Fallout 4: AR

8. The Rexford

I was speechless. I could feel the blood draining from my face as the realization of what I had agreed to do swept over me like a suffocating wave of emotion. I've never killed anyone before. I don't even know if I can! My hands clutched the beer bottle as if it were a lifeline to sanity and I managed to lift it to my mouth shakily and take a swig. MacCready sat silently watching me, waiting to see what I was going to do next. I took a deep breath, staring at the lip of the bottle, trying to rationalize things.

All right. This is a different place with different rules. If I'm going to survive long enough to get home, I need to roll with it.

Breathe.

To survive, I obviously need to be armed. Guns cost money, caps. Therefore, I need caps. To earn caps, I need to do work. That work apparently involves killing other people.

Breathe.

Hancock, Fahrenheit, and MacCready all act like this kill or be killed attitude is normal. Hell, Hancock killed a man right in front of me and later gave me his jacket! Fahrenheit is a bodyguard, she's had to have killed people. MacCready is a hired sniper. All killers, all able to survive.

Breathe. I glanced up at MacCready, who was still watching me quietly. I studied his face while I thought.

MacCready advised me to look out for number one. Hancock hired him, the best gun in the Commonwealth he said, to help me. I think I'd better follow his example if I'm going to stay alive. Guess I'd better learn to... to kill... on command.

I may have come to a decision, but it didn't sit well in the slightest. I knew I was heading for some serious nightmares, but what other choice did I have? Best to dig deep and revive the fighting spirit that got me through the military, and grow a pair.

"All right." My voice cracked a little, despite trying my best to sound confident. "Let's do this."

"You got it, Boss." MacCready stood up at that, grabbing the backpack and hitching his sniper rifle more firmly in place. "Come on, we'll need to get an early night." He crossed the room with a wave to the singer, climbing the steps to go back outside. I hastened to follow.

At the entrance, instead of turning right to go back to Hancock's office, he headed left. I caught up with him, looking around at a second open area. Immediately in front of our path was the neon sign for The Memory Den that he had mentioned this morning, but that was not our goal. We passed a small group of drifters milling around in the early evening. It became apparent where we were headed when I spied the neon sign announcing the Hotel Rexford. Lots of neon, sheesh. MacCready was humming quietly under his breath, pleased. When he saw my inquiring look, he explained. "Perfect example of brilliant negotiating; I got Hancock to provide us a room here while I'm under contract to you. Learn from me and you'll be rolling in caps."

We entered the run-down hotel, heading for the front desk. A no-nonsense black lady with a neat head of stark white hair sat behind it. She barely looked up, her voice stern, "MacCready. Hancock already arranged everything. Here," and she held out a key on an old hotel-style keychain. "Top floor. Long hallway. Last door on the right. Don't disturb the other guests. Complaints about the room? Two words: 'Care' and 'Don't.' You tell me when you're finished with it, since the mayor didn't know how long that was going to be." Her speech over, she hunched back over the terminal on the desk in front of her. Dismissed, we made our way upstairs.

The room matched the rest of the hotel décor. It was worn down, not quite clean, and had obviously suffered quite a bit of damage in the past, most of which had been haphazardly repaired. There was a long couch near the door, one double bed in the back corner, and a couple of low tables and desks placed about. The filthy windows were covered in old, tattered curtains that had probably not been moved in decades. A small door led to a tiny bathroom, dingy and water-stained. I was appalled. MacCready however had flung the backpack down, sinking into the couch cushions with every appearance of satisfaction. "This is more like it," he announced. "Okay, Boss, time for another lesson before we catch some shut-eye." He dumped the contents of the backpack on the table and motioned me over. "I'm going to act as if you're a complete bonehead, okay?"