The Old Mormon fort bustled in the midday sun, just another busy day in Freeside. With House victorious in the Battle for Hoover Dam, New Vegas' influence grew to new heights and with it the shadow it cast over the outskirt town of Freeside. As ever it remained refuge for the destitute and greedy either seeking entrance to the Strip proper or fuming their removal by one of the seemingly omnipresent securitrons patrolling the glistening gem.

The influx wasn't all bad though, the Followers had found some reprieve in the steady tide of strangers. A pair from the East with a way with critters; Great Khan Refugees with friends in low places; want makes strange bedfellows though none more-so than Scrap.

"Are you sure you have everything?" Julie Farkas called amidst the ebb of white coats and immigrants, worry hidden beneath her chipper tone. Over a decade of stress had aged the young woman since House won the Dam though she retained most of her looks...though whether that was a good thing or not depended on the frequency of her patients' cat calls on any given day. "We weren't able to divert much from the effort here but Michael is bringing a few Med-X around now for if the voices start acting up again. We need you on your best behaviour, understand? And keep these out of sight, we're running low as it is." Julie chirped a motherly reminder as she eyed the Followers' de facto ambassador sternly.

"Yes, Joolie... Rauuugh, I understand, Scrap will behave for Haylee. Scrap will not listen to voices... Aughh, Scrap will just work, work and behave." The guttural drawl and measured pondering of the Nightkin before her calmed Julie's nerves a bit; if he was stalling he was thinking and if he was thinking it meant he was paying attention. Farkas had learned how to read the Nightkin's intents fairly well over the years given his species' notorious unpredictability. She just wondered how he'd fair with strangers...

Julie was pulled from her thoughts as another white coat tapped her on the shoulder. "I've got the Med-X you wanted though we'll need a new shipment soon if this thing with House doesn't pan out; I still say we should send someone else to talk to them, people are dying here, Julie, I really don't think sending the mascot is gonna-"

"Enough." Julie grabbed the small case of needles from the whitecoat's hands before returning to her more agreeable demeanor. "I understand, Micheal but Hayley knows what's she's doing. If these rails are the best way to get the Followers in House's good graces then we need to send our best engineer, simple as that."

Visibly upset, Julie moved closer to the whitecoat and spoke in hushed tones. "Speak to the Khan again, see if you can arrange that shipment, double our last offer. With Tenpenny's caravans choking out the competition it'll be harder to get through unnoticed but we need those supplies." With that, the whitecoat nodded and shuffled away.

"Looks like time's not on our side, Scrap." Julie sighed, wiping her brow in the intense heat. "Hayley and I have arranged for you to get into the Strip. Tell the Securitrons at the gate you have business at Lucky 38, got it? Lucky. Thirty-Eight."

"Lucky Thirty-Eight, got it. Guuuagh, Joolie?"

"Yeah, Scrap? Did you forget something, do I need to go over anything again?"

"No. I not forget. Scrap just wonder why Joolie not just ask Haylee to get Med-X. Pennyman has good junk, Pennyman can trade for lots of chems!"

Julie smiled and stepped toward the Fort's exit, causing the Nightkin to follow. "Maybe someday Scrap, for now you've got somewhere to be."

Scrap nodded then shouldered his enormous satchel of bits and bobs and adjusted his Trader's Cap. "Bye Joolie, Scrap got things to find, work to do!" And so he was off.

_________________________________

"Shoouee!! Big fellar like you must be here for the barn-raisin'! If you'd just follow me up to the penthouse we'll see if we cain't find you a seat. Some o' your compadres are already here so feel free to mingle like."

As soon as Scrap crossed through the gates of Freeside, a strange robot called him over. whether this was coincidence or simply someone wanting to minimize the amount of time the Strip's patrons and the Mutant spent together was anybody's guess. As Scrap followed the cowboy robot up the intricately lit stairs and into the grandiose 38, he listened closely to his tour guide's instructions though was soon distracted.

"Metal Man, you grind too much! When was last time you check axle? Sound like, Aauughh, too much weight on one side, you carry lots Metal Man?"

"Now now, I ain't one t'kiss and tell, hombre. Suffice it to say not all o' our guests here tonight got here in as good a shape as you, pardner. Speakin' o' which, this's your stop! Enjoy your stay at the Lucky 38, pardner! Yeeehaw!"

With that, the doors to the penthouse opened and Scrap stepped into the large suite; crisp, clean, and no doubt hiding some very good junk. Two humans sat at the far end of the room and a third very small human stood mere feet from the elevator. Looking down over the man, he noticed the explosive beneath his foot. "I need this." With a gentle nudge, Scrap knocked the small man to the side and quietly took the grenade.

Del couldn't help but stare that the display before him. These kids apparently weren't too bright. Only idiots play jokes with fucking grenades. He wanted to smack all three of them upside the head, and would have too if the....Nightkin? Well, now, this was unexpected. He blinked in surprise at the towering gray-blue hulk in stepping out of the elevator, and continued to stare as it rather casualy nudged aside the NCR boy and reached down to pick up the grenade. He'd been around the wasteland enough to not assume the worst of Super Mutants right away. Hell, he'd even traveled with one after it left what was left of Broken Hills. Nightkin, though? Well, it was usualy just best to play along with their crazy until they got bored and moved away, if you were lucky. Otherwise gunplay was about the only option.

"Huh. Didn' expect no Nigh'kin here. Gon' take a wil' guess an' say yo' here fo' wha'evah' dis job is, too?" He kept his tone calm, casual. He wasn't going to take chances with one of those crazies.

“What is life? It is the flash of a firefly in the night. It is the breath of a buffalo in the wintertime. It is the little shadow which runs across the grass and loses itself in the sunset.” – Blackfoot tribe member 1870
---the day before---
The Hot sun beat down on the courtyard of the fort. It was hot today, so hot that it almost made Ra’tara wish for a new clear winter, but he wouldn’t annoy his company with mentioning such an idiotic thing. He looked around at his company a follower by the name of Joshua and a member of the King’s member by the name of Frank.

