Zelzibel had, a week ago escaped from her vault. She had learned a few things. Primarily that selling drugs, now called "chems" was a lucrative business and was far better than sucking dicks, which was the second most profitable industry for a woman of little means in a post apocalyptic Nevada. She was now selling drugs inside some rundown building she didn't know the name of.

 "So, you work for Redding, huh?"
"...Uh-huh..."

Shit, who was Redding? Was he a man made of red? She had to play this cool, or the woman would suspect something was off. Zelzibel was already sweating.

"Uh, are you ok?"

Shit, she suspected everything! Zel had to deflect her suspicions.

"Everything is fine! I have never felt better. I'm not panicking, who's panicking?" Zel said, clearly panicking.

"I mean, that's cool."

"I know what he looks like!"

"Yeah?"

"Like a man, with a tallish short build and some color of hair." Zel frantically hands the woman the Jet she had in her hand.

"Uh, o-okay... Um, thanks for the drugs..."

The woman leaves, somewhat nonplussed. Zelzibel is breathing heavily, her eyes snapping left and right. She'd made it and no one suspected anything. She had to hide the fact she was from Vault 232, or else they'd take her back. She couldn't go back, she'd left Big Joe the Rapist there.

Only a moment had passed between the woman leaving and the door opening back up, the same woman backtracking into the motel room with a gun in her face, back still turned to Zel as if she'd walked straight into the barrel. She had. Redding was waiting outside the door for anyone coming out. He stood over the woman and took his eyes off of hers to look at the crazy-eyed harpie before him. Already, she'd set up a makeshift lab and his trademark blue jet inhalers and even his med-x and prescription pills were in the corner. He'd found the bastard- or bitch, in this case- that'd stolen his shit. "Get the fuck out of here."

The woman followed his clear instructions and scurried out of the room. His gun was still trained on the ratty woman. "How much are you selling it for?"

Zel stared at the barrel, "Ten dollars per hit!" She hold both hands in front of her face, like this would help.

"Dollars?" Redding's face was a portrait of confusion, his barrel falling a bit before he readjusted, "Well."

Why the fuck was she selling his drugs for dollars? Now he couldn't even steal his caps back because this useless fucking paper was what she was selling it for. Not even NCR tender, but pre-war bills. What the fuck was he going to do with all that now? Wipe his ass with them? In a way, he was flattered that his stuff was apparently good enough for these people to scrounge around looking for pre-war money to get their hit. "What's with the lab? You have my drugs, my fucking personal stash there, what do you need the lab for? You've been fucking with my jet?"

Zel said in a shrill shriek, flailing her hands about, "I was making Angel Dust and LSD! I only mixed a tiny bit of methamphetamine into the jet! Nothing illegal, I think!" She was pretty sure that wasn't illegal. It was the apocalypse, what was illegal anymore? That's why she knew killing those Vault 232 guards by stomping their brains out was justifiable, the law or non-law as it were was on her side.

"What the fuck is angel dust?" Redding asked. "What does it do? Are you just making shit up?"

"It makes you feel like God, or it numbs your brain so the voices stop telling you to do things. Or it starts the voices." she brightened up, lowering her hands, "You should try some, ten dollars!" then she thought about how she really wanted some angel dust right now. Then she could chase it down with some jet. 

Redding lowered his .38 a hair, glancing over the woman's shoulder and wondering how it was to feel like God. But voices, no. He shook his head, "Keep that shit, that's mine over there!" He thrust a finger towards the opiates and opioids in the corner. "I'll stick with feeling great for a few hours without having voices in my head. But you know how to make that stuff?" He asked, now sparing a thought to employing this woman instead of ventilating her skull.

"Yeah, but I've been having trouble taking it because everyone keeps buying out my supply. I think it's a conspiracy! Maybe I should stab my next customer so they'll stop spying on me." she said, out loud, when she intended to just think it. She corrected herself, "I mean, ironically!" she smiled, eyes wide.

"Listen. I have a proposition for you. You put that shit that makes you feel like God into my jet, but only a little. Just cut it a bit, right?" He tilted his head forward, his eyebrows raising, "You keep most of that angel dust you make, but we start selling for caps. You know, real money. In essence," He raised the gun back up across the hair's breadth it traveled away from the woman's face, "I'm saying that you say yes to working for me and I won't paint the wall behind you with your regrets."

"Do I have to suck all the dick as a part of this deal?" Zel asked, squinting. She secretly suspected that caps and dicks might be the two leading currencies in America. They're both as absurd. Then she thought better of her response, because he had a gun, "I mean, yes, I enjoy not being shot! It's one of my top ten ways to live, not being shot. Not being shot is great."

"I don't think a lot of people would pay to stick their dick in crazy. Just stick to making drugs for me, and only me, and we'll enjoy a happy coexistence. I don't want to have this conversation again." He pointed with his chin to the rucksack full of opiates, "Toss me that. You can have this room and I'll be out of your hair, at least until I need more drugs. What's your name?"

Zel twitched a bit at him asking her name. Names have power. She thinks. Wait, no, that's what that book said. The Sword of Gordidran or whatever she read when she was twelve. She had to remember, fiction isn't reality. That's what they'd told her when they locked her in the funny room. She didn't think it was funny.

"Zelzibel." she says, cringing. "My mom called me that because she forgot how to pronounce Jezibel I think. Or she was high. Or dad beat her until she changed the first syllables of the name. I don't know actually." Redding was going to kill her. She deserved it. She only hoped he let her get high as balls before he did it, because she was hankering for some psycho right now.

Redding sat there, a little exasperated and a little bit caught in remembering his own shitty childhood. He shook his head, he wasn't about to have a heart-to-heart with the woman in front of him, probably she didn't even know how to have one of those. Best to keep her just making drugs on her lonesome. He caught the tossed rucksack and turned to leave before he stopped, turning back to Zel. "I can understand stealing my drugs, sure. But why did you piss in my whiskey?"

"What whiskey?" she asked. She didn't remember. Then she had a sudden burst of memory, "Oh wait, right! Because I already shit in the pillow case!"

"I didn't find any..." Then he looked in the corner and saw a pillow case, "Okay. Well, I want a bottle of whiskey, bought by you, and brought to me. It's to solidify our budding friendship and secure our little business deal."

With that, he tucked his revolver back in his pants and left, somewhat shaken by the things he'd seen in there. It wasn't often you met someone like that. With his luck, she'd somehow fuck up that whiskey run he'd sent her on, or slip something into it. He'd have to watch her, he knew.