Chapter Text
The first thing Eli is aware of when he jolts awake and returns to consciousness is the feel of his cheek pressed into the cold, hard dirt. The second thing Eli is aware of is that he's entirely un aware of where the fuck he is and what the fuck happened to him.
His mouth tastes like metal and his shirt feels soaked and warm, the fabric clinging to his chest and stomach, so he can tell he’s covered in blood, but whether the blood belongs to him or someone else, well, ain't that just the million dollar question?
Gotta say, he'd really prefer it weren't his own. Sure would be swell.
His head is throbbing and his ears are ringing loudly, but he tries to push past the pain to wrack his brain to remember how he got in this situation, but everything’s just too fuzzy right now. God, does he feel like shit.
The fog in his head is so thick he can barely form a coherent thought and everything just hurts and he has no idea the extent to which he's had the shit beat out of him, but he’s aching all over, everything smells and tastes like blood, and when he tries to move his hands and feet, he feels the stiff bindings of rope keeping his limbs tied in place.
Eli realizes suddenly that he can hear a man’s voice, and then hears another in reply just a moment later. Sounded like two different men. They’re talking about something, loudly, but it comes through his ears all garbled and muffled, and he can't make out exactly what they're saying.
Alright. So he’s tied up, possibly bleeding out in the dirt, and he's got no earthly idea how the fuck he ended up in this mess. That’s… well, shit, that's just less than ideal.
Okay, well, he’s worked his way out of shittier spots before. Sure, he may have gotten a little roughed up, but he can take on a couple of guys, easy. Finding a way to get rid of the ropes without drawing his captors’ attention is the preferable option, but he can improvise. Nothing to be worried about.
He tries to test the bonds, see if he’d be able to work his hands out of them, but the knots are tight and the rope just rubs at his skin painfully.
Breaking his thumbs is always an option, he supposes. Might be able to shimmy out of the ropes that way, but it hadn’t exactly been pleasant the last time he’d done it. Swore up and down he'd never try that again, but, well, desperate times and all that.
The healing process for a couple compound fractures ain't pleasant, though. That time back in Salt Lake City had put him out of commission for weeks, and he ain’t real keen on repeating that, if he's honest.
Christ, he'd really love to know how he got in this mess. His head is still swimming, but he forces himself to push past his piercing headache and concentrate, to try to conjure up some detail that might give him some clue as to what the hell happened here.
Okay, think, come on, man, think. What’s the last thing he remembers?
He remembers…
Primm? Yeah, yeah, he remembers Primm.
And the Mojave Express. That’s it. He remembers that he'd been picking up another package for delivery at the outpost in Primm, and images and details start coming back to him, slowly. The warmth of the sun beating down on his neck and the sand whipping around his boots as he made his way into town. He remembers walking past a guard post, an NCR soldier telling him the city was off limits. Something going down in the city or whatever, he hadn't really cared to listen too closely.
The streets had been empty. He doesn’t remember seeing anyone on his way to the outpost, but he remembers the sound of his boots scraping the pavement and echoing off the deserted buildings. He visited the Primm outpost fairly often, so he knew the town well enough, and he recalls thinking that it seemed quieter than it usually did on previous runs.
He’s almost certain he left town with the package in tow around noon or so. The money for this delivery was good, almost too good to be true, and he needed the caps, so he'd planned on making a straight shot for Vegas, no stops.
Obviously, that hadn’t worked out like he’d hoped.
And suddenly it hits him.
Goodsprings.
He remembers thinking that he was close to Goodsprings. That had been right around sunset. He doesn’t dare open his eyes to check, but he doesn’t see any light filtering through his lids, so it's a safe bet to assume that it’s dark out. It’s likely that whoever ambushed him had sprung the trap not too far from the town.
The ringing in his ears has subsided significantly at this point and he can hear the two men arguing a little more clearly now. One of them says something about digging, and judging by the annoyed edge in his voice, he sounds like he’s complaining.
Eli recognizes the faint flick of a lighter sparking, and the familiar scent of cigarette smoke hits him almost immediately, so he guesses that there’s another person nearby, maybe watching over the other two jerks?
Damn. He could really go for a smoke right about now.
A third voice chimes in, quieter than the other two, and he can’t catch what the voice says, but he does catch the sound of steel hitting earth and being shoveled away and suddenly everything starts to make a little more sense.
He’s bleeding in the dirt, tied up like a hog, and some assholes he doesn’t know are digging a hole in the ground. He ain’t great at math, but even he can put two and two together here.
So, options. What are his options?