Frank was an odd looking man. His hair was greased back that gave his black locks a shiny gleam. He wasn’t sure if it was some sort of gel or if it was sweat, perhaps both. He wore worn out Jeans with a leather jacket. Ra’tara almost cringed at the thought of that jacket in the heat.

“Ayy, man it’s hot as balls out here.” Frank commented casually as he checked his S.M.G was loaded for the 17th time today.

Ra’tara gave the King’s member an angry glance before turning to Joshua. Joshua was one of the Key members of The Followers and was a very no-nonsense sort of man. Ra’tara liked that about him Joshua knew when words needed to be said and when talking was not necessary. Joshua had given Frank an equally dirty look before muttering something offensive under his breath. You could tell from appearance Joshua was feeling the heat. He had taken off his white lab coat to show a dirty, checker short sleeve shirt with the top two buttons undone. Beads of sweat formed around his hairline of thin grey hair speckled with brown and white hair.

“What are we doing here anyway? We’re just waiting for nothing.” Frank said in his annoying Brookelyn accent.
Ra’tara hated Frank’s accent but the context of his annoying voice was worse and Joshua gave an angry sigh before looking at the dim-witted Kings member.

“For the third time Frank, we are waiting to see if a medical shipment gets in if it’s more than 3 hours late we have to go investigate the disappearance.” Joshua nagged in a justified condescending tone.
“Well how long has it been then?” Frank moaned.

“Unfortunately 3 hour and 10 minutes so we need to go investigate the highway.” Joshua sighed looking at his watch.
Both Frank and Ra’tara both gave a small grin. Finally something interesting was going to happen.
“I’ll go get changed into my armour then.” Joshua said standing up from the black stool he was sitting on.

---6 hours after that---

The twilight of the Mojave Desert had cooled the trio down. Not significantly but enough so that Frank would stop bitching about the heat. They had found some sign of the shipment easily enough unfortunately it was just two dead Caravan guards and a follower’s mangled corpse. Know that they knew the shipment had been intercepted it was there job to hunt them down. There secret weapon was Ra’tara and his tracking skills. So Ra’tara had dragged the two Freesiders through the desert to a small cave.

From one look you could tell the cave belonged to raiders blood covered the entrance and flayed body was hung above. “Keep out.” was written near the body, if it was in blood or excrement Ra’tara was particularly sure.
“The Raiders are in here.” Ra’tara spoke softly pulling out his war club.

“Aww man it’s an old fashioned shoot out.” Frank said loading his S.M.G finally using it for something.
“Don’t get yourself killed Frank.” Joshua said loading his service rifle.

“Na man, I got my piece loaded so no punk ass raider is going to get past me.” Frank replied walking in side. Joshua let out another sigh more audible then the last before he and Ra’tara followed him in.

Once you walked the cave for 5 or 10 minutes the Cave opened up in to a large room. Big enough for several people to live comfortable, but comfatble was used as a relative term as the place was in shambles a destroyed pool table burned slowly lighting the cave in a dark orange glow. Ra’tara noticed that the cave wasn’t smoky so there must have been some form of ventilation on the roof. In the corner the two Brahman slumped lifelessly together, bullets in their skulls and the medical supplies from their packs were strewn all across the cave. In the opposite corner two raiders slept restlessly on disgusting couches. Syringes and bottles of pills surrounded them.

“Take them out.” Ra’tara whispered to frank who stood wide eyed at the astonishment of the luck of avoiding a gunfight.

“Okay Mr.Indian, man, sir.” Frank whispered mockingly before pulling out his S.M.G taking it by both hands and firing a clip sloppily at the raiders. Bullets pierced the side of the cave, the couch and the raiders. Enough bullets met there mark that the raiders didn’t have time to wake up before they died, but the ringing of the bullets deafened the trio as the noises bounced off the small cave walls.

“I meant with your flip knife you Brahman shit eater.” Ra’tara yelled half deaf.

---later---
The gangster, the doctor and the Indian walked back up the highway all with large rucksacks weighing them down. After the druggies had been disposed of, they packed the medical supplies into large bags put them on and began to make their way back to The Old Morman Fort. It as dark now and Ra’tara had stopped listening to Joshua and Frank who were argueing about something unimportant. In the distance a securitron drove down the middle of the highway the three men were walking up. Once the securitron reached Ra’tara he noticed the screen was not of a U.S solider but of a man in a fedora smoking a cigarette.

“Hey there,” the Secruitron said in a New York gangsta accent. “I’m here to tell you, Ra’tara have done been invited to the lucky 38 penthouse for a meeting with Mr. House and Mr. Tenpenny. You’re presence is mandatory.” And without another word the securitron turned away and drove away to the direction of New Vegas.

“Well, the Great Spirit must have something in store for me.” Ra’tara stated, in a surprise tone.

---that day.---
Ra’tara stepped into the suite he felt out of place and quite vulnerable when he couldn’t see the sky. He wanted to go on this adventure but was scared of what might become of him.
“I am Ra’tara of the Osweg people where may I find Mr. Tenpenny?”
He spoke loudly so the group would here and then he noticed the nightkin his people were not trustful of super mutants but in his travels he had grown a begrudging respect for there fighting capabilities and strength.

“…but you may call me Stalking Bear.” He finished but said it directly to the night kin.

Terminal said
"This punchline sucks. Your jokes suck. YOU suck. But hey, we're three for three with the not being fooled by childishly toying with deadly weapons, come on down and join the club. Next you can shoot yourself with an empty rifle and then I can 'pretend' to beat you to death with a baseball bat, we'll make a grand ol' time of it." Poe unslung the aforementioned from his travel pack and lay it across the table, his rictus grin slowly spreading again as he leered eerily at Sabin with his obscured eyes.

