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Entry tags:
any port in a storm
Title: Any Port In A Storm
Rating: G
Series: Fallout New Vegas ('courier faction' original characters)
Wordcount: 1385
Remarks: Context - a number of us from a tumblr fandom group ended up playing Fallout: New Vegas around the same time and liveblogging the experience. One day, I posited the idea of our couriers all meeting in some alternate universe, another individual said the words "courier faction", and things proceeded to spiral out of control in all the best ways. As such, the only character I own in any way is Larkin; the rest belong to the other assorted participants. (I will note that the reason Larkin has a twin is another individual and I started playing the game independently within a fortnight of each other, and on top of that managed to choose very similar designs. We decided this was the next logical step.) It's terribly dorky but also a lot of fun.
The dust’s so thick by the time they reach the outpost that Ryker doesn’t bother fumbling for the handle, and Larkin hunches deeper into her coat as she watches her sister instead lift her fist to thump it against the door. There’s no telling if they’ll be heard, with the wind raising a howl that grates against the ears even under the muffling wrap of a scarf, but someone must notice the rattle as the door jerks open before Ryker’s patience gives out, and they hasten into the shelter in a flurry of dirt and flapping clothes.
The door closes less easily, and as the last one in Larkin turns to help their helper, putting her shoulder to it; between them both they get it latched tight again to stop too much of the desert from following them in. Their lantern’s gone out in the struggle, though, and others scattered around the room are guttering unhappily, casting discomforting flickers of movement across the walls and floor. After the harsh orange wash of the storm, the inner outpost is murky and blurred further still by the caking of dust over her goggles; Larkin draws them gingerly away from her face, squinting against the tumble of grit every movement seems to invite.
Next to her, Ryker’s already stamping her feet in an attempt to shake the worst of her own coating off. The helper breaks in the other direction, sidling around the table to reach the lantern at its centre. There is some faint clanking, a brief flare of light, and then the first lantern lifts high with a new flame at its centre, highlighting a face Larkin finds she can at last put a name to: Sterling.
He tilts his head, assessing them; as heavily bundled as they are, his hesitation in identifying them is not unexpected. “So who’d Santa Ana blow in this time?”
“Tell you what, I’ll give you two guesses,” Larkin says. Her voice comes out hoarse and husky, and when she runs her tongue over her teeth all she can taste is dirt.
Sterling just grins. “The two, then? Figured as much. You may as well keep the scarves up in that case, do us all a favour.”
“Oh, funny,” Ryker mutters. She sounds as rusty as Larkin, and her face is twisted in a grimace as she pulls the scarf down, making an unpleasant coughing noise in the back of her throat.
Sterling lifts his free hand to point. “You want to spit, you can spit in that corner.”
Ryker spits at her feet.
“Or you can hawk it out any which way you want,” Sterling continues. “Go ahead, not like the rest of us have to walk around this place…”
“Can’t say I’m seeing the us involved,” Larkin interjects. “They all hidin’ out back, or did you just decide to spice your lunch with cazador juice?”
Someone leans around the corner just as she finishes, as if waiting for that exact cue; a ratty blanket is draped over her head and shoulders despite the close heat, and the glare of the light shines momentarily from her glasses as she turns her head towards Sterling.
“Sterling, who are you chattering to?” Wyn says, and then in the same breath, as she notices them, “Oh! There really are people.”
“The twins,” Sterling says, as if they are the only twins in all of the Mojave, and then, “What do you mean there really are people?”
Wyn ignores the question, smiling brightly at them instead; Ryker knocks the brim of her hat back in greeting, baring warmer eyes than have been offered to most, while Larkin lifts a hand in a wave.
“It’s been so long!” their fellow courier says, and raises an eyebrow to slide a sly look towards Sterling. “Orange you glad to see them too?”
The twins exchange a look over Sterling’s snort, and Larkin has to shrug. “I’ll admit we blend in a bit better’n usual with the scenery.”
“How’d you not see that coming?” Sterling says, looking to the reddish glow still visibly pulsing past the gaps in the boarded window.
“Well, we did,” Larkin says, hooking her thumbs into her belt, “but we were only just northward, you know, where it’s fair flat? Seemed better to stick to the road and try beatin’ it to town instead of veering off and getting stuck camped in some crevice.”
“Sharing with radscorpions,” Ryker adds darkly.
“Again.”
Wyn clucks her tongue sympathetically. “You should come on back, more pinchers than pincers here. There are some Nukas in the fridge as well.”
Ryker perks up visibly at that, immediately crossing to swing the grimy door open. It doesn’t take her long to dig out a pair of bottles, and she passes one over her shoulder that Larkin gladly accepts; the first pull tops anything she’s had this week, and she doesn’t waste it on a spit in the corner. Everything in the region will taste just as dusty anyway for the next few days.
