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letsmogar · 3 years ago

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How would Fo4 companions react to Courier 6

Just... existing?

The Dugout Inn was packed that night, thanks to harvest season caravans, pay day for the security officers, and some harmonica player that was giving an admirable performance by the Port-A-Diner that still held an immaculate piece of pie. But the harmonica wasn't the main draw, the sole survivor's companion noticed when they walked in - it was a newcomer at the bar with a gaggle of onlookers surrounding them, holding sway over the group with some story about an adventure in the faraway Mojave wasteland.

While the sole survivor elbowed their way toward Vadim and liquor, their companion sidled up to the back of the newcomer's crowd to listen in. They were describing a battle with deathclaws in a quarry, filled with blood on the cut stone, teeth and horns sharper than a mother-in-law's tongue, and plenty of pizzazz.

"How much did the NCR pay you, once you were through?" Becky Fallon asked when they reached the tale's conclusion.

"Oh, 500 NCR dollars," the newcomer replied, making a face. "About 200 caps, for you east coasters."

"Only 200 caps for 20 deathclaws?!?" Hawthorne laughed. "You're the cheapest hunter I know. Only 10 caps per deathclaw, that's a hell of a deal."

"I don't hunt full-time. The NCR pays its contracted hunters more."

"If you're not a hunter, then what do you normally do for work?" Hawthorne asked.

The newcomer smiled. "I'm a courier."

Cait: Cait snorted. "A goddamned mailman? Come on. And you're out smashing up deathclaws for what, drinking money?"

"I take whatever comes my way." The courier raised their glass to her, then took a large gulp of it. "It's how I get by."

"Sounds less like 'getting by' and more like you have a death wish," Cait quipped. "If I want drinking money, I don't find it by looking beyond what my baseball bat can handle."

"I like a challenge," the courier admitted. Their eyes traveled over Cait's wiry arms. "I could use one now, truth be told. My purse is a little light."

"I can buy your next drink," Hawthorne offered.

"Out of the way, handsome." Cait pushed the adventurer to the side and slid in next to the courier. She put her elbow on the bar, hand up. "Five caps says you can't pin me, stranger."

A competitive gleam entered the courier's eye. "Make it 10," they said, thrusting their drink into Hawthorne's grasp.

By the time the sole survivor returned, Cait and the courier were gritting their teeth, arms shaking as they both tried to pin the other's hand to the bar. The crowd was cheering them on, growing loud enough to drown out the harmonica as the courier's hand inched closer and closer toward the counter. Cait saw her chance and took it, and the smack of skin on wood was nearly covered by disappointed groans from the courier's admirers.

"Pay up," Cait advised them, accepting her drink from the sole survivor.

"Best two out of three," the courier suggested breathlessly.

Codsworth: "A worthy profession," Codsworth remarked, with a deferential tilt of his eye stalks. "Receiving the post was always one of the highlights of my day, before the war. We don't get many deliveries these days, but that makes the ones that we do receive all the more special, in my opinion."

"Aww, you remember your pre-war days?" The courier looked the robot over with interest. "I'm surprised your current owner didn't overwrite your memories and give you a fresh start."

"That would be because my pre-war owner and my current owner are one and the same," Codsworth replied helpfully. "Two centuries' worth of memories is of course, far too much data for a Mister Handy model such as myself to contain, but they trust me to do my own pruning. I can throw out most of the years I spent trying to polish the car, for instance."

"Is your owner a ghoul?" the courier asked, confused.

"Far from it." Codsworth pointed out the sole survivor at the other end of the bar. "They were lucky enough to gain entrance into a vault just before the bombs fell, and then they were - well, there I go, telling their story for them. I suppose they would rather give it to you in their own words."

"Sounds like quite the story," the courier murmured.

"A tale for the ages, or so they say."

Curie: Curie gasped in delight. "Le service postal of the United States survived the Great War? This is beyond impressive!"

