Chapter Text
Anodyne
Adjective
1. relieving or lessening pain; soothing
2. lacking zest, vigor, etc.; bland; insipid
This is Mister New Vegas, fanning the flames of your passion. If you like news, then you're gonna love our next segment.
Whether or not anyone else wanted to hear it, the dial on the barely functional radio was cranked up by the ghoul and gun-for-hire Beatrix. The higher volume made the radio rattle a little when the announcer spoke but this was all part of the ghoul woman’s ploy.
A package courier found shot in the head near Goodsprings has reportedly regained consciousness, and has made a full recovery. Now that is a delivery service you can count on.
“Shit, you hear that, Arcade?”
“Yes, Miss Russell, I’m sure everyone in Freeside heard it at that volume.” he sneered.
Arcade had fallen for her game again, and the ghoul cackled. She was determined to keep herself entertained at her post in the Old Mormon Fort. A little exasperation was leagues more interesting than staring at the wooden gates for hours on end. She had made a regular target of the Follower researcher, much to his dismay, because it wasn’t like she wasn’t interrupting anything ‘important’, like one of the ‘actual’ doctors. Arcade didn’t bother arguing with her about the importance of his work - he’d have to believe in what he was doing first.
You know I think all news, whether it's good or bad, brings us closer together. Don't you?
The ghoul then turned the radio down again, so the music was barely audible to anyone else but her. Still, just the idea that someone could survive and recover from being shot in the head was something interesting to think about. It was something to muse and mull over while writing up lacklustre experiment results. The package courier in the headline sounded more mutant than human, Gannon had seen plenty of others succumb to far milder injuries all the time, even recently as earlier in the week.
He pondered about the omitted details, like the gun and bullet type, the distance fired and where the bullet landed. How was the wound treated, and what did the brain look like? Human brains were complex and delicate things, even someone without his access to Pre-War medical journals and books could figure that out.
Eventually Arcade would run out of possibilities to think about, just as Beatrix would find another way to entertain herself. Strange things happened in the Mojave all the time, and the loud headline was filed away as a memory for everyone in the Fort.
* * * * * *
But as the Goodsprings patient was dug up from a shallow grave, the memory would not stay buried for long either. The package courier would arrive at the Old Mormon Fort around a week later.
Arcade had met, or at least had seen, a fair share of caravaneers and mercenaries, The Followers of the Apocalypse often hired outside services, including package delivery. He hadn’t overheard any packages heading out of the fort in some time... Supplies had been low and sending out dwindling supplies could mean a lot of preventable deaths. All walks of life, from washed up tourists to regular locals would utilise the services of the Followers.
So when Arcade saw what looked like a veteran ranger - an elite soldier absorbed into the NCR’s army, toting a large rifle, he kept to himself at the back of the encampment. A high profile soldier like that could only mean trouble, or at the very least extortion of what little supplies the Followers had left. However when the ‘ranger’ moved around the fort talking to patients as well, his interest was piqued. On closer inspection the armour only had a passing resemblance to the ‘black armour’ the veterans wore. There was no bearish regalia to be seen, and a stencilled ‘06’ on the chestplate’s gorget. Almost like a bootleg version of the real thing. They also sported a Pip-Boy 3000, a model shipped to most of the Mojave area vaults.
Then he noticed the Eyebot trailing behind them. Suddenly keeping to himself wasn’t enough - he really needed to hide. But he couldn’t look like he was trying to hide, because that would be even more suspicious. If it was an actual ranger with a Duraframe bot, maybe it had data that could link to him and the others… He tucked himself in the corner of the research tent he was in, busy ‘reading’ a book he could hide behind and peek out from.
When the ranger was within eavesdropping distance, he introduced himself as ‘Courier Six’ to one of the other Followers. The Courier asked lots of questions (and listened to lots of answers), all information, even the mundane seemed to carry the same amount of importance. The delivery boy sounded young, but not adolescent young. He seemed eager to offer help any way he could, but that didn’t soothe Arcade’s pressing concerns about the Enclave robot hanging behind him like a bad smell.
A quick glance couldn’t discern any real physical features though, besides height - everything else was hidden under the mask and duster. He could be a freshly turned glowing one under all that gear. It was mildly entertaining, although a little sad, to watch him dart around the camp, talking to anyone who would respond. Though as Arcade continued to eavesdrop, it became evident that this courier was the one who got shot in the head. Twice, apparently, by a man named Benny. Probably the same man running The Tops Casino. Maybe the mask was to hide the injury’s aftermath.
Gannon hoped the delivery boy would be tired out from chewing everyone's ears off before reaching the back tents. He really didn’t want to talk to anyone, lest not some brain damaged package courier and his pet Eyebot. Thorough in talking to everyone, and despite Arcade’s invisible protests behind his book, the nosy Courier made his way over.
“Oh, you're that courier, aren't you? The one who got mixed up with Benny over at the Tops. Sounds like messy business.”
The Courier reached at his forehead with one of his hands, fingers placed near the edge of his gas mask, almost as if instinctively sheltering the wound.
“News travels fast.” he said.