Ignoring the insults, the soldier would smile, not exactly understanding the seemingly veiled threat. "Sounds like a jolly good time right there, why not?" He'd lower the hand holding the zipper from the air, studying it. "Well, now I just need to find out how to stick this sucker back on..." Turning to the backpack still held to his body, he'd try and hook the zipper back onto the base, but with no luck. The thin metal had been bent, pulled apart by the force. "Crap." He'd mutter, slipping the zipper into his pocket. Oh well. Turning, he'd hear the elevator clang open, eyeing a large, blueish creature of some kind standing in the carriage. The NCR soldier had never seen a nightkin before, not even a super mutant, yet he'd been told stories of them. All of them included bloody massacre, which obviously didn't provide him with a very good image of mutants.

"What the living hell, is that a super mutant? How the hell did it get in here?!" He'd pull his pistol out of the holster on his leg, holding it up. His hands were shaking, not knowing if the strange creature was going to rip his head off or what. As the nightkin approached him, nudging him aside to get to the grenade, he'd overdue his balance and fall onto his bottom. "Agh, it's gonna eat me!" He'd scream, holding up the pistol. Clack. Oops, he'd forgotten to turn off the safety...again. This would probably leave ample time for one to pull the 10mm pistol from his shaking hands, and even if no one did he'd probably end up dropping it in the next few seconds anyways.

Concerning the other people that had entered the room through the elevator, he would be too engulfed in his fear to pay them much attention.

Behind the opaque goggles, Poe's eyebrows raised as the elevator disgorged three people - a tribal, a filthy looking settler, and a nightkin. Poe had traveled halfway across the wasteland from St. Louis, but even he had only ever seen one before. He had heard more about them than he had seen of them, and apparently even the best of them could be highly erratic.

That was fine with him. He liked erratic.

Poe got up from the couch and hefted the baseball bat over his shoulder, taking a few steps away from the table before looking up and speaking.

"Hey you, big and blue." He called up to Scraps. "You can keep the grenade, but can you send down the boy? He agreed to let me beat him to death. Just push him over the railing, a'right?" An easy, if wicked rictus grin was stretched across his face as he spoke. "As for the rest of you motes, get down here. Tenpenny and House will be along in a while and you lot are organized into what is commonly referred to as a target rich environment."

Dallas looked at the nightkin, then down to his pip-boy. He saw a few in his travels of the Mojave, but none of them we're this... friendly than the others he came across. He looked back up to a tribes man. 'Stalking bear huh...' Dallas said quietly. 'Fancy name...'

He observed Sabin once more. An enthusiastic kid, he admired that. Most of those from the NCR, especially young people like him would be grouchy, and annoyed. Dallas bet that the NCR would change him, turn him into what Dallas is now... A grumpy old man wandering around the mojave. This raised the question in Dallas' mind, would the kid become a ranger like him? wandering the Mojave, looking like a lost dog? Dallas stirred this question in his head, taking out his cigarette and breathing out the fumes.

Dallas took the now butt cigarette out of his mouth, and pressed it on the ash tray, snuffing the embers out. He sat there, looking at the others. 'Where the fuck is this tenpenny fellow anyways?' Dallas muttered, sitting up. He looked out the window, the lights of New Vegas shining brightly. Dallas never liked big cities, but he did have to admit, the view from here was damn magnificent. He got up, and walked over to the window, just... staring out into the bright lights. 'I have to admit...' Dallas started 'I hate places like this... But can't ignore the view, right?'

So....they had a Tribal now too. This job was going to be an extra special sort of fun. He didn't mind Tribals, himself, hell, he prefered their company most days to a lot of the civlized folk of the wastes. They made their views clear, they rarely resorted to deciet, and they were dependable to a fault. The psychos like the White Legs and 80s were the exception rather than the rule. The problem was that those psychos were the Tribals that got talked about most. That might cause some trouble with such a mixed group. He'd probably have to keep a hand near one of his guns, just in case.

The Cajun nodded over to Ra'tara politely, taking a seat in an old red leather chair and trying to make himself comfortable in the 200 year old piece of furniture. He didn't recognize him by tribe, but he figured that he had to be from one of the warrior-hunter bunches, probably a lot like the Dead Horses or the Singing Bears.

"Good day t'ya, hun'er. Spirits' trea'in' ya well, look like. Called Henri Delacroix. Singin' Bears call me Scouts-Many-Marshes, too." He didn't know if this guy knew of the Singing Bears, but with Tribals it never hurt to express your multiculturalism, least in his experience.

Scrap hadn't moved three feet from the elevator when still more humans arrived. Lots of humans. Too many humans. All talking to him. Looking at him.

Scrap could feel the sack in his hands shaking, the voices in the bag wanting to be let out.
We will make the humans stop looking.
Let us blind them.
Let us hurt them, Scrap.

The voices rustled in the bag and made his arms tired. No!! Joolie will be mad! Haylee will be mad! Scrap is on him best behaviour, Scrap not listen to you! Scrap lashed back in his head and the Junk went quiet. Relieved but otherwise distracted, Scrap didn't notice until he heard the clack of a safety the tiny man had drawn a weapon.

"Ryuaaagh! No, Tiny Man!" Scrap bellowed as he crouched low and lifted the small assailant by the front of his uniform, shaking him until the firearm fell from his hands. "First you have grenade, now you have gun! These not toys!"

"Hey you, big and blue."
Scrap stopped shaking the man and looked toward the other humans.
"You can keep the grenade, but can you send down the boy? He agreed to let me beat him to death. Just push him over the railing, a'right?"

"Ruuahhgh, this your tiny human? You not teach him good, weapon is not toys!" Still holding the young man a few feet off the ground he moved his other hand to sit his enormous sack of junk on the ground beside him. Loosening the rope holding the sack together, Scrap rummaged through the bag and brought forth a matted teddy bear, one of its eyes missing but otherwise intact. Setting the soldier down, Scrap handed him the teddy bear and pointed to his handler sternly. "Huuaghh, you play with this. Now go there!"

Nearby a more rustic looking human seemed to be amused by the spectacle before him. "Huh. Didn' expect no Nigh'kin here. Gon' take a wil' guess an' say yo' here fo' wha'evah' dis job is, too?"