The courier wrinkled their nose. "Is that... French? Oh shoot, I don't remember most of what..."

"It is quite alright," Curie reassured them, patting their arm. "I am fluent in English as well."

"Je ne parle pas français," the courier answered triumphantly. "Ah, shit, I bet Arcade 100 caps that I'd never use it. Can you keep a secret?"

"Most assuredly." Curie smiled. "When did you arrive? It is rare that Diamond City sees visitors from so far away."

"What about the Brotherhood?" Becky pointed out.

"Or that trader from Appalachia who came through last week," Hawthorne added.

"Less rare as of late," Curie amended. "Regardless, you are more than welcome here. It is so nice to see new faces. So encouraging."

"Thank you." The courier smiled. "People are usually happy to see me, but it's nice to know it's not always because I'm bringing them something."

"Viens avec moi," Curie insisted, seizing their hand. "There is someone else you should meet, tonight."

Paladin Danse: "That's an important job in the west," Danse said, nodding in approval. "The coast, mountains, and desert make for dangerous terrain, even for Brotherhood troops. Navigating them as an individual can be safer than traveling as a group."

"As long as you know where you're going," the courier added. "I've done work for the Brotherhood before, but they're a secretive bunch. Keep to themselves, unless you've got something they want. They're a real different beast from the East Coast variety."

"They've faced different challenges and adversities," Danse replied testily. "But the western leadership still provides a clear mission for the order, from coast to coast. We follow their example."

"Mmm, I'm not so sure." The courier tilted their glass around thoughtfully. "Maxson's chapter has an open-door policy, which I suppose isn't the worst thing compared to the desert chapters, but that wouldn't fly on the West Coast. I suppose he gets away with it because he's the golden boy who has all the vertibirds, and that big robot that keeps getting blown up."

"Watch your tone," Danse warned them.

"Or what, you'll court-martial me? Please." The courier chuckled. "Your Mojave brothers and sisters strapped a bomb collar on my neck and made me do chores for them, the first time I came around their bunker. I take a slap on the wrist far better than I do a death threat."

Danse was taken aback, which left them room in the conversation to keep going. "They're not all that bad, though. I've got a Scribe friend from the same chapter who taught me some great moves with a power fist. She's always on the verge of leaving them though, so who knows."

Deacon: "What's your usual cargo?" Deacon asked casually. "Anything you can carry?"

"Usually." The courier tapped their chin. "Though if it can move itself, we'll do escorts for an extra fee. I've driven some brahmin and led some bots in my day."

"Ever move people?" Hawthorne asked.

The courier's eyes narrowed. "What, like slaves?"

"No, no, nothing like that." Hawthorne waved his hands. "I mean, like, freed slaves. Or synths."

"You really think synths would make it that far west?" Becky asked, skeptical. "The Institute's everywhere, and they'd stick out like a sore thumb outside the Commonwealth."

The shopkeeper and the adventurer fell to arguing, leaving the courier and Deacon stuck in the middle of their debate. The courier raised their eyebrows at him from over Becky's shoulder. Deacon shook his head and smirked before walking away.

"What was that all about?" the sole survivor asked, once he'd rejoined them.

"Ah, nothing." Deacon accepted the drink they had bought for him. "Just someone I thought I recognized."

"Anyone I'd know?"

"Nah."

Dogmeat: Hawthorne shifted to the right, accepting the drink Vadim had brought him, and the courier caught sight of the dog that was eyeing them curiously. A peculiar look came over their face, and they set their own glass down and knelt to beckon Dogmeat over. "Here, buddy. It's okay."

Dogmeat, ever the good judge of character, sniffed their offered hand and licked their knuckles. The courier rewarded him with a scratch behind the ears. "There you go. You look just like some other pups I know. Whose dog are you?"

The sole survivor, who had apparently given up on getting Vadim's attention, nudged their way into the courier's circle. "He's mine. Well... I'm his, I suppose."

