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One click. One flick. The lighter held by the bastard in the checkered suit flared its little flame in the chill Mojave night, a stubborn warmth kept alive only long enough for him to light his cigarette before he snuffed it out. It was not the only source of light. A small oil-fed lamp illuminated the bastard’s posse of goons, three hired guns. Stars speckled the blackened sky overhead, decorating the void of space from vast lightyears away.
To the courier, those stars looked far closer than her destination did now. New Vegas’ gaudy neon lights were visible miles away behind the bastard in the checkered suit. Just a few days more, and she would have reached her destination. She would have handed off her delivery, none the wiser for the danger its contents had put her in. Just a few more days, and these men would have had no reason to ambush her.
Hell, another hour and she would have made it to Goodsprings. Would she have been safe there…?
Spilled braham milk, now. The courier peeled her hopeless blue eyes from Mr. House’s bastion of safety from the wastes; albeit one that was a den of gambling and depravity. She looked up at the bastard in the checkered suit grimly, unable to speak with the gag in her mouth. It had been fashioned from a rag torn off her own shirt, tasting of her own sweat and blood. The ropes trussing her up were her own, taken from her pack.
He gazed down at her, taking a long drag from his cigarette and blowing out a longer plume of smoke. For the last few minutes, no one had said much of anything, but that did not mean the small group was silent. One of the mercenaries was several feet to the courier’s left, digging a sloppy, shallow uneven grave that would house her remains for the rest of eternity.
Or, more likely, until some wastelands creature sniffed out her body, dug her out and had itself lunch. Maybe it wouldn’t even be a creature. Maybe some super mutant would come by and presume bodies could be planted; maybe that super mutant would go on to try becoming a farmer, with unhappy results. Can’t believe I survived this long only to die like this, she thought to herself, the bitterness within her not able to push down the tears threatening to spill down along her cheeks.
They were going to kill her. She didn’t know what was in the package. If they had held her up at gunpoint and demanded it– it was fucking insured . The courier would have let them take it without protest. The caps were not worth her life. Whatever was in the package, though, they apparently wanted to keep its recipient in the dark– the package not reported missing, but just seeming late. Nothing to worry about, not until it dragged on too long and its contents were beyond recovery.
Wouldn’t have reported it if they told me I’d die for it, the courier told herself. Whether that was true or not, it didn’t matter now. Nothing did. Certainly not the words that came out of the bastard in the checkered suit’s mouth.
“Well,” he sighed, flicking ash from the end of his smoke before throwing it to the rough ground beneath him. The courier watched it fall, and then watched him stomp out its lit cherry, shown the same dignity that she would soon receive. “Time to cash out.”
“Would you get it over with?” one of the hired guns asked impatiently, a man sporting a white bandana tied around his forehead, his face housing a horseshoe mustache. The courier studied it for a moment. Given the chance, she would have gleefully set it aflame.
The bastard in the checkered suit closed his eyes briefly and lifted his hand in a dismissive gesture. “Maybe cons kill people without looking them in the face, but I’m not a fink, dig?” Taking a few steps closer to the courier, he reached beyond his suit jacket’s lapels and took out what seemed to be a silver bottle cap at first glance, the nearby firelight making it glint. “You’ve made your last delivery, kid,” he said down to her, gesturing meaningfully with what he held.
Is that what was in the package? The metal was whiter than silver, nothing she was familiar with. Flat, though. Not a bottlecap, but a poker chip. I’m going to die over a fucking poker chip. It meant nothing to her; it may as well have been a joke. If it was, she would not be wasting any of her last breaths on laughter.
“Sorry you got twisted up in this scene,” the bastard continued his monologue, putting the chip back inside his suit, close to his heart. Closer to where he had been keeping the heavy, silver-plated handgun he took out in its place. “From where laying, it must seem like an eighteen karat run of bad luck,” he said, pitiless, full of himself, lacking any kind of remorse or regret despite his apology.
The courier closed her eyes, shoulders tense. … Wish he wasn’t so handsome, but I guess it’s better than the last face I see being Mustache over there. Just shut the fuck up and get this over with.