Turning from the boy, Scrap searched for the source of the strange sound. "Hyuugh. You talk funny. Where you from?" In the back of his mind, Julie chided his manners. "Ughhgh, sorry. Yes, Scrap here to work. Scrap is on best behaviour. Scrap here to build, will not destroy. You here to work too? What you do?"

Before Scrap could wait for an answer however, a figure appeared in the corner of his eye. Had it been there the whole time?

“I am Ra’tara of the Osweg people where may I find Mr. Tenpenny? …but you may call me Stalking Bear.”

Scrap was curious as to the new human. He didn't smell like the others, he was harder for Scrap to keep on his mental radar.

"Staw-Keeng." Scrap tried the word in his mouth. He knew the meaning but not how to say it. Another hunter. "You move like Nightkin. Ahh! You! You..haha! You Nightkin Kin! Ahh! Ahhah!" Scrap let loose a guttural laugh at his own joke, his eyes alight. "I like you. You have this." Rummaging through his still open pack, Scrap pulled forth a large molerat claw and presented it to the human.

Sabin was lifted up with ease by the strong mutant, the 10mm pistol falling out of his shaking hands and clanging down onto the floor. He'd never even managed to undo the safety, some soldier he turned out to be. And now he was about to get his head bitten off by a big, blue mutant. Great, just great, things were going quite swell. Fear flowed through his body and he lost control of his bladder, soiling his NCR uniform. Now he was going to die a humiliation, even better! As the mutant reached down to retrieve his giant fork from his bag, Sabin closed his eyes and started begging. "Please don't eat me, I didn't mea-..." Sabin jerked his eyes open for one last glance at the world before him, tears starting to run down his face. The first thing he saw was a teddy bear, the damned mutant was holding a teddy bear? What the hell? As the mutant set him down on his bottom, the teddy bear was placed in his hands. He stared down at the teddy bear dumbly, his eyes wide and tears still staining his face. Sabin had no way to process all that had just happened, so he just sat there, staring at the teddy bear in his hands, the first uniform issued to him by the NCR soiled. What kind of soldier was he? A darned horrible one, he reckoned.

"Pre'y sho' House got anotha' pair'a pants fo' ya 'roun' here somewhere, son." Del said with a shake of his head as he looked down at the NCR kid, clutching the teddy bear the Nightkin had given him, and now stinking of piss and fear. Which smelled pretty similar, really. Reaching over to the platter of biscuits he took two of the delicious-smelling pastries, packing one away for the road. It would probably be hard as a rock later, but it would still taste better than the molerat jerky he had right now. Then he looked up at the Nightkin, who apparently was just as crazy as the rest, but not of the sort to beat a man to death with his own fists because the voices in his head got too loud.

"From De Delta. New O'leans you wanna git mo' specific." He didn't expect the Nightkin to have any clue as to where New Orleans was, or even what The Delta even looked like. Then again most folk aside from Tribals and the Cajuns stayed out of that region. He couldn't blame them, really, with the mutant alligators and Swamp Folk. For some reason, though, people just seemed to love to imagine that swamps and the bayou were the home to every monster from every little horror story ever written. He'd even heard some boys from The Boneyard spinning tales about fishmen that lived out in the most remote parts of The Delta, worshiping some weird-ass squid monster god or whatever the fuck it was. He blamed that story on Jet.

"Guessin' ya a'ready know Tennpeny, den?"

"This man is a traitor to the very ideals of a stable and peaceful state. He is actively trying to undermine our efforts and ensure that what we want - nay, what the people want and deserve - will never be achieved. If it were up to me, sir, he would be killed on the spot for his heinous crimes. But it is your decision. Choose as you wish."

Bethesda Outskirts, Capital Wasteland

Light crept slowly into the building, a product of the sun that had only recently appeared above the horizon. The rays slid through cracks in the wall and past the jagged remnants of the shattered windows, on their way to illuminate the filthy floor. On the opposite side of the room from the windows was a hodgepodge of bullet holes, graffiti, and dried blood stains. Rusted shell casings from a conflict far in the past littered the stained and moldy red carpet. Several rotted desks with smashed computers provided the room's main decoration, however. There were two neat rows of workspaces, probably used by accountants or stock brokers before the War. It was underneath one of these desks where a man slept. His head lay on his rucksack, a poncho-liner draped over his body to try and warm him through the chilly night, and a revolver close by his hand. He slept for a long while underneath that desk, but his slumber was finally over. As the light bounced off of a mirror and into his face, the man awoke slowly. His hand crept over to the revolver and he grabbed it gingerly: the first and most vital thing he could do in the morning. Then he rolled out from underneath the desk, sore and groggy. His joints cracked when he stood up and he felt the blood rush to his head. Steadying himself on a cubical wall, Fox looked up at the ceiling and sighed. It was another day.

Breakfast was simple: a canned ration that was some sort of buttered toast and centuries-old peanut butter. Canned peaches and water from a canteen accompanied it. The taste was mildly disgusting, as military rations often were, but at least it wasn't irradiated. He ate quickly, as he was taught, and stowed his trash hidden away in the desk drawers to keep from detection. Fox was still concerned about recent events: he had left only shortly before the Vertibird arrived to assist Major Gonzales. While Fox had mined Gonzales's body before his escape, he had no idea if that would only spur the Enclave forces into further pursuit. He had been holed up in the building for too long and he was afraid that they had triangulated his position. His ears were on the hunt for the characteristic sound of a Vertibird's rotors. There was nothing else like it. He listened as he prepared for that day's adventures. He loaded his rifle with a magazine and checked the NOD scope again. It still worked. He patted down his load-bearing equipment and made sure that everything was ready. He had slept in his boots and his armor: it was uncomfortable but it saved crucial time every morning. The last thing to do was equip his bag and his helmet. There was nothing else he could do besides be mobile. If he slowed, he died.

