Chapter Text
January 2287
Beep beep. Beep beep. The damned annoying beeping was getting to him in the morning. At least it woke him up, right? The shirtless man leaned up from his king sized bed, rubbing his face as his silver eyes adjusted to the low light of the master bedroom once again. Glancing over to the alarm clock, he blew out a soft sigh and turned it off, swinging his legs out of bed. Standing, rubbing his eyes again, he padded over to his closet. Meeting him was an empty glass, whiskey bottle beside it, and that long duster and clothing that defined his life for the past six years. Pouring himself a drink, he knocked it back with a grunt, slipping on his shirt and riot pads.
Pulling on the armored duster a moment later, the man adjusted the shoulder pads and gave his shoulder a roll. Looking around, scratching his head, he let out a soft curse under his breath. Where was it? He checked in the closet, under the bed, until his gaze eventually fell onto his nightstand. "I really have to stop drinking late at night.." He sauntered over to the nightstand, picking up the one thing that protected him more than any armor he had on hand. He saw, and understood, just why the Desert Rangers opted to wear helmets like this. Great as armor, but as intimidation? Nothing came close but cleaned up APA Mk.II, but try finding that out in the Wasteland. Flipping the Elite riot gear helmet around, he slipped it onto his head. Now he was whole again. Ready for another day in New Vegas, the enforcer of Mr. Robert House, he entered the elevator heading up to the penthouse floor.
The chime blew as he stepped off the elevator, waving at Jane as he passed the securitron. Downstairs, he sat down in a chair, waiting for the computer screen to flick on. It always annoyed him, but if he's getting paid to do his job, he won't make too much of a complaint. Besides.. he did not envy running the whole of Vegas on his lonesome. Nope. After an entire minute of waiting, the screen flickered on, and the face of 'Not-at-Home' as the Omertas colorfully described him as appeared. As sanctimonious as ever..
"Good morning, Courier. I entrust that you are leaving for the Big Mountain again?" A nod. "Good. We will talk later." The screen turned off again, leaving the Courier alone again. With a sigh, he stood up, shaking his head as he left the Penthouse floor. A few moments later, Six exited the Lucky 38, pulling out the Transportalponder. With a flash of blue light..
Big Empty. Or Big MT. Or Big Mountain if you prefer. A pre-war scientific hellhole filled with experiments that ranged from useful to the deranged. The home and prison of the Think Tank. Ever since the Courier had taken over for Doctor Mobius, he's been in charge of these crazy braincases, slowly aligning their focuses onto actually useful endeavors. Rather than letting them roam free to create more winged abominations or lobotomites, he's been getting them to refine the technologies they created for the Sierra Madre among other things. Matter recombobulation is just too useful to leave rotting here or the fucking Madre, after all.
Stepping into the Sink, Six greeted all of the individual AIs as he walked through. An elevator ride down to the Think Tank a moment later, Six enters and clears his throat. "I'm BACK, Klein. What PROGRESS have you made into those machines, mm?" Six drawled, inwardly coughing. Doing the voice dried his throat out to no end, but if it kept the Think Tank in line.. as he watched Doctor Klein float over with a sneer leaving the mechanical brain case.
"Mobius.." Doctor Klein murmured, brain case floating forward, then backward. "Mass production is just underway for those pointless machines you blabber on about. Why we shifted to those and not more penis-footed lobotomites, I will have no idea."
"Because, you FOOL, what is BRAINless flesh sacks to UNLIMITED creation?! Focus on that, KLEIN.. and focus good. Unless I shall have my ROBO-SCORPIONS invade from the FORBIDDEN ZONE?!" Six replied in that same drawl. Bless Mobius, but oftentimes he wishes the guy wasn't tripping on Mentats to deal with these brain cases instead of him. Watching Klein recoil, then grumble under robotic breaths, Six waved the brain case away as he sauntered over to the main console. Time to put that Science! skill to the test again..
Hours had passed into midday when the Courier finally leaned away from the console, reading progress reports from men and women he had inside. The Followers may have recoiled at first when he showed the Big MT to them, but letting them in was probably for the best. Having other minds that weren't the crazy fucking Think Tank was good. Scientific progress hardly interested him, but the big man up top certainly was interested when he first brought up this whole place. Now, it was a hub that served the Mojave for managed good. A hub that he was jailor of. Sighing, Six closed his eyes, tapping the table as his thoughts ran wild. Just as he's about to lean back in, alarm klaxons blare.