“Truth is,” he said, arrogant in his victory as he leveled and cocked his gun, “the game was rigged from the start.” Then he squeezed the trigger, and then before she even heard its thunderous discharge–
Nothing.
–And then she was waking up on a couch, woozy, dizzy, weak… but alive, with two faces burned into her memory. Goodsprings’ local doctor had performed a medical miracle, considering the bastard in the checkered suit had made sure to put an extra bullet in her head for good measure. She’d been preposterously lucky; discovered still-breathing in her shallow grave by a securiton, the two bullets lethal but not immediately fatal. Within days, she was up and on her feet, feeling like a different person
Whatever game he thought he had been playing, his rigging hadn’t been as thorough as he had thought.
Most people would have turned around and left, glad to be alive. Straight home or straight to the nearest delivery outlet, one of the two.
Most people wouldn’t have survived what she did. When the courier eventually left Goodsprings, she did so as a woman on a mission, every thought and every action dedicated to paying back the bastard in the checkered suit for what he had done to her. All throughout her life, revenge had never seemed all that worth it to her, considering its risks. But then, she’d never been shot in the head twice and thrown in a shallow grave before. Never had brain damage before, either, but thankfully her personality seemed to be the only thing impacted by that.
It took a couple of days for her to actually leave the sleepy little wasteland town, of course. Even though she was on her feet quickly, ad-hoc brain surgery would have taken its toll on anyone’s mental facilities and physical capabilities. Most of the locals were kind to her in the lead-up to her departure, making sure that she could aim a gun straight and knew what Mojave plants were safe for consumption and which would torture her stomach for daring to breathe the air around them.
In the Prospector Saloon, they humored her as she drank the free gin & tonic given to her by the barkeep. It was nothing more than purified water per Doc Mitchell’s orders, but the placebo effect went far for her. Her harrowing tale of survival was one that she would share with anyone willing to listen. Most were willing to listen out of sympathy and compassion. As she made clear her intent to hunt down and kill the bastard in the checkered suit, some gave soft affirmations, not expecting her to follow through once the painkillers stopped. Others urged her to not take her luck for granted, and to escape the Mojave with her life while she could.
Some only listened because such dramatic tales did not often make their way to sleepy little Goodsprings.
A select few, however, only listened to her because the bloody bandages wound around her head did not detract from how fine a piece of eye candy she was. Although the courier was of average height, there was little else that was average about her– save perhaps the career she had chosen, and the fact that she had not yet been abducted and collared by raiders.
Though her skin sported a farmer’s tan from all her time on the road, it remained soft and supple to the eye and to the touch. Defending herself on the road had earned her only a few scars. Getting domed in the noggin would definitely add to them, but they were easily hidden by the long fall of her wavy ash-brown hair, sun-bleached with natural highlights. When she got back on the road, it would be going up in a tail, but while she remained in Goodsprings it hung loose halfway down her back.
Such long hair was a rarity few wastelanders enjoyed, male or female. It added a certain exoticism to her already extraordinary appeal. Even while Doc Mitchell’s painkillers were dulling her mind and leaving her expression vapid, her face was nothing short of gorgeous, her lips full and oh-so-pink, balanced by cheeks still soft with you and dimples to die for. The shade of her long-lashed eyes was a startlingly clear blue, wide and precious with their capacity for innocence and expressive emotion.
Not that anyone saw innocence on her face throughout her time in Goodsprings. The bastard in the checkered suit had robbed her of that, but he hadn’t robbed her of her ability to smile with her eminently kissable lips, demanding attention on their own. As comely as the courier’s face was, it was not her most enticing feature. It was simply the one that wasn’t kept covered in decent company, the one that those with a mind to avoid seeming like a pervert felt most comfortable leering at.
And she was not against being kissed. There were some holes in her memory, courtesy of the fragmented bullets that Doc Mitchell had picked out of her brain. If she had someone waiting for her back home (and she did), she no longer remembered them. Her feelings towards romance and relationships… Well, she no longer knew what they were in the past.