The door to the building had been busted off of the hinges years ago, so Fox slunk out into the daylight unopposed. It was still early in the morning: the virgin day's orange light cast long, dark shadows over the pale, brown land. Wind blew by every few minutes, kicking up small bouts of dust that swept past Fox's legs. It rustled fences and signs, rusted by the cruel mistress of time. The cracked and broken road led west around the city of DC and towards the Metro tunnels where he was destined. Fox was determined to get to Rafael by nightfall, which meant traversing through the remains of I-495 - the Capital Beltway that circulated around the city. Those were dangerous roads, prowled often by highwaymen attracted by the caravans running throughout. Mercenaries bent on theft and murder accompanied the mix of villainy that had embedded itself into the landscape. They had been changed by the dark sands: they were desperate, and could be more terrible than anyone could ever imagine. Talon Company had its reputation as being almost as brutal as the Raiders. Almost. It seemed as if everyone had to stoop to their level in order to survive, Fox included. It was hard for him to imagine that, only twelve hours earlier, he had torn out a man's throat with his teeth. Desperation bred terrible things. But he couldn't dwell on it. He couldn't dwell on what he may or may not be becoming. If he succumbed to the fear of what he could become, he would become it. So Fox carried on his way, singing a song as he went.

Morning turned to day quickly, and the sun beat down upon the bleak landscape. Light reflected off of the broken shards of glass that lay alongside the destroyed cars that littered the roads. Many of them had skeletons inside, clutching suitcases and bags. They tried to flee from the nuclear explosions, but they were invariably caught either by the radiation or the shockwave. They appeared every once in a while along the lonely road, and Fox paid no attention. He had been dulled to those horrors long ago. But after another hour, he came across something different: a dead Raider was sprawled out in a ditch beside the road. He was missing his leg and was staring at the sky with a pained expression on his face. Fox, sensing the opportunity for loot, went in to investigate. Carefully walking across the road and dropping into the ditch, Fox came across the corpse. With a rifle aimed at the face - it was instinct instead of rational sense - Fox stepped up and dragged it from the ditch. The Raider's body was filthy and his clothes were ragged and torn. The pool of dried blood in the ditch seemed to coat everything in a crusty, black layer. Fox frowned at the dead man before searching his satchel. Inside was general a general affair: a handful of bottlecaps, a few mismatched bullets of varying quality and caliber, some food and irradiated water, and a pair of Jet inhalers.

Fox took what he needed and put it in a pile next to the body before duly patting down the rest of his pockets. Luck was on his side that day, however, as he came across a relatively pristine and unopened package of Fancy Lad snack cakes in the Raider's cargo pocket. For the first time, a smile crossed Fox's face. Then, he turned his attention to the Raider's weapon. In his hand was an R91 assault rifle - the weapon that was so commonplace amongst settlers because of its heavy use by the US Army before the war. The soldier pried the weapon out of the Raider's hand with little effort, and inspected it. Of course it was cracked, rusted, and rotting. Duct tape held together the stock and foregrip. A quick inspection of the chamber revealed that it had suffered a catastrophic jam. A shell had literally bent into an unfathomable angle, and Fox couldn't figure out how it happened. His disbelief at the situation turned even worse as he inspected the magazine. It appeared that the shells had been loaded in backwards. It was at this point that Fox felt frustration. He took the bullets out of the magazine to inspect them - perhaps to save them and sell them later - and found that they were unanimous in their horrid condition. The shells had rusted. Fox shook his head and let out an Earth-shattering sigh. "This is why we can't have nice things," he grumbled to the dead Raider. The soldier threw the bullets away onto the street in frustration. "I honestly can't even fucking believe it. It's like you were trying to fuck your shit up."

Fox snatched up the rifle in anger and proceeded to snap the flimsy stock in half before throwing the piece into the ditch. "You deserved to die, buddy," he spat. "You're a goddamn slob. How the fuck did you even make it to adulthood? You're so slow, you probably should have fallen off a bridge in your formative years."

The soldier sighed again before unclipping his helmet and running his hand through the mass of dark, sweaty hair atop his head. It was getting long and curly again since his last butchering of a haircut. He was also growing out a new beard since he had lost his razor at the brothel in Arefu. All his life he had been neat and orderly, as fresh and clean-cut as the other young men beside him. Now, with nothing to lose, Fox had let his neatness go to the dogs. The rational side of him thought that he needed a haircut, and the conscious part of him agreed. But it wasn't a necessity, and recently the rational side of him was getting less of a say in things. He was talking to a dead man, for God's sake. Something wasn't quite right. He needed a friend, which is why he was so quick to befriend Miguel - or, rather, Major Gonzales. Why did he think that they were two different people, pre and post betrayal? That wasn't rational either. But he wanted a friend, and Kiril was the closest he had in a while. But Kiril was gone now. Dead, maybe. He hadn't seen the Russian since Arefu. Now the closest thing that Fox had to a friend was Rafael, and Rafael was crazy. Rafael was using him to advance a cult's agenda. But Rafael gave him food and shelter, and wasn't trying to kill him. Was that what a friend did? Was that word so broad now that it simply included people who weren't actively after his head? It had lost its value.

Maybe that was why he was angry. Maybe that was why he was letting out his frustrations on the dead Raider. The dead Raider was just a target for his rage. An object instead of a person. But wasn't that bad, too? Fox knew that he couldn't dwell on it, but he did. He couldn't stop. He didn't stop. Maybe this was the road to savagery. But was understanding that he wasn't there yet - that he was still only on the road and had not arrived at the destination - a sign that he wasn't yet a savage? It was like being crazy, which savagery could be. If one knew that they were crazy, were they really crazy at all? Or did they just think that they were? Did a sane person thinking that they were crazy make them crazy? Likewise, when Fox thought that he was a savage, was he actually a savage? Was there some sort of objective scale for some sort of cosmic karma, determining whether Fox was good or bad? And then there was the most important question: did it even matter? Fox pondered this for a long while, before he suddenly came to the realization that he was internally debating philosophy while sitting on the side of the road next to a week-old corpse and a pile of stolen goods. The sheer absurdity of the situation astounded and amused him, so he let out his little laugh and sat up. He took another look down at the Raider and sighed, picking up his stolen gear. The corpse would be left to the devices of the Wastes, like so many others. There was nothing that Fox could do about it. There wasn't much that he could do about anything, really, be it intrinsic or extrinsic. There was a road for him to walk, and the chips would fall where they may.

