beneath a scarred body, amber skin pulled tight, made more of muscle and sinew than anything.
There wasn’t much sign of substance beneath the surface, his whole image seeming decayed since he’d been in the Sierra Madre. Like he was decaying beneath his collar, becoming the same as those damned ghosts that wandered the streets. But image didn’t matter here. He couldn’t escape the ones that came to him while he slept— if he slept at all— and pride had flown out the window long ago.
The images came to him in waves. Painful increments, usually in pairs. The ribs, the mangled organs, the shards of blood-stained bone that used to be inside of a human skull. Behind someone’s face.
When he’d close his eyes, it’s all he could see. Red images of bloodied corpses, lining the streets between villas. Lit only by the light of the casino, so many feet above them. What felt like miles, actually.
Beyond the bodies though, ghosts. The walking corpses wielding spears and bear traps, claws and daggers that threatened to rip and tear at the flesh of whoever they could get closest to.
Ander watched the entrance of his villa waiting for something, but not sure what. How long could he keep this up? How long could he stay locked away before the gas beneath him would eventually rise, choking whatever ounce of life he had left out of him. Or maybe, how long until The father decided he’d gotten tired of waiting, and just detonated the collar right then and there?
How long until he became just another body for some unlucky wastelander to stumble over. How long until Elijah painted the streets with his blood. How long until he was the one hunting people with dead eyes and ghoulish posture.
“Play stupid, play clever, make the mistake of saying ‘no’? That collar on your neck’ll go off and take your head with it.”
Pretentious motherfucker.
“If that collar blows, we all go, so play nice and do what he says.”
Everything inside of Ander— what little coherent thoughts that he could still manage— said ‘fuck that’. But fear was a bastard, cornering him inside dusty little villas like a lost child or a dog on the street. The courier thrived off the adrenaline rush that came with uncertainty, but not like this. Not like this.
He’d jerk at every noise, his eyes and ears open and wide, waiting for some sight of danger. The anticipation of waiting for his own demise to finally show up— to beep loudly in his ears and blow his goddamn head clean off his shoulders— was a reality that he almost couldn’t face.
He had nothing but a machete in his lap. It was dull and rusted from years of being stuck inside some pre-war asshole’s panic room, but it was all he could manage to find that was bigger than a Cosmic knife. His chest and limbs ached as he’d been sitting in the same position for hours, maybe days, and he couldn’t quite remember when he’d last gotten up.
It didn’t matter though, self preservation being in the pilot’s seat, lizard brain telling him all that he needed to know. Fight or flight with a very desperate Fight being the winning candidate. He didn’t think himself a smart man, perceptiveness certainly lacking, but he could feel how his own mind succumbed to fear, with primal urges doting after nothing more than survival, disregarding the preservation of his mind. He could feel how irrational it was, and he knew it to be from the start, yet once again, fear is a bastard.
The skin on his arms and wrists were red and peeling, he’d been picking at his own flesh for hours. A nervous, obsessive tick as he stared across the room, the dark brown door that led into the street below being the center of his attention.
He couldn’t think of anything beyond that. The room around him was a hazy image in his mind. He looked around but the walls seemed to be breathing, the ground under his ass pulsating with the best of his heart. And the door, that damned door, that he couldn’t take his eyes off of.
His eyelids felt heavy, his head spinning for a moment as he tried to keep them open. They closed, of course, briefly, but his heart pounded as he quickly opened them again. He’d repeat this process for hours. He hadn’t slept in a few days, at least. And he’d barely even allowed himself to blink since arriving here, which was, who knows, maybe weeks? Months? Years ago? It couldn’t be year—no. But it felt like centuries.
Any and all thoughts of what he felt, what he looked like before he got here were almost entirely lost to him. All he could think of was getting Elijah what he wanted. Doing what he needed to survive— to escape this fucking hell. His mind couldn’t wander past the ghosts. They sat at the borders of his thoughts, just as they patrolled the walls of the Sierra Madre, searching for bodies to bleed dry and lives to take.
The night was weighing on him more than the Sierra Madre’s demons could. Exhaustion and hunger had caused his body to twist and stick out in ways he hated. Feeling his bones scrape and ache alongside one another as he moved like a robot through his dilapidated villa room made him cringe. The windows were boarded up and the balcony door was locked tight, high up enough that nothing could get inside in any way but the front door. Yet despite every precaution he’d taken, he still felt unsafe. It was as though shock had overcome him and never fully subsided.