But she did know she was damn horny and had nothing better to do, so when someone tried to kiss her in the Saloon, she kissed them back. It didn’t take long for the people most interested in her as a piece of ass realized she’d kiss anyone back, male or female, young or old, ugly or as comely as she was. So long as they welcomed her hands on their body, they were likewise allowed to feel as they pleased along her jumpsuit.
When Doc Mitchell gave her his wife’s Vault 3 jumpsuit, he did not foresee the possibility that his neighbors would be groping the courier through it. It fit her shapely body like a glove just a bit tighter than snug, revealing her curvaceous shape without exposing any skin beneath the neck. Those who dared to push the envelope would find the courier willing and receptive to them, unabashed in going as far as they pleased.
Some went the distance with her, pulling her into the outhouse or to whatever building they were staying in for a quick lay. The dirty glares of their neighbors kept the majority from pushing past sloppy, pet-heavy makeout sessions in the Saloon’s back booths. Those that the courier slept with… well, she fantasized about another man, whether she was riding or getting railed or going south of another lady’s borders. Even while getting laid, all of her thoughts and actions were dedicated to the bastard in the checkered suit.
Probably the brain damage, but she didn’t give a damn why it was, only that it was.
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That single-minded focus of hers did not last long, however. One of her lays had seen her target heading in the direction of New Vegas. Even those who had been humoring her ravings about revenge cautioned against beelining straight to New Vegas: the way there was not safe. The smart thing to do was taking a circular route. Hell, some caravaners passing through offered to take her with them, if she could bear to wait a couple of days for tem to finish their business in Goodsprings.
But the courier did not. She went forward, ignoring their warnings over the dangers.
As it turned out, there was one thing that could get her damaged mind off the bastard that tried to kill her, the man she wanted to fuck until his brains leaked out his ears.
Cazadors.
The first glimpse she had of one? It seemed like nothing worse than a bloatfly, easily popped by the small caliber bullets loaded into her hunting rifle. She learned quickly that was not the case. Several direct shots only made it angry at her. Several more from her 9mm handgun only made its friends angry at her. A few minutes of running for her life and then a timely grenade solved that problem whilst attracting a dozen more cazadors.
The courier did not think about the bastard in the checkered suit as she ran for her life. Just wasn’t much time for him, or anything else for that matter– for the first time since she had awoken from her surgery, it no longer seemed certain she would survive to find him and fuck him. Or kill him, whichever it was. Should’ve listened to everyone telling me to wait and go the long way–
Thankfully, the grenades she had been given served as suitable cazador repellant.
Unfortunately, she had not been given many grenades. Continuing to press forward felt like the only option available to her, considering there was always a cazador on the horizon behind her. Whenever she felt as though she might be in the clear, another swarm seemed to find her. By mid-afternoon, she was out of grenades. Her ineffective ammunition had run dry. Several dozen bullets, and she had only managed to kill one or two of the things with her shots.
She was exhausted, dehydrated. When her legs gave out and she ate dirt, she knew her end was coming, carried forth with buzzing wings. Clenching her eyes tight and gritting her teeth, the courier girded herself. Get it over with – Words that most awaiting their executions would only have time to think once; now she had done so twice.
The untimely sound of unexpected gunfire rattled her, and for a moment the courier thought she was dead. Then she heard the squeal of tires… metal-clad feet on the ground near her… cackling, shouts… and the roar of a flamer. Shaking, she huddled on the ground, finding no reprieve in the scent of burning cazadors.
I’m saved, she realized slowly. I still have a chance to kill him. Is this… the NCR? Slowly, the courier lifted her head and looked up from the boots of the man nearest to her. If the NCR had adopted a policy of reusing the makeshift armor sported by raiders, she was in luck. The flamer-toting savior hid his face behind a welding mask.
“T-thank… thank you,” she said through panicked pants, crawling closer to him as more of the men closed in around her. For a moment, the courier dared to hope despite the sniggering and crude comments coming out of those around her, her eyes set up on the man who had turned the pursuing creatures into barbecue.