So Fox stepped back onto the road, shouldered his rifle, and walked. And he sung a little tune as he went, without a care in the world.

Sabin said Sabin had no way to process all that had just happened, so he just sat there, staring at the teddy bear in his hands, the first uniform issued to him by the NCR soiled

"Oh my god, this is just stupid." Poe growled up at the shock-ridden trooper. "Maybe I missed a fucking news bulletin or something, but isn't House supposed to be super important around these parts? Can somebody around here..." He turned and made a dramatic wave with his free hand as he addressed the remaining newcomers, baseball bat still hefted over his shoulder. "...Tell me why the local flavor of boy scouts sent this bleeder here? I figured House would have merited one of their overrated, nigh-mythical rangers? The ones that can apparently beat Deathclaws to pieces using leather switches? I was really looking forward to getting to blow one of them into charnel, but this bastard is so disaffected that dying would probably improve his prospects."

He shook his head, a grimace of disgust crossing his face as he slung his baseball bat back onto his travel bag before turning back up to the balcony to glower at Sabin disappointingly.

"Just get out of here, little mote. The standards of admission for this place have apparently dropped twelve notches already, but even so you just don't belong here." He turned again, flippantly waving a hand behind him as he approached the couches.

Castillo opened the small suitcase one of House’s Securitrons left outside his door. It was pre-war, but the dank, musky smell of most pre-war cases was absent. Instead, opening the case, a pop of fresh, flowery scents wafted past him. Inside, a set of clean clothes was neatly folded, a cardstock note sitting atop the heap; “For Mr. Castillo, may they see the Eastern shore and all it’s secrets. --Tenpenny”.

Laying the clothes out on his bed, he separated the case’s contents. A khaki button up, with reinforced breast pockets, deep blue, heavy duty denim utility jeans, a brand new pair of specialty tanned New Reno Brahmin skin trail boots, a variety of patterned bandanas, and a brown Brahmin skin vest. Not bad. He was impressed with Tenpenny’s ability to match his personal style.

Then again, his style wasn’t exactly uncommon among the wastes.

Castillo dressed, finishing off his outfit with the only remnant of his pre-rescue clothing--a dirty, stained, beaten cowboy hat. It’s wear clashed with the freshness of his new outfit, though that wasn’t something that would last long, Castillo assumed.

As he finished rolling up the sleeves of the khaki button up, he heard a knock at the door.

“Yeah?” He called out.

“May I come in?” A female voice called. Castillo’s ears perked at that.

“Only so long as you’re as pretty as you sound.” Castillo replied.

The door opened, and Hayley Clarke entered his room. She wore a professional, yet forced smile on her face.

“I’d like to think I am.” She said, grinning and offering her hand to Castillo. “I’m also twice as smart as my age suggests, so don’t get cute with me Mr. Castillo. I’ve met enough cliche, womanizing wasteland types in my day, and to be honest, it’s gotten a bit boring. Hayley Clarke.”

“Pleasure. Carter Castillo.” Carter shook her hand, his voice evening out into a tone more appropriate to business. “Apologies miss, old habits and all.”

“Not a problem. I just like setting boundaries. Don’t worry, I can have fun too though. Anyway, I’m assuming Tenpenny told you about me?” Hayley said, looking up to meet the man’s eyes.

“Yep. You’re the...how’d he put it...brilliant scientist who conquered the lost old world tech? Basically the one who’s gonna breathe life back into those rails, yeah?”

“Yeah that’s the gist of it. I’d like to be more modest about the brilliant scientist thing but….well, he’s right.” She accented the punch of her statement with a cocky smile.

“Well, my guess is we’re gonna get out there and get all kindsa killed. But so long as the rails roll, I’ll do what I can to keep you breathing and that caravan rolling.” Castillo said, hoping to bring the young woman back to reality.

“I wouldn’t worry too much. We’ve assembled a pretty...capable team. Speaking of which, we’re going to be doing introductions and pitching the trip soon. We’ve got people meeting upstairs in House’s suite. Several are already there. I’m going up to join and get people settled...and make sure no one kills anyone else. Or breaks anything, House is kind of weird about keeping things nice. Join me?” She asked, her voice now bright and inviting.

Castillo smiled a bit, happy the girl seemed a little more down to earth than the enigmatic, aristocratic Tenpenny.

“After you.” Castillo said, tightening his gun belt as he followed her out the door.

********

“Lordy…” Castillo said to himself, entering with Hayley from a concealed stairwell below House’s elevator balcony. Looking up, he could see several wasteland wanderer types, a tribal, an NCR trooper who might be dead, and...a goddamn Nightkin?

“I probably should have left a chaperone.” Hayley said, amused.

“I signed on for an expedition not a goddamn traveling circus.” Castillo shot, unpleased with what was happening above him. “What the hell kind of team is Tenpenny putting together?”

“A diverse one. And a skilled one. Not everyone in the Mojave with useful skills is a light skinned human with a gravelly voice and stubbly chin.” She shot back. “That Nightkin is one of the best mechanics I’ve ever met. And that fella in the dark glasses up there? He’s like a damn wizard with computers, advanced tech, and he can blow your body apart in more ways than I feel comfortable describing. The tribal? They’re connected to the land. Important for when we’re travelling across long stretches of unexplored waste. Del, that fella that looks like he’s lived two lifetimes under the high noon sun, one of the best and most effective mercenaries we could find information on. That’s the man you want watching your back.” Hayley paused. “Not too sure about the others...but I’m sure there’s a reason they’re here too.”

“Alright, alright, claws back in kitty. I gotcha.” Castillo said, rolling his eyes. “You gonna introduce me?”

The group assembled atop the balcony were eating, talking, roughhousing...sort of like a strange post apocalyptic frat party. From what Hayley and Castillo could tell, no one had even noticed them enter from below. Hayley stuck two fingers in her mouth, and blew a piercing whistle.