Though there are a couple of lanterns lit in the room, Sterling is kind enough to wait patiently through their foraging, before swinging around to enter the back room. It’s the bigger of the two rooms at the outpost, though the first is usually the site of any communing; much of it is given over to bunks and lockers. Towards the far end of the room one of the bunks is occupied by a slender dark-haired woman who has hung a lantern from its metal bars for a reading light, and she doesn’t look up as they enter. The rest of the occupants—the rest of the ‘us’—have gathered in a cramped circle on the floor, and Larkin narrows her eyes in appreciation of the cards spread in the centre.
There are two other couriers besides Wyn and Sterling, one of which Larkin doesn’t recognise; a young blonde woman, with her hair pulled up in a messy ponytail, in the midst of an argument with the man seated next to her that she breaks off as they enter.
The man, on the other hand, is plainly Reggie, who takes one look at them and breaks into a broad smirk. “You look stripier than a gecko’s ass.”
Larkin cheerfully sweeps her cap off and slaps it against her thigh, creating a plume of dust that has him leaning back with a cough and a protest. It draws a glare from his sunny-haired neighbour as well, but there are casualties in any bout of revenge and it looks likely she’ll have the evening to better her first impression.
“Have to say the candlelight’s cosy,” Larkin says, dropping down just outside the circle so she can stretch her legs out to their full. It’s been a long day’s travel and it feels damn good to take the weight off.
“Generator blew barely a minute after the winds picked up.” Sterling pauses as he turns away from hanging his lantern on a wall-hook. “Say, you two aren’t half-bad with machines, and you’re already filthy-”
“You gonna light my way?”
“Like you said, it’s cosy.” He folds himself neatly behind the down-facing cards that are presumably his own, taking a moment to eye their position suspiciously as though it might have changed. Glancing at Reggie’s almost too-casual expression, Larkin thinks the paranoia might be warranted.
“Caravan?” she says; behind her, Ryker heaves the audible sigh of the experienced and moves to drag a chair over to the edge of the circle. Once seated, she unhooks her rifle from her back and lays it out across her knee, trailing surprisingly gentle fingers over the dust-coated casing as she prepares to make sure nothing vital has been gummed up by the storm.
Sterling sweeps his cards up as Wyn settles in next to him, and the blond girl hunches over her hand at the gesture, brow creased in fierce concentration. “That it is. Nearly done with this round.” He quirks an eyebrow at her, a familiar glint in his eye. “Interested?”
“Sure.” Larkin matches the look with a lazy grin, leaning back on her palms. With cool Nuka in her belly and the evening’s entertainment found, she can feel a comfortable looseness sinking down along her spine. “Count me in for the next.”
Rating: G
Series: Fallout New Vegas ('courier faction' original characters)
Wordcount: 1385
Remarks: Context - a number of us from a tumblr fandom group ended up playing Fallout: New Vegas around the same time and liveblogging the experience. One day, I posited the idea of our couriers all meeting in some alternate universe, another individual said the words "courier faction", and things proceeded to spiral out of control in all the best ways. As such, the only character I own in any way is Larkin; the rest belong to the other assorted participants. (I will note that the reason Larkin has a twin is another individual and I started playing the game independently within a fortnight of each other, and on top of that managed to choose very similar designs. We decided this was the next logical step.) It's terribly dorky but also a lot of fun.
The dust’s so thick by the time they reach the outpost that Ryker doesn’t bother fumbling for the handle, and Larkin hunches deeper into her coat as she watches her sister instead lift her fist to thump it against the door. There’s no telling if they’ll be heard, with the wind raising a howl that grates against the ears even under the muffling wrap of a scarf, but someone must notice the rattle as the door jerks open before Ryker’s patience gives out, and they hasten into the shelter in a flurry of dirt and flapping clothes.
The door closes less easily, and as the last one in Larkin turns to help their helper, putting her shoulder to it; between them both they get it latched tight again to stop too much of the desert from following them in. Their lantern’s gone out in the struggle, though, and others scattered around the room are guttering unhappily, casting discomforting flickers of movement across the walls and floor. After the harsh orange wash of the storm, the inner outpost is murky and blurred further still by the caking of dust over her goggles; Larkin draws them gingerly away from her face, squinting against the tumble of grit every movement seems to invite.
Next to her, Ryker’s already stamping her feet in an attempt to shake the worst of her own coating off. The helper breaks in the other direction, sidling around the table to reach the lantern at its centre. There is some faint clanking, a brief flare of light, and then the first lantern lifts high with a new flame at its centre, highlighting a face Larkin finds she can at last put a name to: Sterling.
He tilts his head, assessing them; as heavily bundled as they are, his hesitation in identifying them is not unexpected. “So who’d Santa Ana blow in this time?”
“Tell you what, I’ll give you two guesses,” Larkin says. Her voice comes out hoarse and husky, and when she runs her tongue over her teeth all she can taste is dirt.
Sterling just grins. “The two, then? Figured as much. You may as well keep the scarves up in that case, do us all a favour.”