The courier straightened up again and looked the Commonwealth's latest star over. "You suit each other," they said, coming to some conclusion. "Buy you a drink?"

Mayor John Hancock: "Whoa." Hancock drew some loop-de-loops in the air with his finger, pointing to the courier's various accoutrements. "Stay away from this one, folks. If I know one thing, it's that you don't tangle with a fucking mailman."

"We're only scary if you're standing in the way of our route," the courier joked. "Have you met many of us?"

"Enough," Hancock admitted. "Knew a fiery one from New Reno who retired a few decades ago. She was a crack shot with her pistols and could give a yao guai bad dreams, when she felt like it."

"Oh, Dawn? Petite ghoul, wears pearls and a different wig for every day of the week?"

"That's her! Have you met her?"

"Never had the pleasure myself, but the old guard at the Mojave Express never shut up about her." The courier smiled. "I didn't know she'd come east. Is she still around?"

"Nah, she went north three years back. Said she was going to find her next fortune in the Annex Nation." Hancock seized a nearby bottle from the bar and took a swig before offering it to them. "Got the sense from her that she had to keep moving, or she'd drop dead of boredom. You know?"

"That's the average courier for you." The newcomer accepted the bottle and took a drink. "If I sit still too long, I start to go a little insane. Makes things tough, sometimes."

"Well, those who get you, they get it, and those who don't aren't worth your time anyway." Hancock winked. "She sure made Goodneighbor interesting while she was around, though. If you ever see her again, tell her that John the honorable mayor misses her."

Robert Joseph MacCready: "A mailman?" MacCready made a face. "Might as well join up with mercenaries, if you're willing to risk your life that often. You'd probably make better caps."

"Probably," the courier agreed. "But I get better stories out of courier deliveries than I would if I was just a hired gun."

"Oh yeah?" MacCready settled in against the bar. "What's your best one?"

The courier whistled, long and low. "Where do I even begin? Do you want the best one with a happy ending, the one where I had the most problems in my way but still managed to make the delivery, the one with the best pay... you've got to narrow it down."

"The best one. Period."

"Fine, they're all the same story anyway." The courier grinned. "I picked up a job in the Boneyard for pretty decent caps, nothing to sneeze at, but two weeks into the trip I get waylaid by a guy in a fancy suit and some Khans he paid to find me. They surprise me, take my cargo, then shoot me in the head and bury me in a shallow grave."

"They did not," MacCready cut in. "You'd be dead."

"Yeah, the doc said I was for a few minutes." The courier tipped their hat back, exposing the bullet scar on their forehead, much to the crowd's delight. "So once someone fished me out and nursed me back to health, I tracked that snazzy murderer and his goons down, took back what I was supposed to deliver, and brought it where it was supposed to go."

"And how much did you get in return?"

The courier bobbed their head noncommittally. "Well... there's a bit more to the story, but I got a thousand caps up front, and later I got a casino and an army of robots."

"Pffft." MacCready burst out laughing. "Just who do you expect to believe that?"

Nick Valentine: "A courier from the West Coast, huh?" Nick's golden eyes narrowed. "You wouldn't happen to have some time for a few questions about a case I'm working on, would you?"

Several minutes later, the sole survivor found the pair at a table in the back, where Nick was grilling the courier about their encounters with his pet serial killer. "So no calling card, no trace, nothing," the synth was saying.

"No, nothing like that." The courier scratched their head. "I think I first saw him outside... Novac? Maybe? I was out late after a job, and some Vipers tried to jump me on the way back into town. He put down the last of them before she gutted me with a machete, and when I went up the ridge to see what he was after, he was gone."

"Did he leave any footprints?"

The courier clucked their tongue. "Rock ridge. Nothing there. I have no idea how he got down without me seeing, because there was definitely no way up. Trust me, I looked."