“Alright ya’ll lets calm the fuck down, don’t need anyone dying before we start rolling.” She said, throwing a bit of a wastelander’s accent into her voice.

“I’m Hayley Clarke, and I’ll be joining you on the job, should you choose to accept. Some of you already know me….yeah, hey there Scrappy, I see you buddy, you can stop waving now….and some of you don’t. You’ll learn who I am in due time. This fella next to me is the field boss of the job. Some of you might know him, or at least know of him--this is Carter Castillo, the guy who lead a successful caravan to the Tijuana Ruins and….survived...the Black Rock incident. He’s the caravan boss for this trip. Get to know him, cause ya’ll are gonna be together for a long time.” Hayley motioned to Castillo, giving him the floor.

Castillo shrugged, and gave a slight salute.

“It’ll be good dyin’ with ya.” He said, turning away to grab a glass of water and a biscuit. He then wandered to an array of seats situated in front of a massive computer screen, took a seat, and gnawed at his food.

“That was inspiring.” Hayley’s voice was scornful.

“You want to inspire, I hear there’s a preacher here that marries people dressed like a King’s gang member. Kimball inspired people. Caesar inspired people. I’m a businessman, miss. I get paid to complete jobs, not to win hearts and minds.” Castillo said, turning around in his seat to take a look at the assembled masses. “Plus I don’t think the notion’a death is gonna ruin too many’a these bastards’ days anyway.”

“Deep shit right there.” Hayley said, crossing her arms across her olive top. “Just don’t be a dick, ok? It’s gonna be rough enough getting to know each other, last thing I need is the team thinking the guy leading them into the unknown is a washed up, suicidal Brahmin jockey.”

“That may be the nicest thing anyone’s ever called me.” Castillo said, leaning back in his seat.

“Ass…” Hayley muttered, facing the balcony.

“Alright ya’ll. We got a few more coming, then Tenpenny’ll be out to discuss the job details with everyone. Feel free to eat what’s out, we got some nice beer, wine, sodas and water available upstairs and down.” She said, motioning to the platters of food and drink. “Oh, and quit throwing fucking grenades around, you sun fried psychopaths!”

Dallas turned around after the 'accident' finished. He stared down at Sabin. 'Poor kid.' Dallas thought. He was right, he felt sorry for Sabin. Dallas stood there, still staring at the window. He'd best not get involved on what was going on, just to stay there and look out the window. Dallas got bored of the outside world. He quickly walked over to the couch, picking up his helmet he'd placed there, and slowly put it on. He turned around, and walked back to the window, and past Sabin. Dallas arrived back at the window and stared out into the bright lights of New Vegas, this time with a metal helmet plastered across his head.

'Don't be cruel Poe...' Dallas called out 'Just a kid remember, he...' Dallas stopped 'He has the right to be afraid...' Dallas turned around. 'And I have a right too say this because I was just like him when i was younger...' Dallas looked at Sabin through his Visor, then turned around again. 'Get up kid...' He said 'I'd recommend not sitting there while more people come here... Wouldn't want to humiliate yourself more, would ya?'

Dallas continued to stare at the lights. It was true, he was like Sabin when he was younger. Enthusiastic, and easily frightened. He was dead scared of nightkin as well, but over time got used to them, his fear shrinking to a point where he'd think that nightkin were just... there.

The insults were what shook the soldier out of his shock. With realization of what the man was saying, anger blazed in his eyes. No god damned wastelander scumbag would get away with insulting his position as a soldier, even if he had just soiled himself! Sabin would throw the teddy bear aside, pulling himself to his feet in a fury. He'd stand up straight and stare the man in the eyes, his fists clenched. "You know what? Fuck you! I hadn't peed all day, how the hell was I supposed to know that some damned mutant would come and squeeze it out of me? I ain't scared of that radiated crapbag," He said, turning his head toward the nightkin, "and I ain't 'fraid of you neither! You talk big, as if you were some kin' a high and mighty lord or somethin', but you ain't anything, ya hear?! I'm a soldier, I belong wherever the hell I want, and if you think you're so tough yourself than get your barking ass up here and prove it!" Sabin was in a rage, he wouldn't take some arrogant wastelander telling him that he wasn't meant to be a soldier. "I doubt you'd have the guts to fight for what you believe in, like I am! I fight for a better world, a land where one can sleep safely in their homes without fear of becoming victim to some passing raider or slaver, I fight for a world of justice, of equality! A place where people are safe from arrogant idiots like yourself! I bet that's more than you could ever say for yourself, I don't think you fight for anything!" The soldier would be screaming now, anger splayed across his features as he gave his little passion-filled rant, looking onto Poe with disgust.

“The spirits gift me with opportunity of meeting your souls.” Ra’tara said politely looking the man up and down. It was obvious he was not tribal born but many tribes including his own readily welcomed outsiders into there homes.
“I am please to meet you Henri, in my travels I have not the singin’ Bears but I’m sure if they respected you they must be strong.” Ra’tara mentioned.

He looked over the man with who had a long flowing moustache. Somehow Ra’tara felt this man was trustworthy like his words were golden. He sat down next to Henri and watched as the Nighkin came over after he had terrified a small man. He joked at how Ra’tara was a nightkin and the tribal gave an uncomfortable grin. The night kin handed him a molerat claw. Stalking Bear cringed at the rancid smell of the body part. It was definetly not safe to eat and the meat had spoilt the skin but his culture thought it was impolite to deny gifts no matter how disgusting.

“ummm… Thankyou but what may I call you blue one?” He asked as he was unaware of the monster’s name.

As Ra’tara wrapped the leg in a special leaf as to preserve the rotted meat for a useful time two more people came in, a cowboy and women. Ra’tara learnt that the Cowboy whose clothes were oddly clean, with the exception of his hat which was worn and dusty, after the cowboy had made an uninspiring speech to the group.

“He sure strikes courage into my heart.” Ra’tara joked as he looked over to Henri. “Maybe we should get some food, before we leave. By The Way when abouts is that?” The last of Ra’tara’s question was aimed at women who was standing across from them.