He lowered the flamer to his side, hoisting it one-handed while his other one raised his welding mask high. The nasty, heartless smile on his face did not immediately quash the courier’s hope.
To her eyes… he looked a little bit like the bastard in the checkered suit. Just a little bit. It wasn’t in his complexion or his hair or the soulless malevolence of his gaze; the bastard in the checkered suit was less weathered, didn’t grease his hair into a mohawk and at least believed the bullshit he told her prior to taking his shot.
He just looked like he was going to be the death of her.
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Doesn’t smell like him, though, the courier thought despondently to herself. She had to admit, that was a strange thing to expect. The courier hadn’t gotten close enough to the bastard in the checkered suit to know how he smelled. It was simply unthinkable to her that he could have an aroma as pungent and offensive as that of her flamer-toting savior. Despite her memory’s spottiness, she was absolutely certain he carried with him the worst scent she had ever endured.
They were in the main camp, now, nestled amongst the ruined skeleton of what was once a concrete building. He had shoved her into his private area until her legs refused to go any further, and then he had dragged her by the hair.
“Prettier than Sarah, you are,” he laughed, low and rumbling as he looked down at her. The way that he discarded his hefty flamethrower showed no love or respect for his weapon, landing roughly on rough ground.
“Thank you,” the courier replied numbly, at odds with the disgust in her belly and the pounding of her heart. She had no idea who Sarah was, but she had heard her savior’s name when he laid claim to her– or at least, she had heard his moniker. Cook-Cook. It was a foregone conclusion that the charred human bodies hung up around the camp were his handiwork; it was a foregone conclusion that these men had no affiliation with the New California Republic.
The group that had rescued her had no women in it, but she had seen several since their arrival and had heard perhaps a dozen more; yelping and whimpering and moaning, with some in the midst of hysterical laughter. None of them looked happy, collared as they were. Some of them wore rags. Most wore nothing, were she willing to discount the collars as nothing more than accessories. Stained seed and unwashed dirt? Definitely didn’t count.
Raiders. Slavers.
Soon, the courier knew she was going to be in similar straits.
“At least in the face,” Cook-Cook chuckled again, leering as he stepped closer. The courier backpedaled from him, legs exhausted and weak. Her back thumped against one of the concrete pillars, and she made herself small and flat against it. But flat was something she would never be, and the tight fit of her Vault 3 jumpsuit made that obvious, darkened with unseemly sweat from the day’s struggle for survival. The long, slimy drag of his eyes down along her body made it clear he liked both what he saw, and what was promised beneath it. “Gonna have to see if your tits are prettier, too.”
“Oh,” the courier mumbled weakly, and then she was yelping; he had a foot of height on her and no kindness in his heart. The backhanded slap across her cheek left her cheek stinging, a sharp surprise that put an end to her numbness. As she reeled, the enormous hand that made his flamer look like a child’s toy came down on her chest. Helpless, the courier squirmed in discomfort as his fingers groped and squeezed at her with flagrant disregard for keeping her flesh undamaged. It only took him a handful of seconds to find somewhere the jumpsuit had begun to fray, and then a handful more for him to tear that hole wider.
As the hole grew, so too did her need to get away from Cook-Cook and his offensive odor. Standing at arm’s length from him, it had been overpowering. Now that he had stood so close to her, invading her personal space– it was actively sickening. Though her mind was wild and open to any possibility that would enable a swift flight from the Fiend’s chief chef, she had no energy. All her adrenaline was used up, and she had nowhere to go in her panic, body wriggling as though it might burrow into the concrete.
All the while, Cook-Cook kept laughing and chuckling, something about the cadence of his heavy breathing utterly inhuman, monstrous. With one last rough haul, the hole he had torn into the blue fabric became a chasm. The tits Cook-Cook wanted to see spilled free, exposing with it the courier’s ribs and belly along with the flare of her hips. The farmer’s tan on her face and arms had been kept at bay, leaving her flesh almost milky-pale where his rough handling had not reddened her.