Was this all he was now? A robot. A creature wandering through the hazy, red fog of the streets. Nothing more than the gas that fell thick and heavy in his lungs and left him gasping for air, hiding horrors and bodies that would never find even the slightest semblance of peace.
Ander felt so alone. He couldn’t imagine another human speaking to him right now, as all he had was the voice of some Old World celebrity— a woman that told him of how he was lucky to be here, how the Sierra Madre was a sight to behold, a gift to all.
The radio outside his villa that had been playing on repeat, suddenly screeched, hitting octaves he’d never heard before. The static filled his head and shocked him out of his gas-filled haze. What was he doing in here?
The absence of the familiar voices had his mind racing and his stomach doing flips. He hadn’t known silence since being here, having the same message played to him, over and over and over again until he wanted to cut his ears off.
But after a while, it just became background noise. No, not even background noise, just a fact, a thought almost like his own. The voices being embedded in his head, telling him to worship the Sierra Madre and all her gifts.
Ander squeezed his left arm with his hand— dirty nails covered in dried blood and dead skin, digging deep into his own flesh. Picking away at the rough, callous skin that he’d grown over the years, hardened by the dense winds of the Mojave had become a habit. He probably looked crazy, something inside him, even just in the back of his mind, knew he did. He felt it too. But he couldn’t think of appearances, his mind put in a loop of survival and self-preservation, just like the loop of the radio broadcasts.
Eat, sleep, kill.
Stay on watch, report to Elijah, avoid the ghosts.
Watch for radios, don’t touch the collar, report to Elijah.
Find food, don’t breathe the fog, Report to Elijah.
Report to Elijah
His mind and body had grown accustomed to the Sierra Madre, he’d stopped wondering how it would feel to be back in the Mojave a long time ago. Now, all he had was the routines that’d been seared into his brain, doing the same things over and over again. Wandering around the Madre, doing exactly as told, collecting what he needed, avoiding the demons.
The definition of insanity— doing the same thing over and over again, expecting a different or rewarding outcome each time.
He couldn’t stand the silence anymore. The absence of the radio sent him to his feet. He had to leave, he had to hear something. He’d grown so accustomed to hearing the same voice on repeat that at this point, he considered it his own. Without it, his mind was left to wander, to truly contemplate his surroundings, which he wasn’t ready to do just yet. The Sierra Madre has had a hold on him for a month, at least, and yet even now, he hasn’t fully processed it, completely felt the weight of his situation.
He opened the door of the villa, a rusted machete in his thin hand, trembling with fear and anticipation, and watchful, bloodshot eyes surveying his surroundings. His stomach was on its millionth rotation and he knew that if there was anything inside it, he would surely be throwing chunks right now.
He descended the stairs down to the stone street beneath him, following the winding corridors as they crossed and led off in every direction, a maze he could never escape from. Not without help at least, and a little mercy.
He came to a corner, dragging one hand across the stone wall, machete in the other. He’d learned long ago to stick to the walls, blend in and sneak more than to take the direct approach he would have used a month or two ago. The kind of approach that suited him.
Instead, he was forced to conform, to adapt to his surroundings. He was on top of the world in the Mojave and now, when he looked at himself, he felt more like meek prey running from a predator than anything else. A feeling he was not familiar with, nor did he want to be. He felt weak. Helpless and defenseless as his life was in the hands of a merciless captor, leaving him with no leverage and entirely out of his own element.
He didn’t bother stopping at the corner to check for danger on its other side. He’d taken this path a million times to make his way back to the fountain where Elijah’s projection would instruct him. Telling him where to go and what to do. The angry, gaseous fog that floated throughout the streets sat heavy in his lungs as he rounded the corner quickly, a certain panic in his step as he never liked to be out in the streets longer than he had to.
But he should have stopped. Oh, he should have stopped. Somehow, he knew that.
In a second, he was on his back against the hard stone, his nails scraping violently against the rough brick as he tried to push himself up. But his legs were weak. Starvation does that.