Nick sighed. "Well, it matches all the other descriptions. Best guess I've got is some pre-war ghoul, or maybe a synth like myself, who for some reason gets his kicks from interrupting gunfights and arbitrarily choosing the winner. You should come by the office tomorrow morning, if you're still in town, so Ellie can get this all down officially."

The sole survivor set Nick's drink down in front of him and grimaced. "He's a phantom, Nick. Odds are, we'll never catch him."

"I don't care if he's the Silver Shroud himself, I want to know what he's doing in Boston." Nick took a swig of the beer and scowled. "Thanks for your help, courier. Safe travels, if I don't see you."

"My pleasure." The courier rose and nodded to both of them. "Not sure what all the fuss is in this city about synths. You're a perfect gentleman."

Piper Wright: "Move over, Hawthorne." Piper squeezed in next to the courier and pulled out her notepad. "How long have you been a courier? Do you like it? What brings you this far east?"

"Whoa, slow down." The courier laughed. "Let's just say I've been a courier as long as I can remember."

"Now that sounds like an answer that's got a story behind it," Piper pointed out, jotting their words down. "Are you saying you've been a courier since you were very young, or that you can't remember that far in your past?"

The courier's amusement dampened a little. "Have you ever been told you're too smart for your own good?"

"Often, and usually by people who've got something to hide. Why are you in the Commonwealth?"

The courier downed the rest of their drink and set the glass on the bar. "I'm out. I get enough of this in the Mojave."

"Who's bothering you in the Mojave?" Piper pressed. "You wouldn't happen to know a courier from out that way who was at the fight over Hoover Dam? What are your thoughts on their actions, and on how everything turned out?"

The sole survivor arrived with their drink just in time to watch the courier's retreat toward the door. "Who was that?" they asked the reporter.

"Just someone who's not a fan of the press." Piper rolled her eyes and put the notepad away. "I wish everyone was as open to an interview as you, Blue."

Preston Garvey: "A courier?" Preston commented. "You must have been all over the west, if you work as a courier. What's it like, compared to the Commonwealth?"

The courier shrugged. "Some places are better, some are worse. Depends on where you go. My heart's in New Vegas, of course, but I've found pleasure and danger all over the place."

Preston smiled. "Those two go hand in hand, sometimes."

"More often than we care to admit." The courier smiled back. "I saw some folks with your uniform on my way through Sanctuary. Are you with the Minutemen?"

"You could say that," Preston replied. "Preston Garvey, at your service."

"The Preston Garvey?" The courier chuckled and shook their head. "Hell, the way the people in Sanctuary talked about you, they made it sound like you were the Minutemen. The whole kit and kaboodle."

"That was true at one point, but there are more of us now." Preston took off his hat and slid his hands along the brim. "We're coming back, bit by bit. Mostly thanks to the general."

"The general?" The courier whipped their head around, scanning the Dugout. "Is that who you came in with? The Sanctuary settlers were singing their praises when they weren't talking you up."

"I could introduce you," Preston offered.

"Oh no, I don't want to impose."

"No trouble at all." Preston waved the sole survivor over. "We're always happy to welcome newcomers to the area."

Strong: "Hunter better," Strong grumbled.

The courier chuckled in surprise. "Sorry, I guess? I'll change my business cards when I get home, if you like."

"What the hell's a business card?" Hawthorne asked.

"Pre-war piece of paper with your details printed on it." The courier withdrew such a card from inside their coat and handed it to him. "That one's not mine, it's for someone I worked for once."

"'Robert E. House,'" Hawthorne read. "'President and CEO, RobCo Industries.' What's this string of numbers?"

"Not important, unless you know how to use a telephone." The courier took a sip of their drink. "I have no idea why he kept those around, no one has a telephone anymore unless they're tearing it apart looking for copper wire."

"Strong could tear a deathclaw apart," Strong interjected.

The courier raised their glass to him. "I'm sure you could. I've seen some of your brothers' work in the Mojave. Impressive stuff."

"Mojave brothers have milk?" Strong asked.

"Milk? Like from a brahmin?"

