in small packages
Dec. 16th, 2015 08:44 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sidewaysTitle: In Small Packages
Rating: G
Series: Fallout New Vegas ('courier faction' original characters)
Wordcount: 1039
Summary: Baby twins get up to mischief.
Remarks: A birthday gift for Gray, to whom Ryker belongs.
A pharmacy didn’t tend to attract children, so when the voice piped from the front of her counter, Maggie automatically looked up and straight over the scruff of dark hair barely poking above the wooden top. After a moment’s bemused blinking at her seemingly empty shop, she slowly dropped her gaze down and found the dirty face of a small girl peeking back.
“Eh?” she said.
“How much for scorpion stingers?” the child repeated patiently.
Maggie leaned forward, resting her elbows against the counter, and squinted. “Scorpion stingers.”
The child scrunched her face up in what might have been a mimic of Maggie’s expression but may have also been deep concern for her level of intelligence. “Yeah,” she said slowly, adding credence to the second theory. “Them things. How much are you paying for ‘em? You are paying for ‘em, right?”
At last the situation fell back into the realms of the familiar, and Maggie sat back in her seat again, brushing her hair over her shoulder so that the woven beads clicked softly. “I am indeed. Got a daddy in the NCR?” She’d distributed most of the leaflets among the billets down the road; there weren’t too many soldiers who turned their nose up at the chance to line their pay with a little extra, particularly when they were out patrolling the wastes anyway.
The girl shrugged the question off, returning to her favourite enquiry instead. “So how much?”
“Going rate’s nine caps a gland. It’s only six for damage or a juvie, but goes up to fifteen if you’re unlucky enough to tangle with a queen.”
“That’s pretty low,” she said sceptically.
Maggie shrugged back, more teasing than mocking their gesture of earlier. “Not exactly a rare commodity, little one.” The amusement over the child’s thoughtful expression faded as she took in the thin face and rough clothing. Klamath had its share of street rats, and though the girl didn’t look nearly as ragged as most, it sent a prickle of unease down the shopkeeper’s spine. “Hey,” she said sharply, “I don’t buy from kids.”
The girl looked up, startled, and then all of a sudden Maggie found herself puffing out a surprised breath of her own as her vision seemed to double and a fresh pair of angry eyes joined the first from apparently out of thin air. Just how many youngsters were hiding in her damn shop?
“That ain’t fair!”
Maggie shook off her disorientation, bracing both her hands firmly against her counter. “My place, my idea of fair. And where the hell’d you come from?”
The new child—a friend? a sister? there was an uncanny similarity to their features—deepened her scowl. “Over by the shelves,” she said, with a scornfully silent obviously trailing on the end.
She hadn’t seen a thing. “Am I going to have to turn your pockets out before you go?”
“Don’t got pockets.”
“What’s it matter?” the first girl broke in, still hanging onto her threatened sale like a hound with its teeth in a fresh brahmin steak. “You get stingers all the same, what’s it matter who does the fetching?”
“It matters to me, and as far as you’re concerned that’s what matters most of all,” she said sternly. Maggie Galang was many things, but she was not the sort of woman who let children go off into the wilderness to wrestle with radscorpions. “What would you do anyway, eh? Chop a scorpion to pieces with your teddy?”
That earned her a dual look that both highlighted the sameness of the faces in front of her and set apart the spirits within—the trader lapsing back into the patronising expression from the start of their conversation, and her glaring shadow looking insulted enough to go behead a scorpion then and there and trail its steaming entrails over her counter as proof.
Maggie stared them both down. “Not up for negotiation.”
She couldn’t quite stop a flicker of fascination as the girls glanced sidelong at each other, unspoken messages flying between; one hitched a shoulder, the other wrinkled her nose, and then the first let out an over-long sigh.
“Okay, okay,” she said, with such exaggerated resignation that Maggie had to press her lips together hard to maintain her stony look. “What if our daddy brings them in?”
“Your daddy.”
“Yeah. ‘Cause of how we found out about how you’re buying, right? Daddy in the NCR?”
Maggie spread her hands towards her (probably) otherwise empty shop in askance of the theoretical parent.
“Well, he’s not here right now,” the girl said as the other rolled her eyes. “He doesn’t know we’re here yet. We didn’t say. Which is why I didn’t say about him until just now.”
“And why would you be keeping a secret like that?”
“Don’t like him,” the second girl said bluntly, and at Maggie’s raised eyebrow the first shrugged as if to say, sure, why not.
She lifted her hands in surrender. “Very well. If your /daddy/ is the one doing the work, then I will buy the stingers. But only from your daddy, mind? No telling me he’s gotten caught up or was tragically killed on the job.”
“Yeah, yeah!” the first said, nodding quickly and almost managing to hide the faint flash of annoyance that suggested a few plans had just been punctured. The second looked a little she was forming a few plans of her own, probably involving kidnap. Maybe blackmail.
“Good. Deal done. You here to buy anything?” Synchronised headshakes. “Then scat.”
She shook her head to herself as they turned and scampered for the door, the second ducking quickly into single file behind her sister to avoid snagging her pocket on the jagged edge of the doorframe. She hoped throwing this obstacle in their path would be enough to dissuade them. Maybe it wasn't fair to cut them off from an otherwise honest way of picking up caps, but it wasn't like they'd looked on the brink of starvation, and there were safer odd jobs around for such mites-
Maggie frowned suddenly, something niggling at her, and she played back their exit again in her head. That duck to the side. That pocket.