He always carries a shit load of guns on his person, but he thinks it’s safe to assume that whoever jumped him took his weapons before tying him up. Unarmed combat ain’t exactly his forte, but he thinks he could at least try to use his fists and try to brute force his way out of this.
Which, of course, would likely end with him being shot to hell.
Right. So, upon further evaluation, the situation might be slightly worse than he’d previously thought.
Eli quickly runs through every possible mode of escape, everything, even things he’d only consider if he was really desperate, like breaking his goddamn thumbs, but every plan he can come up with ends with him dead on the ground. The chances of getting out of this alive are pretty fucking nonexistent.
Huh. A little dizzying, coming to terms with your inevitable death while a stranger digs your own grave. He’s almost grateful that these goons left him lying on the ground.
So, at the present, it seems like he's got two choices. One, wait for them to finish digging his grave and kill him. Or, two, he can try to put up a fight, go down swinging.
Fuck it. He reckons he’s going to die either way.
Eli opens his eyes, slowly, and finally takes a look at his attackers. Three men, that he can see. Two of them look like they’re wearing Great Khan uniforms. The third is standing nearby, four, maybe five feet away from where he lies on the ground. He can’t see the guy’s face, but he’s dressed in a clean checkered coat and polished wingtips that look too expensive for a ganger or a wastelander, so he assumes this guy is the one calling the shots.
The man in the ugly get-up doesn’t seem to be paying Eli any attention and the two Khans are busy complaining as they dig his grave, so he decides to take the chance and try to take them by surprise.
He twists his hands, tries to pull at the ropes again, but the knots don't budge an inch. If he could sit up or pull his feet closer, he might be able to undo the knots around his ankles. His hands would still be tied up, but on the off chance he makes it out of this without getting his brains blown out, well, he can figure that shit out later.
Might as well give it a shot. At this point, he doesn’t really have much of anything to lose, so he slowly starts to scoot his bound ankles up toward his hands. He tries to be as silent as possible, but his boots scrape against the gravel, and the checkered man turns to look down at him, and Eli screws his eyes shut, forcing himself to lie as still as possible.
Seconds crawl by and he keeps his breathing shallow, counts to sixty, once, twice over. The sounds of grave digging continue uninterrupted and Eli flutters an eye open cautiously to take stock of the scene. The man is back to watching over the Khans, so Eli moves his feet again, reaches his arms down as far as they’ll go. His fingers hit the top of his boots, so he stretches just a bit more and finally feels the rough, scratchy fiber of rope against his fingertips. Bingo .
Eli freezes, sends a furtive glance up toward the men. The Khans are still at work, shoveling and protesting loudly, and the checkered man is busy puffing away at his cigarette. No one seems to have noticed his shuffling around, so he sets to work, fingers frantically fumbling with the knots as he shakily tries to untie himself. After what feels like an eternity of clumsy work, he finally starts to feel his bonds loosen, and he pulls and pulls, until finally the knot comes free and the rope falls from his ankles.
Somehow he’s managed to make it this far without drawing any attention, but getting up off the ground ain’t going to be nearly as inconspicuous, so jump and strike is the only way to do this. City boy in the suit is closest, so Eli picks him as his target. From the looks of him, he’s about Eli’s height, so if he can at least knock him over, he might, just might , gain the upper hand. The men are all armed, of that he can be pretty sure, but one step at a time. He can worry about not getting shot later. It’ll be a miracle if he even gets that far.
Well, the only thing left to do now is to act, now .
He takes a quick moment to gather his strength, takes in a deep breath, and pushes himself up off the ground, rolls over onto his feet. He jumps up and kicks the back of the checkered man’s legs and throws his arms over the man’s head, pulls his bound wrists back so they hit the man’s throat. He’s sturdier than Eli expected, so he doesn’t topple over like he was banking on. The man stumbles back, but quickly regains his footing, yet doesn’t make any move to throw Eli off him.
The Khans hear the commotion and turn, shouting and reaching for their weapons, but the checkered man just puts up a hand and they stop in their tracks, faces frozen in confusion and anger.
“Y'all so much as move a muscle , y'all even fucking think about shooting me,” Eli shouts, “I snap his neck, and you don’t see a single goddamn cap he promised you.” His breathing is ragged and strained, he feels like he can’t catch a full breath, and he’s well aware he doesn’t sound as intimidating as he’d like, but this is a last-ditch attempt at getting out of here with some dignity, and he just plain don’t care right now.
City boy doesn’t fight against Eli’s grip, just stands there casually, still smoking away like a chimney. He doesn’t seem especially bothered by this turn of events and his indifference just makes Eli’s blood boil.