"Milk of human kindness," Strong explained. "Strong drink. Make Strong stronger than humans."

The courier leaned over to Hawthorne. "What's he on about?"

Hawthorne shrugged and handed the business card back. "Beats me. Vadim's got milk at the bar, though."

"Wrong milk!" Strong insisted.

X6-88: Though he was as curious as the rest of the crowd, X6-88 kept his questions to himself and settled for observation as usual. The courier was certainly a genuine wasteland wanderer, with none of the usual tells that an Institute synth or agent had when interacting with the people of the surface. They seemed at ease with themselves and their surroundings, though it was obvious from their stance that they were ready to spring into action if the need arose. He counted four - no, five - weapons on their person, and mentally filed these away as potential threats to the sole survivor at the other end of the bar. Most interestingly, though, the courier had a very visible scar on their head. An execution wound, X6-88 was certain, and that made the figure all the more interesting and threatening. Who had wanted this person dead, and why? How had they survived it? And why were they here now?

By the time the sole survivor came back with their drink, the courier's crowd of admirers had thinned a bit. X6-88 was still watching them, impassive but intrigued. The subtleties of his own interest were well-known to the sole survivor by now though, and they quickly picked out the source. "Anyone we know?" they asked.

The courier perked up at the question. "You seem like a threatening pair," they remarked, scooting a little closer. "Not here for me, I hope?"

"No," X6-88 replied flatly.

"Just as well." The courier raised an eyebrow at the Courser's hand, which had gone to his laser rifle. "You don't look like the usual types who are after me nowadays."

"Who's normally after you?" the sole survivor asked.

"Nobody as well-dressed as you two, that's for sure."

BONUS!

Ada: "With a caravan, or one of the western courier services?" Ada asked.

"The Mojave Express," the courier answered, surprised. "Have you been out west?"

"I have." Ada shifted her frame in excitement. "It's been some time, but all of my previous caravan's ventures there were successful. We only left the Mojave because the sand began to interfere with the parts of myself and our other ground-traveling robots."

"Oh yeah, it's hell for any bots that don't hover," the courier agreed. "Eyebots and Mister Handy models do just fine, but protectrons and sentry bots don't last long without constant upkeep. You look like you're mostly the latter, except for your head - I don't recognize it."

"Assaultron model laser cannon and optics array," Ada said proudly. "Assaultron models are more common on the East Coast than the West. I'm not surprised you haven't encountered them, if you've just arrived."

"You don't want to encounter one," Hawthorne said, shaking his head.

"She seems polite enough," the courier argued.

"My pre-war counterparts are not," Ada replied. "Laser cannons are particularly formidable weapons, when used correctly."

The courier eyed her head with interest. "I'd love to see it in action."

"If my companion is agreeable, perhaps I can arrange a display. Outside the city walls, of course."

Porter Gage: "Much money in that?" Gage asked nonchalantly.

"Enough," the courier answered, with a suspicious look on top of it. "But I'm not here for work."

"Oh, you just crossed the country for fun?" Gage chuckled. "Brave of you. Or stupid."

The courier smirked at that. "I'm here, aren't I?"

Gage let someone else pick up the conversation after that, but he kept his eyes on the courier for the rest of the night. From the way they moved, the way they talked, and the collection of concealed weapons he managed to spot, he didn't think they would be an easy mark, but something about them was compelling all the same.

The sole survivor eventually caught him watching the newcomer, and they tried to drag him off the idea. "We're just here as a favor to Mags and William," they reminded him. "In and out. No trouble."

"No trouble," Gage echoed, but he kept watching the courier anyway.

Near the end of the evening, Scarlett delivered him and the sole survivor some bottles of Nuka-Cola they hadn't ordered. "Compliments of them," she said, jerking her head toward the bar, where the courier was grinning and raising their own drink.

Before the sole survivor could stop him, Gage rose and stalked over. "What's your angle?" he demanded to know.