"That little shit," she said aloud.
Rating: G
Series: Fallout New Vegas ('courier faction' original characters)
Wordcount: 1039
Summary: Baby twins get up to mischief.
Remarks: A birthday gift for Gray, to whom Ryker belongs.
A pharmacy didn’t tend to attract children, so when the voice piped from the front of her counter, Maggie automatically looked up and straight over the scruff of dark hair barely poking above the wooden top. After a moment’s bemused blinking at her seemingly empty shop, she slowly dropped her gaze down and found the dirty face of a small girl peeking back.
“Eh?” she said.
“How much for scorpion stingers?” the child repeated patiently.
Maggie leaned forward, resting her elbows against the counter, and squinted. “Scorpion stingers.”
The child scrunched her face up in what might have been a mimic of Maggie’s expression but may have also been deep concern for her level of intelligence. “Yeah,” she said slowly, adding credence to the second theory. “Them things. How much are you paying for ‘em? You are paying for ‘em, right?”
At last the situation fell back into the realms of the familiar, and Maggie sat back in her seat again, brushing her hair over her shoulder so that the woven beads clicked softly. “I am indeed. Got a daddy in the NCR?” She’d distributed most of the leaflets among the billets down the road; there weren’t too many soldiers who turned their nose up at the chance to line their pay with a little extra, particularly when they were out patrolling the wastes anyway.
The girl shrugged the question off, returning to her favourite enquiry instead. “So how much?”
“Going rate’s nine caps a gland. It’s only six for damage or a juvie, but goes up to fifteen if you’re unlucky enough to tangle with a queen.”
“That’s pretty low,” she said sceptically.
Maggie shrugged back, more teasing than mocking their gesture of earlier. “Not exactly a rare commodity, little one.” The amusement over the child’s thoughtful expression faded as she took in the thin face and rough clothing. Klamath had its share of street rats, and though the girl didn’t look nearly as ragged as most, it sent a prickle of unease down the shopkeeper’s spine. “Hey,” she said sharply, “I don’t buy from kids.”
The girl looked up, startled, and then all of a sudden Maggie found herself puffing out a surprised breath of her own as her vision seemed to double and a fresh pair of angry eyes joined the first from apparently out of thin air. Just how many youngsters were hiding in her damn shop?
“That ain’t fair!”
Maggie shook off her disorientation, bracing both her hands firmly against her counter. “My place, my idea of fair. And where the hell’d you come from?”
The new child—a friend? a sister? there was an uncanny similarity to their features—deepened her scowl. “Over by the shelves,” she said, with a scornfully silent obviously trailing on the end.
She hadn’t seen a thing. “Am I going to have to turn your pockets out before you go?”
“Don’t got pockets.”
“What’s it matter?” the first girl broke in, still hanging onto her threatened sale like a hound with its teeth in a fresh brahmin steak. “You get stingers all the same, what’s it matter who does the fetching?”
“It matters to me, and as far as you’re concerned that’s what matters most of all,” she said sternly. Maggie Galang was many things, but she was not the sort of woman who let children go off into the wilderness to wrestle with radscorpions. “What would you do anyway, eh? Chop a scorpion to pieces with your teddy?”
That earned her a dual look that both highlighted the sameness of the faces in front of her and set apart the spirits within—the trader lapsing back into the patronising expression from the start of their conversation, and her glaring shadow looking insulted enough to go behead a scorpion then and there and trail its steaming entrails over her counter as proof.
Maggie stared them both down. “Not up for negotiation.”
She couldn’t quite stop a flicker of fascination as the girls glanced sidelong at each other, unspoken messages flying between; one hitched a shoulder, the other wrinkled her nose, and then the first let out an over-long sigh.
“Okay, okay,” she said, with such exaggerated resignation that Maggie had to press her lips together hard to maintain her stony look. “What if our daddy brings them in?”
“Your daddy.”
“Yeah. ‘Cause of how we found out about how you’re buying, right? Daddy in the NCR?”
Maggie spread her hands towards her (probably) otherwise empty shop in askance of the theoretical parent.
“Well, he’s not here right now,” the girl said as the other rolled her eyes. “He doesn’t know we’re here yet. We didn’t say. Which is why I didn’t say about him until just now.”
“And why would you be keeping a secret like that?”
“Don’t like him,” the second girl said bluntly, and at Maggie’s raised eyebrow the first shrugged as if to say, sure, why not.
She lifted her hands in surrender. “Very well. If your /daddy/ is the one doing the work, then I will buy the stingers. But only from your daddy, mind? No telling me he’s gotten caught up or was tragically killed on the job.”
“Yeah, yeah!” the first said, nodding quickly and almost managing to hide the faint flash of annoyance that suggested a few plans had just been punctured. The second looked a little she was forming a few plans of her own, probably involving kidnap. Maybe blackmail.
“Good. Deal done. You here to buy anything?” Synchronised headshakes. “Then scat.”
She shook her head to herself as they turned and scampered for the door, the second ducking quickly into single file behind her sister to avoid snagging her pocket on the jagged edge of the doorframe. She hoped throwing this obstacle in their path would be enough to dissuade them. Maybe it wasn't fair to cut them off from an otherwise honest way of picking up caps, but it wasn't like they'd looked on the brink of starvation, and there were safer odd jobs around for such mites-
Maggie frowned suddenly, something niggling at her, and she played back their exit again in her head. That duck to the side. That pocket.
"That little shit," she said aloud.