“If you're looking for medical help, try the other doctors.” Arcade rubbed at his own forehead, as if gesturing at the injury that the other man had. “I'm just a researcher. Not even a particularly good one.”
“What kind of research?” he sounded audibly interested, and his head tilted like a confused puppy.
“Oh, you know. Finding alternative treatments for common illnesses and injuries. Stimpaks out of barrel cacti and other fantastic improbabilities. As far as fruitless wastes of time go, it's quite noble in its aims.”
"Well what are you trying to achieve with your research?" The Courier asked, more or less sounding genuine in his interest.
"For the past hundred years or so, the Followers have managed to get by using salvaged medical supplies from the Old World. But the side effect of medical success is that more people live longer." Arcade explained. "Funny how that works. Eventually, we'll run out of hospitals to loot. We need new ways to produce those supplies. Or maybe old ways, if this research goes anywhere."
So far it had been a complete waste of time, with page after page of reports only confirming it.
“I could help if you wanted. I could collect some plant samples for you, or maybe I could help you in some other way?”
"Me, specifically? No. I'm sure Julie Farkas could use the help, though. Lab coat, pointy hair. Answers to the name 'Julie Farkas' - strangely enough." Arcade brushed off the offer for help, instead directing him back to his manager for something to do.
There was no shortage of nearby cactus for him to sample. He didn't need someone else doing it for him. It was the only time he really went anywhere else.
"I'm sure she can find something for you to do." he continued, and the Courier idly twiddled his thumbs, almost as if he had become apprehensive. "It might be kind of... depressing and terrible, though. Caveat Samaritanus."
Samaritan, beware. If he was as helpful as he said he would be, plenty of dangers awaited him. The Courier visibly twitched when he spoke Latin - maybe he had already had a run in with the Legion’s forces. With that getup, they probably took a few shots at him already.
Between Legion spies, the NCR only caring about its own, and the other daily horrors of the Wasteland flowing in, Freeside had more than its fair share of problems. Tensions had only escalated in recent months too. It was a complicated series of external and internal problems with no simple direct solution for any of them.
But Arcade didn't have the means to tackle any of those issues directly, anyway. The best he could do was trying to make new medical resources. Julie could send the delivery boy to try and patch up some of the problems that more directly affected the Followers.
"You don't sound… all too enthusiastic about your research though."
As they continued to talk the Courier seemed increasingly nervous, a palpable contrast compared to how he spoke with the others, or even to the beginning of their conversation. But with his expressionless mask, the Follower had no discernible idea why.
"I'm enthusiastic about helping people, but nihil novi sub sole." Arcade said.
The Courier noticeably tensed again, like the Follower had zapped him with a jolt of static electricity.
"That's Latin… right? The language the Legion speaks sometimes?"
Arcade sighed. At the mailman knew what the language was called.
"Caesar can cite Cato to suit his purpose. Many people have spoken Latin. Some of them were quite pleasant." He explained, fondly remembering the books and movies he studied relating to the dead language - and the very dead actors and authors who would know the language far better than he ever would. "It's unfortunate that the language is now associated with the gentlemen across the river."
They pronounced it strangely too. The bulk of the Legion didn't care for semantics.
"Like… for the names of animals and plants… sometimes…" The Courier mumbled quietly, as if he was speaking to himself. He rubbed and twisted his fingers together, practically spelling out his anxiety. What was he so afraid of?
Before Arcade could agree with the softly spoken addition, he asked another question.
"What does it mean? The latin phrase you said."
"Oh. Sorry." The Follower supposed his present company couldn't translate. "'There is nothing new under the sun'. If agave and mesquite were that miraculous, the locals would have figured it out a few thousand years ago."
His visitor nodded in agreement.
They spoke for a time about where Arcade learnt Latin, and while the doctor was curious about where the delivery boy had read or heard the language outside the Legion's use of it, he didn't want his guest to stick around for too long. There was a dull report to finish writing up. They also talked about his research some more, and general medical affairs of the Wasteland, and the other man seemed to steel himself a bit, or at least relax a bit.
“Why don’t you come with me?” The Courier asked abruptly.
Arcade blinked. Did this complete stranger just ask him to travel together? Was he born yesterday, or on another planet? Had the bullet scrambled his common sense? All he knew about the Courier was that he was shot by a high profile member of the Strip (which was both a high liability and highly suspicious). He could be a rampaging murderer who ate his victims, or worse, in cohorts with the Legion.
The Eyebot certainly made things worse for the Courier’s suggestion.
“No offence intended, but why should I go anywhere with you?”
“It beats sitting around here all day, doesn't it?” The Courier half flailed, half gestured his arms in some sort of flustered shrug. This did not strengthen his offer. At all.
“Uh, probably not. Until things settle down around here, alleviating my boredom isn't a good motive to leave. Sorry.”
“Right. Sorry." he pointed the fort's gates with his thumbs. "I’ll get going then.”
The way the Courier made a beeline for the exit made him expect to not ever see the Mojave Express worker again. That suited Arcade just fine, but it would eventually become the first expectation of many to be broken by the other man.