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October in the Mojave wasn’t much different from the earlier summer months, aside from the fact that the sun went down a bit earlier each day. The Courier wasn’t unfamiliar—he hailed from a similar enough climate, knew the cycles. Long, hot summers, a glimpse of something close to fall, and short, harsh winters, pretty much no spring to speak of. The Courier trudged along, fresh from his grave in Goodsprings. Out of appreciation for them not letting him rot in his shallow grave, he’d stuck around a day or two to help them out with some problems around town, but now the hunt was on.
The trail he was pursuing was faint—little physical evidence of the man who’d shot him was left, aside from nine half-smoked cigarettes he’d found at his gravesite. He was operating solely from word of mouth, something The Courier wasn’t particularly comfortable with. He’d grown up hunting—knew how to follow a trail and knew how to think like his targets. He liked having clear paths to follow, preferably directly in the footsteps of something or someone else. Doesn’t mean he didn’t know how to forge his own paths forward, though, just that he was jumpy when he did. More on edge. Made him feel less like a pursuer, less oriented in the world around him.
He figured this wasn’t so bad, though. He could get into his target’s head easy enough. Some useless city boy that had to jump him when he wasn’t looking if he wanted any sort of a chance at getting the better of him. The guy was too well-dressed for the wastes—the Courier had to assume he was from New Vegas, or maybe Reno, but considering which city was closest, he knew where the asshole’d be scurrying back to—but, similarly to following what other people say at face value, he didn’t like working off of assumptions. As the Courier set up camp, about halfway between Goodsprings and Primm, he thought more on the asshole, tried to explore whatever avenue the guy could’ve been coming from when he decided it was a good idea to shoot a Courier he’d never met before over a goddamn poker chip. Sure, it was shiny, but surely it wasn’t worth that much, right? Most sane people would’ve just tried to pay him off—not that the Courier would take a payment of that sort. He had a reputation to uphold, and the place he’s from, pride is a virtue. He’d never lost a package before, and he certainly wasn’t about to lose it to some goddamned city-slicker.
Typically, if he were really set on pursuing fast enough to catch his target before he got back to his own playing field, whatever hole in New Vegas (probably) the scum had slithered out of, he wouldn’t bother with resting on the walk, but he figured he’d already had a big enough setback that it wouldn’t matter too much. He’d already spent eight days laying on his ass in Doc Mitchell’s waiting to be pronounced dead, a break now couldn’t hurt. He unpacked a bit of meat he’d taken off of a gecko during today’s trek and diced it up to put on a skewer. He shouldn’t be thinking on an empty stomach, after all.
The thing that really messed the Courier up was the fact that he’d run into the guy on the way to Goodsprings. Never asked his name, didn’t bother to remember him outside of being some dude that looked way too well-dressed for that dive back in Sloan—they must’ve been taking the same trail in. Shit, the guy was probably scoping out if he thought he could handle the chip business on his own. The Courier smiled to himself at that thought—must've made a good enough impression that the guy decided he did, in fact, need the hired thugs that’d been trailing him, with the added element of surprise.
The fella in the checkered suit had chatted him up a bit while the Courier was taking a smoke break outside of the diner in Sloan—the Deathclaws on the way in had worn him out. Traveling to Goodsprings from the north was always good fun, but a little greenery from back home should help him, surely. It’s a good thing he stopped himself from walking to Vegas on the way for a bit of fun, or he’d have sold his current stash for caps to put into the slots. Patting around his pockets, he searched for a lighter... shit. He must’ve lost it during the Deathclaw encounters or something. He’d need to get a new one next time he was near any sort of legitimate civilization, ‘cause the lack of a lump in his front left pocket told him his matchbook was empty, too.
“Need a light, baby?” He turned and saw the last sort of person he’d expect to see in Sloan—fully suited in a checkered blazer, holding out... the Courier almost laughs. A very shiny engraved lighter. He didn’t know those still existed.
The Courier shrugs and holds out his joint to the man, allowing it to be lit. The man, with what looks like much-rehearsed ease, flicks open the lighter and holds it to the end of the joint. The suit laughs a bit when he recognizes in full what he’s holding out.
“Didn’t know that stuff still existed. Could I get a hit from that?” The Courier looks him over again.
“You able to handle this stuff, bud?” The man to the left of him almost looks offended, huffing slightly as he puts the cigarette he had probably intended to smoke on out here in his chest pocket. The Courier starts puffing on the joint, getting it going. “Speakin’ of, how’d a suit like you make it through Quarry Junction?”
“Traveling with friends, baby.” The Courier gives a nod, a silent “yeah, figures”. The Courier didn’t pay him much mind after that, outside of passing the joint to him twice and watching with a bit of joy as he hacked and choked over each puff he took, but he couldn’t help but notice the guy kept looking at him. If it weren’t for their reunion in Goodsprings, the Courier wouldn’t have taken any note of it.
Now, the Courier sits. Sits by the campfire and rolls one of the cigarette butts he collected from his grave between his fingers. Nine cigarette butts in total—he remembered he’d laughed while picking them up. Either the guy had a serious chainsmoking problem already or killing the Courier did enough of a number on him to start a serious chainsmoking problem. Either way, if the Courier was lucky, lung cancer’d do his work for him. He felt his eyes wander to the butt end of the cigarette. He can’t explain why he’s drawn to it, really. He’s no scientist, it’s not like he can DNA test it or anything. Not like that even exists anymore, outside of Old World crime holotapes. He puts the cigarette back in the pocket with the others. Maybe he does fancy himself a detective. Maybe his mind keeps flashing back to Sloan, and how the man’s lips fell on the filter of the joint, and how the Courier couldn’t help but wonder what they felt like. Probably much different than the Courier’s own chapped, cracking lips. In the city he’s pretty sure they’ve got lip balms and stuff. Maybe he should buy some when he makes it to Vegas.