Sabin said Sabin goes ballistic!

Poe silently turned and gazed up at Sabin as the boy ranted, another rictus grin starting to spread on his face. Once the young NCR trooper had finished, Poe began to approach the stairs, slowly - and he spoke.

"You're not fighting for anything right now, because you're not here by choice. You're here because your dandy boy superiors told you to be here, and unlike you and basically the rest of these worthless assholes," Poe reached the staircase and began to ascend. "I was specifically invited here, I'm not a walk-in like you and Mr. Lost and Found over there." He tilted his head and gestured over at Dallas as he took another step up. "Unlike you, I actually have a real reason to be here, and a purpose to pursue - while you're just a waste of space meant to obstruct ballistic projectiles."

As Poe reached the top of the staircase he reached behind to his travel pack and unslung his baseball bat again, while his left hand fished into his jacket and withdrew his plasma defender and immediately thumbed off the safety switch on the back of the casing. The bat he simply slung over his shoulder, and the plasma weapon simply hung, aiming limply at the floor as Poe casually advanced on Sabin.

"And on a final note: No matter how hard you boy scouts fight, there is nothing you can do to make yourself safe from me." He stopped three feet from Sabin, his opaque goggles meeting and leering at Sabin's eyes, giving nothing away. "Here I am, little mote. Did you challenge me to come up here and prove something? Because let me tell you...It sounded an awful lot like a challen-"

Hayley said “Alright ya’ll lets calm the fuck down, don’t need anyone dying before we start rolling.” She said, throwing a bit of a wastelander’s accent into her voice.

Poe's head snapped to the side to look at Hayley and Castillo, and he actually listened to what she had to say.

"Shit." He swore faintly as he looked at Castillo. There was a classic NCR New Vegas type - one who would probably take offense if Poe vaporized an NCR trooper right in the same room. Normally he still wouldn't have given a damn, except as the head of the expedition, Poe could ill afford to get onto his bad side, at least if he wanted to go through with this affair. He looked back to Sabin, a scowl on his face.

"Please give me an excuse to kill you." He said in a seething tone. "Go and change your pants, little mote, you'll embarrass us in front of the boss."

Hayley said “Oh, and quit throwing fucking grenades around, you sun fried psychopaths!”

"It wasn't even armed!" Poe called back down from the balcony as he went back to the staircase, back turned to Sabin. "The only other thing I have to throw on me is Sugar Bombs, and even I'm not heartless enough to throw those around! Well, except for earlier, but that was a spur of the moment kind of thing..."

As Poe advanced closer and closer upon him, Sabin stood his ground. Anger still engulfed his features and he kept his eyes locked with Poe, refusing to give in. When he pulled out his plasma defender, Sabin's resolve wavered a bit as he glanced towards the weapon, though it quickly hardened again as he looked back into his eyes. He may have faltered a bit when that mutant had come in, but there was no way in hell that he would yield to some whack brained wastelander! Sabin was just about reaching over his shoulder to grab his rifle before Hayley's voice broke in. He'd whip his head to the side, staring at the woman. Who was she acting like she had any business in their conflict?

It wasn't until Poe mentioned his pants did he realize that he was still wearing the soiled uniform, and his face reddened. Sabin's anger evaporated, he'd forgotten about that. As Poe walked with his back turned to him, Sabin had the nerve to scream one last thing at the man, "Yeah, walk away ya scumbag!" before he too turned his back, going to find some isolated corner where he could change into his spare uniform.

He doubted Poe would mess with him now in his clean uniform, he'd probably only done it because Sabin's accident had gave him some false courage, he thought. Sabin silently vowed to himself to never break like that again, no matter what kind of radiated mutant monster was standing before him, he didn't care if it was a god damned deathclaw! So that mutant must be friendly, huh... Of course he'd heard of incidents such as that happening, but he'd never believed them, dismissing them as idealistic thinking. He guessed that he'd just have to get used to that giant monster, he couldn't be that bad if he hadn't bit his head off! He made his way back to the balcony where everyone was still hanging around, standing there awkwardly and every few seconds throwing angry glances towards Poe. Sabin had a feeling that he would not get along with that man.

Del ignored most of the kid's rebuttle, taking a bite out of his biscuit and savoring that flavor greedily. Hot damn, it was good. Throwing his feet up onto the table in front of him, he was about to down the rest of that damn sweet piece of bread when the elevator came up again. This time it was carrying a pair. The first was another man, wastelander, he thought, merc or a courier. He looked about as unhappy as could be with the crowd in front of him, and really, Del couldn't blame him. The second was a woman, young and blonde. Unexpected, but he wasn't going to argue with having a pretty blonde on board with this job. The Tribal took a seat next to him, and he was glad for the company. He liked having sturdy and trustworthy sorts around.

"Gonna grab as many'a dese biscuits as I can fo' we leave. Sick'a molerat jerky. Git some beer too. Might's well take wha' ya c'n get while de boss be away."

Dallas took his helmet off again, walking over to the couch and lightly throwing the black mass onto it. Dallas reluctantly picked up a biscuit and took a bite. 'Got any scotch?' Dallas asked, crossing his right leg over his left, biting into the biscuit. He sat there, his helmet in his lap, gently drumming his fingers on the actual helmet part of it, not the mask part. Dal turned his head towards the elevator. It carried two this time. A man and a woman. His mind went back to the whole scotch thought and sat up, his hand still gripping the helmet. 'I think i'm gonna leave this one off for a while...' he thought. 'And fuck Dallas, you don't need scotch. Remember the last ordeal that happened?'

Dallas sighed, and walked over to the drinks cooler, picking up two beers. 'Here...' He said, Handing one over to Del. 'You said your name was Del?' Dallas asked. 'Name's Dallas...' Dallas took what look like a knife, and wedged it underneath the cap of the beer bottle. With a swift downward movement, the beer cap went 'Plink!' and onto the floor, allowing Dallas to take a swig.