“Not bad,” he chortled raucously, his hand lifting as though to slap his thigh with laughter. The only thing he slapped was her left breast, making the courier shriek out even before his hand closed around it and squeezed it for all it was worth. No one in Goodsprings had been able to make her tit feel small in their hand, but he did. “Fuckin’ prettier than Sarah,” he praised her, before bending, seizing her nipple with his teeth. There was no kissing, no licking, just biting and tugging while his hands sought to shred at the rest of her jumpsuit.
The courier grabbed at his shoulders, wanting to push him away, but all she could do was grip on and whine, unable to muster the words she needed to speak to get him to stop– worthless as any begging would have been. She was nobody, and the raiders wouldn’t have cared if she was somebody . They had captured her, and now she was theirs.
“Not milky. Pfaw,” Cook-Cook spat to the side when he released her nipple, its areolae sure to bruise. “Biggest udders in a while, and you’ve still got nothing on Queenie. Should just go fuck her again,” he grumbled, glowering down at the courier as she stared up at him with tear-filled blue eyes. For a moment and just a moment, the innocence they once belied returned, frightened into place. Anyone with a shred of care and compassion for their fellow humans would have lost their will to continue, then and there.
And for a moment, just a moment, the courier hoped he would choose to go fuck Queenie, whomever she was. The low mooing of the otherwise quiet brahmin off to the side of his area distracted her from Cook-Cook briefly, and then she felt his hands finish their further ripping of her jumpsuit. Her body’s paleness continued down from her belly and pelvis, right down to her mound. There, however, color had begun to spring forth, welling up with her pussy’s hapless dampness. Its flushed swell was far from modest, if it ever was.
She didn’t want to have sex with Cook-Cook, but sex wasn’t something she had been able to refuse since the bastard in the checkered suit left her for dead. “S-stop,” she managed. She managed to squeeze her thighs together too, but that didn’t mean anything once he shoved his hand between her soft and supple thighs, dirty fingers pawing at her cunt intrusively. Those words of protest faded into weaker mewls as he penetrated her, finding the hole wet and warm and oh-so-welcoming, and tight too.
So tight.
Those fingers were next in her mouth, far from clean despite the arousal keeping her pussy floodingly wet. They pushed deep, almost enough to make her gag on them, and that itself was enough for the courier to squeeze her eyes tight. She felt and heard what he did next rather than see it, and perhaps that was for the best: the belt holding up his leg’s armor dropped, taking with it everything it supported in a metallic clatter. Abnormal in size and shape and even texture, his cock brushed against her thigh– almost leathery. The hand not violating her mouth hiked her leg up, and with one hard shove, he was inside her.
Her pussy was hot, but his mutated cock was hotter, and not in a good way. Cook-Cook’s cock-cock was the sort of member savored by size queens, something to be used with care until one was warmed up, but from the beginning it was an inferno. He slammed rough and deep, made harsher for the impact against the concrete the courier was against. She howled around his fingers, the queasy feeling in her belly shooting up through her torso.
She should’ve hated it. It was painful, hateful, unwanted, but her loathsome, treacherous twat of a fuckhole just couldn’t say no. Lascivious were its squeezes and shudders of lurid wonder, despite the fact it was not coming close to getting her off. None of the men in Goodsprings had been able to get her off either, but even the roughest of them were gentle in comparison to Cook-Cook, and even the worst of them were more enjoyable for her. His thrusts were savage enough that she was certain he was ruining her, practically carving the inside of her cunt to match his galling cock and his galling cock alone.
The end came without fanfare, just a vicious growl and snarl paired with a knock against her cervix rough enough that the courier almost fainted from the flare-up of pain within her. Whatever mutations he bore, his insemination felt more like a steady pour of his irradiated semen rather than shots and ropes of it. “Prettier than Sarah, but no. Fuckin’. Milk,” he grumbled again as he pulled out of her, fingers and cock departing her holes at once. Both her mouth and cunt were left gaping, one drooling with saliva, the other with a steady flow of invirile sperm. “Fuckin’ worthless.”