"What's yours?" they countered, looking him up and down. "You're the one who's been staring."

"Can't figure you out," Gage admitted. "But something about you tells me that if there's something to be acquired in an endeavor, you'll acquire it. Can't rightfully explain it."

The courier grinned again. "Ever heard of New Vegas?"

Old Longfellow: Longfellow snorted. "Ought to drop that vocation, take up spinning yarns professionally. Near two dozen deathclaws, my ass. You've barely a scratch on you."

"That so?" The courier pulled their sleeve up, exposing a jagged, healed wound that snaked up their arm like a lightning strike. "I've got scratches that would put yours to shame any day of the week, old man."

"That's nothing." Longfellow unfurled his scarf, exposing a wicked cut he'd once been dealt in a bar fight. "Broken bottle. Spit glass for a month or two."

The courier's eyes gleamed, even as they unbuttoned their shirt a bit to indicate a neat scar just below their collarbone. "Not bad. This one's from a Legionary's spear. Might still have a piece of it lodged in me, helps let me know when it's going to rain."

"My knees tell me when it's going to rain, kid," Longfellow said with a chuckle. He rolled up his pant leg to show off the white fissure he'd earned only a year prior. "Fog crawler by the name of Shipbreaker. Didn't take too kindly to me and my friend disturbing her hunt."

The courier pulled their hat back and indicated a rather gnarly crater on their forehead. It was unmistakably from a bullet at very close range, and its appearance drew gasps from the crowd.

"Damn." Hawthorne inspected the old wound with an expression of morbid fascination. "How'd you survive that?"

Before the courier could answer, the sole survivor pushed into the crowd with drinks and groaned. "Ugh, another scar-measuring contest, Longfellow? Really?"

Elder Arthur Maxson: "What business brings you to the Commonwealth, courier?" Maxson asked. "I didn't think the Mojave Express operated this far east."

The courier raised an eyebrow at him. "It doesn't. Elder."

The crowd around them began to murmur and disperse, shooting nervous glances at the young Brotherhood leader. Maxson kept his chin up and stepped closer, waiting until most of the attention was elsewhere before lowering his voice. "I didn't mean to pry. I was merely curious."

"Oh, I'm not offended." The courier downed their drink and set the glass on the bar. "I just know where I stand with the Brotherhood of Steel in the west. They're not always fans of mine, and if you're trying to start shit in a bar, I'd prefer to do it on equal footing."

"Start..." Maxson's eyebrows went up. "I only know of one courier the western leadership holds any meaningful opinion for."

The courier shrugged and straightened the lapels of their coat. "The one and only. Number six, in the flesh. If that's a problem, let's take it outside, this place is kind of nice."

Maxson settled against the bar, caught the sole survivor's eye and held up two fingers. "No need. I would, however, be interested in your opinions on my order."

The courier chuckled. "You are not going to like what I have to say."

"All the same."

Desdemona: Desdemona smiled too, but she said nothing and let the rest of the crowd pepper the courier with questions. Any Mojave Express courier that decided to range past their usual territory was someone worth picking the brain of, but while she felt more at ease in Diamond City than other parts of the Commonwealth, she never felt completely safe. You never knew what you might let slip in an innocent conversation.

When the sole survivor returned with drinks, the pair claimed a table and settled in. The harmonica player wrapped up first, and took most of the security officers with them when they left. The caravan guards and traders turned in later, disappearing into the lodging rooms in they had booked for their seasonal travel. Scarlett and Vadim were stacking chairs by the time the courier bid their last admirer good night, and approached the table where Desdemona and her agent were waiting.

"Thought you might be who I was looking for," the courier said. They drew a package from inside their coat and set it on the table. "I found the payment where the message said it would be, so we're square."

"Thank you." Desdemona slid the package inside her own coat. "You didn't run into any trouble, bringing it all the way from New Vegas?"

"Nothing I couldn't handle." The courier smiled. "Good to see you again, Dez."

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