Standing up, Six hustled over to camera banks recently set up, and leaned forward. "What the fuck.." He muttered, seeing about two squad's worth of white bodied 'humanoids' entering the complex beyond the radar fence. They were moving deeper into the complex, and looking at the closest place he could ambush them, Little Yangtze was it. Without a second look, Six turned and ran out of the central facility, drawing out an ornate .45 from under his coat. Running took an additional five minutes for the Courier to get to a cliff overlooking the former internment camp, and what he saw had the man frowning underneath his helmet.
They were strange. Walked strange and looked identical to each other. Carrying blocky rifles that reminded him more of Sugar Bomb boxes than an actual weapon.. and when they turned, instantly firing blue lasers at him, the Courier cursed and ducked again. Shaking his head and returning fire, Six was accurate enough with his shots. Two shots to the head were more than enough to put one down to the ground, but he wasn't going to last long. Taking aim again, he blasted down four more of these strange mechanical robots. Reloading, Six swore under his breath again, and turned to fire. Six more bots down, and ten left. Letting a surge of Turbo flood his veins from his Pip-Boy, Six jumped down and picked up one of the unfamiliar laser rifles alongside a few handfuls of microfusion cells, firing wildly as he ran for cover. He missed most shots, only taking down two of the strange things.
Hiding up against another rock, Six felt the rest of the drug leave him, reloading the boxy rifle. It was plastic he noted instantly, something to be made mass-produced with little to no quality control. It would just have to do. Ducking his head around the corner, more blue bolts fired his way, causing him to duck again. Cursing himself out, Six swung out and entered V.A.T.S. Time slowed to a crawl in his peripherals, aiming for three of the approaching bots. Twelve shots fired in quick succession to the body followed, as Six ran and dived for cover again. Five left. Reloading, Six swiveled on his feet as two of them came from above, some baton of sorts flying for his head. Dropping the rifle, Six scribe countered the first, throwing all his weight into a punch that drove through the head, disabling it. Taking a few shock baton blows to the back, Six snarled as he picked up the headless bot and swung it around, knocking the second down and finishing it off with a shot to the head.
Three remained, as Six entered V.A.T.S. again. Twelve shots rang out again, two of the three survivors dropped dead. Clipping the last in the leg, Six left VATS and slowly approached. The bot was trying to crawl away, he noticed, as he put a boot to the back and pressed down. "Warning, hostile enemy detected. Mission failed, cannot evade, sending report.." It blurted before Six shot its' head off as well. The fight finally drained out of him, adrenaline dumped, as Six collapsed onto his back. He let out a loud sigh, already feeling a headache come on..
.......
A few hours later, Six had eventually returned to the central complex, dragging a couple of the metallic bodies behind him. In a room surrounded with Followers doctors and a Securitron that linked back to Mr. House, Six stared at the two husks wordlessly, nursing himself with a medkit. "Okay, people. I want to know what the hell these things are, what they're made of, and how the fuck they got here."
"Well, sir, it's alien to us. The inner workings are so much more refined than anything we've ever seen. They're cheaply made, but.." One of the Followers doctors started.
"The laser rifles you collected were cheaply made as well. Not a surprise, surely, but they're slightly worse than prewar designs. Highly modular, however.." Another stated, rubbing their chin in thought.
Six looked rather exhausted by posture alone, shaking his head. That wasn't good enough. House had remained oddly silent though, to which the Courier knew was likely a very good reason for. Getting the rest of the Followers doctors back to work and out of the room, Six locked the door and stared directly at Mr. House's Securitron. "What are these things?"
"Synthetic machines, as per their codebase. A 'mark one' Synth, if you will. There are strings that refer to further generations, but I would need more of their code to know for sure." Mr. House's voice came out, the Securitron wheeling over to pick up a ruined arm. Dangling it for show, he set it back down, and continued. "Plastics and cheap steel are what composes of these synths, indicating that there is an organization out there that can produce this mass scale. Further, interfacing with the radar fence surrounding Big Mountain, I have detected traces of energy. Enough energy to teleport across the wastes. There is someone else out there that has perfected the proprietary technology of Big Mountain. The power draw would have likely sent even Hoover Dam into overload for a scant few hours after transportation."