“Oh, funny,” Ryker mutters. She sounds as rusty as Larkin, and her face is twisted in a grimace as she pulls the scarf down, making an unpleasant coughing noise in the back of her throat.
Sterling lifts his free hand to point. “You want to spit, you can spit in that corner.”
Ryker spits at her feet.
“Or you can hawk it out any which way you want,” Sterling continues. “Go ahead, not like the rest of us have to walk around this place…”
“Can’t say I’m seeing the us involved,” Larkin interjects. “They all hidin’ out back, or did you just decide to spice your lunch with cazador juice?”
Someone leans around the corner just as she finishes, as if waiting for that exact cue; a ratty blanket is draped over her head and shoulders despite the close heat, and the glare of the light shines momentarily from her glasses as she turns her head towards Sterling.
“Sterling, who are you chattering to?” Wyn says, and then in the same breath, as she notices them, “Oh! There really are people.”
“The twins,” Sterling says, as if they are the only twins in all of the Mojave, and then, “What do you mean there really are people?”
Wyn ignores the question, smiling brightly at them instead; Ryker knocks the brim of her hat back in greeting, baring warmer eyes than have been offered to most, while Larkin lifts a hand in a wave.
“It’s been so long!” their fellow courier says, and raises an eyebrow to slide a sly look towards Sterling. “Orange you glad to see them too?”
The twins exchange a look over Sterling’s snort, and Larkin has to shrug. “I’ll admit we blend in a bit better’n usual with the scenery.”
“How’d you not see that coming?” Sterling says, looking to the reddish glow still visibly pulsing past the gaps in the boarded window.
“Well, we did,” Larkin says, hooking her thumbs into her belt, “but we were only just northward, you know, where it’s fair flat? Seemed better to stick to the road and try beatin’ it to town instead of veering off and getting stuck camped in some crevice.”
“Sharing with radscorpions,” Ryker adds darkly.
“Again.”
Wyn clucks her tongue sympathetically. “You should come on back, more pinchers than pincers here. There are some Nukas in the fridge as well.”
Ryker perks up visibly at that, immediately crossing to swing the grimy door open. It doesn’t take her long to dig out a pair of bottles, and she passes one over her shoulder that Larkin gladly accepts; the first pull tops anything she’s had this week, and she doesn’t waste it on a spit in the corner. Everything in the region will taste just as dusty anyway for the next few days.
Though there are a couple of lanterns lit in the room, Sterling is kind enough to wait patiently through their foraging, before swinging around to enter the back room. It’s the bigger of the two rooms at the outpost, though the first is usually the site of any communing; much of it is given over to bunks and lockers. Towards the far end of the room one of the bunks is occupied by a slender dark-haired woman who has hung a lantern from its metal bars for a reading light, and she doesn’t look up as they enter. The rest of the occupants—the rest of the ‘us’—have gathered in a cramped circle on the floor, and Larkin narrows her eyes in appreciation of the cards spread in the centre.
There are two other couriers besides Wyn and Sterling, one of which Larkin doesn’t recognise; a young blonde woman, with her hair pulled up in a messy ponytail, in the midst of an argument with the man seated next to her that she breaks off as they enter.
The man, on the other hand, is plainly Reggie, who takes one look at them and breaks into a broad smirk. “You look stripier than a gecko’s ass.”
Larkin cheerfully sweeps her cap off and slaps it against her thigh, creating a plume of dust that has him leaning back with a cough and a protest. It draws a glare from his sunny-haired neighbour as well, but there are casualties in any bout of revenge and it looks likely she’ll have the evening to better her first impression.
“Have to say the candlelight’s cosy,” Larkin says, dropping down just outside the circle so she can stretch her legs out to their full. It’s been a long day’s travel and it feels damn good to take the weight off.
“Generator blew barely a minute after the winds picked up.” Sterling pauses as he turns away from hanging his lantern on a wall-hook. “Say, you two aren’t half-bad with machines, and you’re already filthy-”
“You gonna light my way?”
“Like you said, it’s cosy.” He folds himself neatly behind the down-facing cards that are presumably his own, taking a moment to eye their position suspiciously as though it might have changed. Glancing at Reggie’s almost too-casual expression, Larkin thinks the paranoia might be warranted.
“Caravan?” she says; behind her, Ryker heaves the audible sigh of the experienced and moves to drag a chair over to the edge of the circle. Once seated, she unhooks her rifle from her back and lays it out across her knee, trailing surprisingly gentle fingers over the dust-coated casing as she prepares to make sure nothing vital has been gummed up by the storm.
Sterling sweeps his cards up as Wyn settles in next to him, and the blond girl hunches over her hand at the gesture, brow creased in fierce concentration. “That it is. Nearly done with this round.” He quirks an eyebrow at her, a familiar glint in his eye. “Interested?”
“Sure.” Larkin matches the look with a lazy grin, leaning back on her palms. With cool Nuka in her belly and the evening’s entertainment found, she can feel a comfortable looseness sinking down along her spine. “Count me in for the next.”