Breathing hard and shaking, the courier slipped down to her ass, wanting to curl into a ball tight enough to protect herself from the world. She was halfway to squeezing her knees against her chest when the man who claimed her grabbed her hair and pulled her to the open-air entrance to his private den, putting his boot to her arse and calling out, “Don’t want her!”
Every man without an enslaved bitch of their own was more than happy to take Cook-Cook’s sloppy seconds. She didn’t even have a chance to push up from the rough, broken ground before the first of them was on her. The Fiends were not ones for decorum, and privacy was something reserved for the raider gang’s leaders and most important members. He thought nothing of taking his cock out in front of any who cared to watch, pushing the courier’s head down while his cock brutishly claimed her untouched ass, lubed only with what his cock had leaked.
The courier was lucky in one way; even with it being her first time there, her ass was proving just as eager to gobble cock as her cunt. That did not make it easy; though this second raider cock was of a more reasonable and humane size and scale, it still made her howl as it forced its way into her bowels, her pale ass left battered by the hips of the man fucking her. When one of the raiders slit that man’s throat and replaced him, she hardly noticed; it coincided with someone else grabbing her long, loose hair to lift her face.
For a half-second, she looked at him, unhappy mouth open in pained whine. Then his unwashed cock was being jammed into her mouth, into her throat, and there wasn’t much for her to see but his pelvis. Her gag reflex kicked in well before her nose was buried in his unkempt pubic hair, a response that only seemed to urge him on and on.
There was no more luck for her. The courier had used all of that up; most of it with her miraculous survival, and the rest of it gone with her ass’ virginity. A stark sense of dissociation began to kick in even before the two men inside her finished, for all the courier could do was endure their sadistic lusts. Being fucked thrice was only a drop in the bucket to what she suffered that first night. That number was next doubled, one man laying on the ground and seizing her hips, controlling their rise and fall. Another stood over him to take the second stab at her mouth, while another squatted low and pulled her arms back while reaming her ass.
None of her slutty escapades in Goodsprings had involved more than one man or woman at a time, and even going back-to-back, she had herself a nice little break between. There was none of that. The men ravaged her, came in her or on her, then fucked off so someone else could step in and fuck her. There were so, so many Fiends, and comparatively few of them had been allowed to take a slave for themselves. No one went out of their way to remove the rest of her clothing so much as it came off incidentally, ripped and discarded repeatedly. One man held her down in a traditional breeding press, and in the course of following up on Cook-Cook, he fucked one of her boots right off.
The other stayed stubborn on her, the lone garment remaining on her skin. More than one of the Fiends proved to be a foot fiend unto themselves, taking the opportunity to fuck against it when no other hole was available. Indeed, they proved to be rather creative in what and where they could fuck when the conventional options were not available– her armpits, the inside of her elbows, beneath her knees… some just wrapped her sun-bleached brunette hair around their cocks and jacked themselves off with it.
At some point, one of the collars lining the other slave’s throats was put around hers. Not all of them could be satisfied by sticking their cocks deep inside of her; some found opportunities to be more creative, and she learned the taste of sweaty balls and raider ass firsthand. Their hands could not be contented with just fondling her tits; they slapped and squeezed what felt like every inch of her.
After a while, they all began to look a little like the bastard in the checkered suit.
After a while, they stopped.
After a while, they started again. Cook-Cook let his flamer have a turn with her.
After a while, it had been days. The courier had stopped observing when it stopped or started.
After a while, it had been weeks.
After a while… after a while… after a while…
After a while, they thought they had broken her. They thought her unseeing eyes and obedience meant she had accepted her place with them. After a while, the Fiends stopped paying as much attention to her, for unwashed her beauty was hidden.
After a while, the courier had her fill of knock-off bastards in imaginary checkered suits, and after a while, she got her hands on Cook-Cook’s prized flamer while he was asleep.
He was Cooked-Cooked and the camp was up in flames when she made her escape. The few cazadors she encountered on her way to New Vegas were no trouble, though the guards and securitrons took some umbrage with a filthy woman toting a flamer and only wearing a slave collar and a boot walking inside.
After a while, though… she found her bastard in the checkered suit.