Six stared, tilting his head, then shook it slowly. "So, someone can teleport a whole group of these fucking things anywhere in the Wasteland, and swarm them with cheap robots? Great.. so who could it be behind it? Can't be the Brotherhood, they don't work this sloppy.."
"The defense mainframes in Mexico have not the technology either, the US Army would never have allowed such a tech to be given to even them." Mr. House replied, securitron wheeling around the table almost ominously. As one would have circled as a human.. "There was only one other organization working on teleportation before the War. CIT, in the Commonwealth of Boston. Given that, I would surmise that they are active in some manner."
"Great. Fantastic, really. So they send an expedition out here, probably expect it to be deserted and loot it for technology. Since they were instantly hostile upon seeing me, they must not have a good view of us wastelanders, huh?" Six replied, taking his helmet off. He stared at it for a good time, setting it down onto the table, as he pulls out a whiskey bottle. Popping the top, Six drank deep, swallowing half of it in one go. Coughing from the burn, Six shook his head again. "They're a threat, I'm guessing."
"Indeed, Courier. You have only just scratched the surface of what is possible here at the Mountain complex. I will not have progress be taken away from me after all these years." Mr. House voiced, wheeling to in front of the Courier. Extending a servo arm, he gestured to the fallen synths. "Light has only just begun to be drawn to the darkness of the wastes. Find out all that you can about CIT, and if it can have a change of management.. do so." The securitron House wheeled out of the room a moment later, leaving the Courier in silence.
.....
Getting to Boston would be a trip. For one, Big MT didn't have the same range as those synths and their organization did. And going on foot, while it would be sure for the Courier, it'd take longer. And while he was the sole jailor of the Big MT, Six had managed to find Mobius not high off from those fucking grape mentats to tell him he'd be away. Maybe promise some tech to the old guy in exchange for keeping an eye on the Think Tank. For transportation though.. he was still up shit creek. Luckily, walking down to a run down gas station in the middle of the Mojave, Six saw just the man he was looking for. Knocking on a sheet of metal in one of the bays, Six whistled. "Hey Raul. Fancy seeing you here."
The ghoul sputtered, turning around with a half-shocked expression on his face. "Boss, mierda, you shouldn't sneak up on me." Leaning up from the bike he was working on, Raul tossed aside his rag and eyed the Courier. "What brings you around to me, boss? Can't say we've talked much in a while."
Hanging his head, Six shrugged his shoulders. "Trouble brewing, Raul. I need to go out on an extended trip, and figured that the best mechanic this side of the Colorado would have what I need. Sorry I can't come by often, buddy." Six apologized with a bow of his head.
Surprisingly, Raul only laughed at him, waving a hand. He howled with laughter, shaking his head, as he sat on the edge of the bike. "I get it, boss. No need to butter up this old man, though. It's good to see you again." He jerked his head to the right, turning to point at the garage door. "I figured eventually you'd come back for it. Keys are in the ignition, and whatever cans of fuel I've scraped together is in the trunk."
Six laughed with Raul, awkwardly rubbing the back of his neck as he nodded. Good.. one of his friends that at least didn't hate him or distrust him. It really is too bad he can't swing by Raul enough, he enjoyed the old ghoul's stories and working on old scrap. "Thanks, Raul. Keep yourself out of trouble, yeah? I'd hate to come back and hear that you've gone and gotten yourself imprisoned again." Watching Raul give him the finger, Six laughed harder returning the gesture and entered the garage. Inside, was an old black Highwayman car. Faithfully repaired after Six and half of the town of Novac had pulled it out of its' grave, it was Six's preferred method of traveling along the wastes in comfort. Beat walking everywhere, right? Opening the door, tossing his bag of supplies and weapons inside, Six got in and started his baby up. The engine roared to life, and as Six pulled out onto the open road, he was putting his mind on track.
Six years. For six years, he's been tied down to New Vegas, helping build a vast economical giant in the Mojave, and making sure that the lessons he learned stuck. And now he's leaving it all up in the air, on another adventure. Here's hoping that this road isn't fraught with the same potholes his road to Vegas had been..