#bcus it was supposed to be about my courier and his (reluctant) bffl Boone being platonic soulmates (or saltmates in Boone's case)

[dickie-gayson]

hooooly shit, i just found a wip story from years ago that i completely forgot about. It’s a Fallout New Vegas story involving my courier who is dumb af and basically the hot mess express. after re-reading it, im really tempted to pick it up again

(for anyone curious, the unfinished piece is beneath the cut)

Getting shot in the head, close-range at that, and left in a shallow grave to rot is not exactly Jack's idea of 'fun'. Waking up in some random strangers house, barely able to see through the haze and blur of his foggy mind is not ideal, either. Well, unless he'd been drinking copiously the previous night, then it may be acceptable. It also depends on who's house he wakes up in. Needless to say, it was not an attractive young person. In fact, it was quite the opposite, being an old, withered man. It was a good thing Jack was so preoccupied with the fact that he'd been shot in the head that he didn't stop to contemplate on what level of the ‘shitty morning after’s scale waking up in an old guy's bed would be.

Truth be told, he probably wouldn't have anything to compare it to, seeing as he couldn't exactly recall his drunken flings and drunken flings-turned-mishaps, among other unmentionable occurrences. He couldn't remember because, get this, getting a shot to the brain gave him a case of amnesia. Hell, when Doc Mitchell asked what his name was, it struck him just how shitty his current position was. Really, he didn't even know his real name. He just said 'Jack Wilder' because he thought it sounded badass. For all he knew, his name could actually be Inklebert or something equally as lame. That thought is almost as bad as the other ways he could have ended up in a withered old guy's bed. Almost.

The doc also helped him figure out just what his specialties were. Apparently, he got this neat machine that could test someone's genetics and tell them what they're good at. Jack figured the Old World folks made it as a way to test for deficiencies or if someone is well suited for a particular job field. He was about average in strength and pretty good in endurance, forgetting his easily injured extremities (thanks, genetics), his charisma was great, his agility was good, turns out he's nearsighted, so he needed to wear glasses to even out his perception, and goddamn if he was a lucky bastard. Woefully, his intelligence left quite a bit to be desired. After all, he wasn't the fiercest Deathclaw in the pack. Ah well, they can't all be scientists and doctors, can they?

It was thanks to Doc Mitchell that he was alive and knew any damn thing, so he owed the doc a lot, and Jack swore he'd repay him. If, of course, he got out of his current predicament alive. Jack, despite being inherently lucky, was just a magnet for hordes of, well, anything that would want to kill him. Yeah, he probably should have noticed the cluster of red ticks on his Pip-Boy's map, but he didn't. He probably should have noticed movement in the horizon. Instead, he was busy musing as to why crows had survived and no other birds; if there had been other birds. Also, were they mutated, or naturally as is? Why? He surmised that as long as they didn't try to peck out his liver, which he needed in order to drink more, that he didn't give two fucks to Sunday about them.

That was when the proverbial shit hit the fan. He isn't the stealthiest guy around, that is for damn sure. But one would think he'd be smart enough not to step on a Radscorpion egg. Well, that is where one would be wrong, for that's exactly what happened. He stumbled oh so gracefully into a nesting ground. Most of the Radscorpions went off hunting while some had stayed to watch the clutches.

That leads us to our current situation.

Jack is running full force, chest heaving with his breathing labored. Yeah, his endurance is pretty good, but you try sprinting endlessly with a swarm of Radscorpions trying to shove a stinger in your spinal cord and see how that works out for you. Of course, he attempted to use one of his guns in his as of yet small arsenal of weapons. The hunting rifle worked well enough, if, say, there were one or two Radscorpions and not a horde. Pitch in a couple feral ghouls too, and you got a Jack that's panting like a bitch and bordering on crying.

His weapon cache isn't that great as he's tight on caps. He had just helped restore Primm and find a sheriff, but their casino was not yet open for him to rob blind yet. Thus, he couldn't find many good guns, other than what he found scavenging the Mojave and looting corpses. Right now, he was really pissed at himself for not just robbing every shopkeep of their weapons and caps. Then again, as said, he isn't the stealthiest, nor did he have the heart to full on murder someone in cold blood for their belongings. Unless, say, it was a really sweet jacket or hat. Hey, he likes to stay stylish.

In the near distance, Jack saw a great and imposing figure looming. He almost faltered in his steps but would rather not get over come with stingers, pinchers, and feral jaws. As he focused intently on that point, willing himself to make it and not pass out right now due to lack of oxygen and fatigue, he noticed the figure start to take shape. Again, he nearly fell out of step when noticed it was a giant...dinosaur? 'What the fuck?'

Again, Jack is just a few grades higher in IQ than a pack brahmin, but even he knew a dinosaur from one of the books he attempted to read. Reading didn't hold much interest to him, but he had been curious about those oversized reptiles. Maybe this giant dinosaur was his savior incarnated into something Jack liked. He can't complain, but he probably would have preferred a giant bottle of whiskey or a hot person. He isn't picky.

As he was getting closer, a loud crack shocked him, making him jump and trip up. He stumbled, barely righting himself before the faint whisper of a missed stinger flew past his back. He glanced over his shoulder for a second, yeah, a stupid move, but he was curious, only to find one of the radscorpions with a large hole in its head left in the dust. His eyes widened as he turned and raced onward to his violent savior. It could only be the dinosaur who saved him, right?

Again, another crack and another faint thump of an enemy down. Right now, Jack would be crying with happiness if he hadn't been so busy running for his life and trying not to die. Again. He was close enough to see the full profile of the overly happy looking dinosaur. Mentally, he dubbed his violent savior Barney. He had read about a great dinosaur named Barney in which many revered in the Old World. It seemed only fitting; Barney the Dinosaur.

Then, he caught a slight flash coming from the mouth as another thunderous crack shattered the night air. He may be about as bright as molerat, but even Jack could figure out that it was actually someone shooting from there as a perch rather than the dinosaur animating and rescuing him, much to his disappointment. He came to this realization a bit late, but at least he got to it eventually rather than running up and attempting to speak to the monument.

Only after a few more shots did the numbers dwindle to something Jack could handle with his meager weapons. All but falling flat on his face onto the ground, he made sure to pull out his rifle while turning and shooting a Radscorpion way too close for comfort, getting off one more round before it fell. His attention turned to a ghoul that took the opportunity of the larger threat as a distraction and lunged. It tore at his right arm, causing him to cry out and bash it with the butt of his rifle before a clean headshot sent its skull fragmenting. While he appreciated the rescue, the brain shower could have been skipped.

He sat there for a moment, attempting to catch his breath before flopping fully onto the ground, sprawling out spread eagle and nearly passing out.