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Cyrus took only half a step back from leaning on the bars of the cell door, his fingers lingering momentarily over the rusted metal as he disentangled them, when God approached with the key. He watched as the man fumbled to reach through the holding cell’s bars with only his fingers, his palms far too large to fit through the gaps, and said nothing when he dropped the key and had to try again, the note of resignation in his sigh betraying a prolonged struggle with the tremors rippling through his extremities. Though they had only just spoken for a few minutes, Cyrus could tell he preferred to be left alone.
Reminded of nightkins’ general preference not to be perceived, he diverted his attention to the holding cell’s other contents such that, as God slid the door out of the way, Cyrus’s attention was fixed firmly on the floor behind him.
“What?” God growled at him as the human blocked his only exit from the cage.
“I think I see an 8 of...spades? Back there.”
The super mutant turned a fraction of a degree to the side, just enough to glance over at the various scraps littering the cell’s floor.
“I collect unique Caravan cards,” Cyrus offered by way of an explanation.
“Of course you do.” Even with that, however, Cyrus refused to budge. “Are you waiting for permission? It isn’t mine. I don’t collect garbage.”
In point of fact, he had been waiting for explicit permission and took it readily. Though it was a short walk, he focused intently on his gait as he crossed the enclosed space, unwilling to give its occupant too wide a berth lest he give the impression that any of God’s threats had actually gotten to him. It was less a matter of pride and more that Cyrus was familiar with this behavior pattern. They weren’t empty threats, but they were made with the primary intention of establishing an emotional distance between them. Cyrus would respect that implied request for detachment, but he wouldn’t respond by erecting the same walls around himself. He would prove to his new “teammate” that he thought nothing of him other than rude.
Sadly, borrowed reading glasses from a random desk drawer in the station could only do so much, and the poor match of focal length to his needs obscured the exact distance between them. Their knuckles brushed lightly, a graze faint enough that Cyrus considered it of negligible consequence. God, in contrast, flinched as though struck with a brand and sneered at him. Cyrus could tell without looking that it was an expression of contempt rather than pain, and ignored it just as he had the touch itself.
Retrieving his lightly stained prize, Cyrus tucked the card into the breast pocket of his white jumpsuit before turning to give his reluctant companion another appraising glance, now in slightly clearer lighting. Before, with God inside of his cage and Cyrus on the outside, he had been so heavily backlit, so thoroughly drenched in shadow as he crowded the one remaining fluorescent lamp with his massive frame, that he had appeared downright demonic. Now, however, facing the light rather than turning away from it, he looked like most any nightkin. He appeared malnourished and worse for wear with all his scars, but his one good eye, glinting with malice, looked as relatable as anything. What was that eye color, Cyrus found himself pondering. Yellow? Orange? As his gaze drifted slightly to the side, though, he frowned as his thoughts were jerked in a different direction entirely.
“Is that wound fresh?” he asked, squinting at the crudely wrapped portion of God’s upper arm. “It’s seeping through the bandage.”
“It’s nothing that will slow me down.”
Cyrus crossed his arms over his chest, unable to tell if his developing headache was from the poorly-matched glasses or his temporary cell mate’s impertinence.
“I’m more worried about infection. You don’t realize-”
“Super mutants do not share the same concern for that as you humans do,” God explained, voice dripping with condescension. Cyrus realized how little he knew about super mutants’ specific physiology. “We’re much more resilient, insusceptible even.”
“Still, it wouldn’t hurt to have me look at it, would it?” he asked, hoping to reason. “I have medical training, and-”
“If you so much as touch me again,” God whispered in a growl, taking only a single, heavy step to close the gap between them and blot out the light once more, “I will tear both of your arms off and leave them as bait for the ghost people. Between that and your screams, well...” It was likely intended as another growl, but the deep rumble from God’s chest registered as more of a purr to Cyrus’s sleep-deprived mind, “I’d be rid of a great nuisance in record time, I imagine.”
“Duly noted,” Cyrus replied tersely, having not budged an inch from where he stood. “Feel free to let me know if you ever need medical attention, though. You may be pretty cavalier about the whole ‘gory death by way of explosive decapitation’ part of this equation, but there are still two other people out there besides us whose fates I’d like to be considerate of.”
“Imbecile. You don’t even know who those other two collars are.”
“I hardly know who you are,” Cyrus gestured at God with raised eyebrows, “but that doesn’t mean I won’t do my damnedest to ensure you don’t end up with a hole blown out your gut, bleeding out. That’s how you’d go, by the way,” he clarified, shifting his weight to one leg and giving God an unamused look, “since your collar is in your stomach and not around your neck. These charges are only calibrated to decapitate. It isn’t like swallowing a hand grenade. You won’t go quickly.”
“It makes no difference.” The super mutant’s voice had gone cold again. At least when he was hurling threats and insults, Cyrus could feel the heat of life behind them. Now, he got the genuine impression God didn’t care how or if he and Dog perished. “I will do as I please. Whether you accept that or not is your own problem. Your warnings are unwanted.”
Cyrus sighed, setting his hands on his hips and shaking his head in dismay. A man who could neither be reasoned nor bargained with: truly unique in this age of want and need, desire and necessity. If nothing else, he was a bit jealous of how little the nightkin managed to care about anything other than his revenge. The courier himself was meant to be off in New Vegas, taking his own revenge; or, at least, that’s what everyone he shared his story with seemed to think. If he’d been half as obsessed with Benny as God was with the old man, maybe he never even would have ended up in this villa God refused to forsake.
When he looked up, he found the other man eyeing him curiously over his shoulder.
“You are a queer one, though, aren’t you?” he muttered with suspicion.
“Buddy,” Cyrus began without a hint of irony, “you have no idea.”
Based on the confused look he got, Cyrus assumed his subtext had been lost.
“No matter,” God determined as he headed for the door of the station. “Whether your sycophantic displays are a ruse or just proof of how ill-fit you are to this job, the Sierra Madre shall lay your true nature bare. You shall see.”
“Good!” Cyrus said, throwing up his arms in exasperation as he moved to follow. “Let it. Maybe then you’ll believe me.”
God waited by the entrance and gestured toward it sardonically.
“Lead the way, Doctor.”
Cyrus rolled his eyes.
“I’m not officially a doctor. I just have some medical training. I’m just a courier.”
“Brilliant.” The caustic edge to his tone made Cyrus think God was less thrilled about this development than he let on. “Then by all means, deliver us from this hell.”