“You let me go, I’ll consider just shooting you in the head instead of blowing out your fucking kneecaps and leaving you to bleed out in the damn dirt.”
The atmosphere is tense for a split second, but then the checkered man points to one of the Khans, a redhead with a tall mohawk, and snaps his fingers. “You heard the man.”
The Khan’s eyes go wide, eyebrows jumping up his forehead. “Boss?”
“You going deaf, pallie?” he snaps. “Cut him loose, yeah?”
Apparently not wanting to disobey orders, the Khan shrugs and reaches into his pocket, pulling out a rusty switchblade. He takes a couple hesitant steps toward Eli, and he feels the man in the suit nod against his grip. The Khan seems to take this as further confirmation he's not about to get whacked and sets to work sawing away at the ropes. After a few moments, he feels the fibers snap and the rope falls from his wrists.
Eli jerks his arms away and takes a few steps back as the man in the suit stands upright, turns to give him a wicked smirk. His gaze is fixed somewhere over his shoulder, not quite meeting Eli’s eyes.
“So,” his eyes flick back to meet Eli’s. “What happens now, hey?” The man waves between them, cigarette held casually between two fingers, wisps of smoke trailing through the air. “You’re the boss, baby, you tell me.”
“Right,” Eli breathes, rubbing at the raw skin on his wrists. “Now you—“
A fist slams into the right side of his face, knuckles colliding squarely with his cheekbone. It’s enough to make his eyes water from the impact and he loses his balance, staggering to the side. His attacker takes advantage of this, kicking his feet out from under him, and he falls to the ground with a grunt of pain. Immediately, he feels several pairs of hands holding him down, tying him back up, and he kicks and shouts and spits and swears, but to no avail.
After a new set of ropes is secured around his hands and feet, someone grabs him by the collar of his jacket, none too gently, and hauls him up to rest on his knees.
“Don’t fucking touch me,” Eli snarls, jabs his elbows back sharply. His attacker grunts from the blow, gives Eli a hard shove in the back, and he lurches forward, sticks out his bound arms to break the fall. Fat drops of blood fall to the dirt and when he wipes at his nose, his sleeve comes away saturated in red.
“More trouble than he’s worth, you ask me,” the person mutters, and he can tell from his voice that he’s the Khan with the ugly red mohawk.
The man in the checkered suit takes a final drag of his cigarette and flicks it to the ground, puts it out with the toe of his shoe. “Good thing I wasn’t.”
“Look,” Eli snaps, almost embarrassed by the desperation rising in his voice, “we both know you’re going to kill me, so let’s just get on with it, yeah?”
One of the Khans, a man with a bushy mustache, seems to share the same idea. “There, you see?” he says exasperatedly, waving a hand in Eli’s direction. “Will you get it over with?”
But the checkered man just takes a few steps towards Eli and holds up a finger, wags it back and forth. “Maybe Khans kill people without looking them in the face,” he says, eyes locked on Eli’s all the while. “But I ain’t a fink, dig?”
He reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out what looks like a large silver poker chip. Eli vaguely remembers looking over the manifest for this job and wondering why someone would invest so many caps in the delivery of something so small. But, apparently, judging by the situation in which he currently finds himself, this is something worth killing for.
The man waves the poker chip, shakes his head. “You’ve made your last delivery, kid.” He’s enjoying this little performance, by the looks of it. “Sorry you got twisted up in this scene.” The chip goes back in his jacket pocket, and this time he pulls out a pistol.
Christ, this asshole really has a flair for the dramatics. Any other time he might have found some melodramatic shit like this a little amusing, but right now it’s just infuriating. Being on the receiving end of garbage like this ain't nearly as fun as being the one dishing it out.
“It’s nothing personal. Just business. You understand, yeah?” He nods, bites his lower lip. “Something tells me you’d do the same, if the tables were turned.”
Eli barks a laugh at that, hard and bitter. He's been in this guy’s shoes before, countless times over. Just without all the theatrics.
“From where you’re kneeling,” the man continues, looks down at the gun in his hand, back up at Eli, “it must seem like an eighteen karat run of bad luck.”
He raises the gun, points it squarely at Eli’s head. Eli doesn’t flinch, doesn’t close his eyes. Just stares right back, straight down the barrel of the gun.
“Truth is…” The checkered man smiles, pulls back the hammer with a click . “The game was rigged from the start.”
Several seconds pass, like he’s giving Eli one last moment, just to really let the words sink in, and then he hears the gun fire, muzzle flash lighting up the man’s face, and he feels the bullet pierce his skull, and then nothing.