A figure loomed over him— no, figures. Ghosts that stared down at him with their dark masks, hiding any kind of face that might have once been visible through the plastic screen. Making them seem more like robots than people. More like ghosts.
Panic spread through his chest and smashed against his lungs, a harsh, acidic fluid making its way up into his mouth as the fear caused him literal sickness. He couldn’t move. Instead, he just stared wide-eyed as the expressionless ghosts moved towards him. Their bodies jerking and contorting in ways that made him physically ill, the shit of nightmares.
He’d try to push himself up, but something horrible within the depths of his mind told him that this was really what he needed, a means to an end.
Before the ghosts could finally reach him, he lifted his machete up to his throat, quickly jamming it between his skin and the metal collar around his neck. Not even bothering to cry out at the pain he felt when the serrated edge sliced into his flesh. With one quick motion, he pulled the machete against the collar, the tip pointing into his throat. A beeping began to ring in his ears and he wished he could feel panic over it, that he could cautiously remove the weapon and begin slashing at his eventual attackers. But no, not this time.
The beeping sped up and a still calmness spread through his chest. A guaranteed relief to his unending suffering. He shut his eyes tightly as he gave one last quick yanking motion on the machete.
An ear piercing explosion rang out through the streets, three more soon following that could only be heard faintly throughout the city. The ghosts walked away, drenched in blood from something that, a couple of seconds ago, would have been their own victim, now succumbed to the horrors of the Sierra Madre by its own volition. Another body to trip over.
Ander’s lungs burned as he sucked in a sharp inhale. His body shot up from the mattress, still draped in bedsheets. He felt a panic that was indescribable— the precursor to glistening streams of hot fluid down his cheeks. With his vision blurred and his sinuses clogged with mucus, he desperately clawed at his throat and his face, feeling for the cold metal that had held him hostage during his stay at the Sierra madre. The beeping he’d heard so many times, once forgotten, was still ringing loudly in his mind.
Images flashed through his head of the horrors that he’d been forced to witness during his imprisonment in the villa. Everything he’d witnessed during the months that he’d stayed inside that damned villa with broken, corrugated walls stacked around him had scarred his mind, seared images and voices into the folds of his brain. His chest was heaving and his ears were ringing, filled with the sounds of his own screaming. He imagined that he’d swallowed sandpaper, gnawed on it until finally went down and scarred everything on the way. His voice was hoarse as he cried out in fear, sobbing in agony as his mind did flips trying to decide— fight or flight. Sobs and screams filled his bedroom.
Hands gripped at his shoulders, benign but soft, pulling at his bare chest and roaming up to his head, moving his face towards the body connected to them. A calm but stern voice other than his own screaming one was faint beneath his, but it was there. It drifted through the frightened gutters of his mind, quietly putting out the mental fires.
Soft palms clasped around his face, resting on either of his cheeks. Thumbs wiped away the tears under his bloodshot eyes and soothed the ache in his chest.
His throat ran coarse, his voice dying suddenly before it could manage to escape his mouth.
“Hey— shh, it’s okay.”
Ander shook his head quickly from side to side. He couldn’t relive it again. He couldn’t face the Sierra Madre because he knew, this time, it would surely kill him. The nightmares were pathetic in comparison to how being there actually felt— locked away inside the resort, his mind flooded with thoughts and voices that weren’t his own, his lungs corroding and collapsing under the weight of the acidic gas. He couldn’t do it again.
He shook his head defiantly with such force that his vision, already blurred, went entirely abstract. His nails dug into the skin on his neck that he could remember being terribly bruised back them, and now, all he could do was desperately try to pry off what was no longer there. He felt like he could still feel it choking him.
“Ander— fuck, please calm down.”
The pair of hands pulled at his face, trying desperately to open his eyes and make him see his surroundings, pulled him gently. Ander imagined the face of a ghost and threw his fists at whatever he could reach. When his arms were tactfully dodged and his wrists caught, he slowed as he felt the warmth of their grip and the gentle voice behind them.
“Listen to me, breathe. Breathe with me, come on—“
Ander leaned into their grip, pressing himself against the warm body attached to them as he began heaving desperate sobs.
“That’s good. That’s alright, just breathe.”
He shoved his face into the fabric of a shirt over the chest of someone he knew. He could smell their scent of soap and cigarettes, feel the texture of their skin and the warmth of their embrace as arms wrapped around him. He collapsed into their grasp, sobbing, just wanting to feel safe again.
