This city displeases him. It's too cramped, too crowded. Full of gawkers and raucous laughter. The neon lighting offends his eyes. He grits his teeth against the metallic soundscape of the casinos. Meanwhile, while he doesn't condemn the city's ceaseless activities - the gambling, the flagrant sex, the excessive drinking - he cannot approve of them, either, and feels assaulted by their presence. Every object in this city reflects the reasons he stays away from people, from settlements. Every object in this city makes him long for Zion.
And being here, in the Mojave, reminds him too clearly of the monster he had been. The monster he still is, if he doesn't watch himself; how easy it is to fall into old habits, how far he would have fallen if the Courier hadn't intervened.
It's the Courier who brought him here. Sent word that she needed him for a mission, and he'd come. Joshua owes her... Well. For his soul, he doesn't doubt. And perhaps for something more. It seems the Mojave as a whole owes the Courier. It was she who'd ended the war, breaking up the Legion and pushing the NCR back from the city. It was she who'd led the efforts to revivify New Vegas, to make it more accessible to Wastelanders and to make it more attractive to travelers coming from the East. Joshua might not like the city, but at least it's a reminder that good things can grow in the desert, that even in the wake of war regrowth is possible.
It's still hard, almost impossible to believe that the Legion was defeated, though of course it never could have remained without Edward; once he'd gone, there'd been no leader that could hold them firm in all of their absurd beliefs. It had lasted longer than it should have, and while Joshua sometimes tells himself it'd had its positive impacts, he knows the Legion never should have grown in the first place. They should have altered its course, he should have altered its course.
That's all in the past now. Nothing to be done for it. The best he can do is try to make some small amends for what he'd done.
Which is why he's here, sitting in a corner of The Lucky 38, the casino's sounds clattering against his head as he waits for the Courier to appear. He should have insisted on meeting outdoors. Well. He'll make it through these distractions; he's made it through far worse. He's casting his gaze over the room when he feels a tingle along his neck, the sign of someone watching close. It's hardly an unusual sensation here; his story - The Burned Man's story - is too familiar, the Strip-goers too inebriated to withhold their casual scrutiny. Happily, more don't linger long, and no one's been foolish enough to speak to him.
The one, though. This one has not yet looked away, and Joshua turns his attention toward the figure. "Is there something you need?"
have one crispy man who does not want to be here
And being here, in the Mojave, reminds him too clearly of the monster he had been. The monster he still is, if he doesn't watch himself; how easy it is to fall into old habits, how far he would have fallen if the Courier hadn't intervened.
It's the Courier who brought him here. Sent word that she needed him for a mission, and he'd come. Joshua owes her... Well. For his soul, he doesn't doubt. And perhaps for something more. It seems the Mojave as a whole owes the Courier. It was she who'd ended the war, breaking up the Legion and pushing the NCR back from the city. It was she who'd led the efforts to revivify New Vegas, to make it more accessible to Wastelanders and to make it more attractive to travelers coming from the East. Joshua might not like the city, but at least it's a reminder that good things can grow in the desert, that even in the wake of war regrowth is possible.
It's still hard, almost impossible to believe that the Legion was defeated, though of course it never could have remained without Edward; once he'd gone, there'd been no leader that could hold them firm in all of their absurd beliefs. It had lasted longer than it should have, and while Joshua sometimes tells himself it'd had its positive impacts, he knows the Legion never should have grown in the first place. They should have altered its course, he should have altered its course.
That's all in the past now. Nothing to be done for it. The best he can do is try to make some small amends for what he'd done.
Which is why he's here, sitting in a corner of The Lucky 38, the casino's sounds clattering against his head as he waits for the Courier to appear. He should have insisted on meeting outdoors. Well. He'll make it through these distractions; he's made it through far worse. He's casting his gaze over the room when he feels a tingle along his neck, the sign of someone watching close. It's hardly an unusual sensation here; his story - The Burned Man's story - is too familiar, the Strip-goers too inebriated to withhold their casual scrutiny. Happily, more don't linger long, and no one's been foolish enough to speak to him.
The one, though. This one has not yet looked away, and Joshua turns his attention toward the figure. "Is there something you need?"