“It’s me, you know me. You’re okay, I promise.” The familiar voice assured him in sweet, rhythmic coos. “Don’t hyperventilate on me. In and out, just like that.”
Ander listened and followed his instructions. His breathing, labored and deep, began to even itself out. Tears began squeezing their way past his shut eyelids and he shook violently with the aftershocks of panic. He buried his face into fabric, smearing snot and tears as he tried to forget the images inside his head. .
After a few minutes that managed to feel like years, his breathing was at a relatively steady pace, but his body still shook with the aftershocks of panic. His lungs and muscles aching from the stress that had adrenaline coursing through them at a rapid pace, convincing him, even in his sleep, that he was dying.
He opened his eyes and looked up to see a familiar face. Light skin peppered with freckles on pale cheeks. Blonde, disheveled hair falling over green irises that shined like emeralds. Safety. He saw the pain on Arcade’s face, his expression riddled with worry and fear for Ander’s well-being. Seeing it only made his heart fall further, shame and regret and embarrassment jabbing at his chest and wrecking his body once again. His sobs turned into silent, embarrassed whines as he buried his face in Arcade’s neck.
“No, hey, you’re—“ Arcade shook his head, “you’re okay. It’s alright.”
The room was dark, lit by nothing but a small, dim, table lamp on the nightstand beside Arcade. The faint light filling the room with amber hues, soft and sweet like agave syrup.
Ander could barely see the room or the man that held him but he knew he was safe. Even against the voice in the back of his mind that told him to run or fight or something, he knew. He sniffled into Arcade’s chest, the other man’s hands wiping away the remnants of his panic attack.
The last time Arcade had to do this was weeks ago. They were in a tent in the middle of deathclaw country. Ander didn’t have to speak to express how embarrassed he was for that.
Arcade pulled Ander’s face up to his and placed a soft kiss on his forehead, just between his eyes. The chapped lips trailed down his tear-stained face, leaving feather-light kisses over every inch of skin that had been touched by tears.
He finally looked Arcade in the eyes, and he could practically feel the warmth of relief and comfort gathering in his chest.
Arcade placed a shamelessly sincere, but brief kiss to Ander’s lips before pulling back, his hands falling from the courier’s cheeks and leaving him whining internally at the absence of the comforting hands.
Arcade sighed and patted Ander’s shoulder. “I’m going to get you some water. Stay here.”
Ander watched him move off the edge of the bed, pushing himself up and leaving him all alone in their dark room. He sat in the fetal position with his knees pulled up to his chest, cradling himself in residual fear and sorrow for his circumstances. When Arcade returned, he handed Ander a glass of water. Ander peered into the liquid, eyeing the cubes of ice as they clinked against the glass’ edge.
Arcade wrapped a hand around his and nudged the glass towards him “Go on, take it.”
He wasted no time chugging it. It felt so good to swallow knowing there was nothing around his neck, preventing the passage of air and food and water.
Arcade set it on the nightstand beside him and moved the covers, sliding under them once again and beckoning Ander down with him. The brunette huddled up close to Arcade, resting his head on the other man’s chest and humming softly. Arcade made quick work of holding him close and carding fingers through his hair soothingly.
Arcade cleared his throat. “Do you want to talk about it?”
Ander thought for a moment, trying to decide if he was even capable of thinking about the dream— the Sierra Madre— long enough to recount the events. He swallowed hard and shook his head against Arcade’s chest, waiting a moment before softly mumbling a response.
“No.”
Arcade hummed in acknowledgment and continued running his fingers through Ander’s hair, parting the locks a million different ways and massaging his scalp, tender as could be.
Ander couldn’t even pretend to know, to the fullest extent, how the the months he’d spent in the Sierra Madre had affected him. Between the toxic gas, the sun-less days and the sleepless nights, who could truly say?
All he knew was that right now, he had all he needed. He’d never have to go back to that place, and he would find out how to let go, eventually. But right now, even if just for tonight, he had all the protection he needed wrapped around him tightly, making him as safe as he could possibly feel.
Letting go was the hard part, sure, but as long as he had Arcade, at least he wouldn’t have to do it alone.