The Cracked Glass. How many times he'd come and drink in here. Drink, sit, laugh. With friends. Now, the only friend left seemed to be Ramirez, and this batshit insane harpie of a woman who he could never tell would turn around and stab someone or something else of that like. He had his bottle of whiskey, which was obviously dutifully bought by Zelzibel and thoroughly checked that it wasn't pissed in when she handed it to him. Piss was not a good mixer for anything. And he thought that today deserved only the best of drinks.

"Happy birthday." He muttered to himself as he pulled a mouthful from the bottle and took it down. Happy birthday indeed.

Zelzibel was currently riding on three shots of whiskey and one injection of psycho. She was staring the bartender, dead in the eyes. Zel said, "I'm going to fuck the shit out of you."

The bartender, a 30ish year old man named David, glanced over to Redding. "She gonna be a problem?" He looked back at Zel, considering. She looked fucked up. He shook his head, "Redding, if I were to take her up on that offer and not saying I'm considering it, I mean, if you two are hitting the sack I ain't going to get between you and your girl, but, I mean. Is she one of those tie you to the bed and take all your caps types?" He looked to Zel and said "No offense." without actually meaning it.

"The first time I saw Zel naked was when she'd tied a man up and stabbed him. It wasn't even for caps." He took another drink, looking back at the table, "Fucking her will be a tremendous loss to me, David, truly. But I will get the bar." He raised his bottle in mock-toast with a half-assed smile at the last part. David seemed to be considering further, even so, and finally nodded. Redding had never led him astray.

"If you keep harassing the patrons, they're going to throw us out." He said to Zel, still looking at the table.

Zel smacked two clenched fists in the table, "I'm not leaving this bar until I have all my desires and dreams fulfilled! Every single one, even that one where I'm you!" She pointed at Redding. Her hand trembled, then she fell facefirst on the table, sobbing. "I just want to fuck someones brains out until we both died of exhaustion! Why can't I do anything right!"

David was not quite sure if that's the kind of thing you should be consoling, so he kept a neutral stance, ready to reach out and console but not appearing to go either way.

"You finally open up to me and that's your life's biggest regret?" Redding asked, frowning. "I mean, over a certain age and not having fucked at least once is... I mean, it's not desirable."

He shrugged taking another drink from the bottle. He wouldn't be ready to leave here until he couldn't, so to speak. He threw his head back, eyes closed, a whispered 'fuck' escaping him. Exposing his throat to Zel held a certain primeval sense of danger the first time he'd met her, though the surety he had that she'd take the first opportunity to kill him had been waning. Waning, but still there, just not enough of it for him to care anymore. "You ever had a kid?" He asked.

"Not that I can remember. I had this doll once, but then I lost her and I still haven't found her to this day. Do you have her?" Zel remembered this doll. Button eyes, sew lines around each face of its body. Button eyes, black as the dark. Button eyes, always watching. Button eyes.
"Is it like having a doll? Do you loose them suddenly, with no warning? Do you dream about them?"

Redding looked up at her and there was a spark of anger that didn't catch any kindling. He closed his mouth after the sudden urge to tell her to just shut back up had fizzled away. He just took another drink and sighed, "Sure."

He decided to change the subject, "Where the hell does a person like you even come from?"

Zel chippered up out of nowhere, "Vault 232! You know, the best one. I'm sure you've heard of it."

Redding just shook his head, "No." After a moment of imagining what kind of vault would have someone like Zel in it, he didn't want to anymore, but there was a nagging curiosity of the type where you want to peer into the dark corners, "Is everyone like you in that vault?"

"Well there's the dead people, also the Overseers who stop us when one of us does something they don't like. They're a bunch of communists! They shouldn't be able to tell a group of people what they can or can't do, they should let us vote!"

"I don't know if I want to live in a world where someone like you could help decide on important things. Let alone at least a hundred of you. I deal with shitheads, dope fiends and killers every day. Thinking what they'd get up to if the notion of banding together ever crossed their minds..." Redding shook his head. "The world would turn to shit. Even more than it is now. You ever spent time in a raider gang? That kind of talk gets you knifed in your sleep. Knew a man named Gruff Jon Holly when I ran with one, fucking NCR was breathing down our necks for miles after we robbed a Gun Runner caravan after they limped away from a deathclaw den." He remembered those days without much fondness for them, "Talk spread about the boys, saying we should just offer over my goddamn brother. I was never on good terms with the slimy fuck, but family's family. I had to dissect Gruff. Tied him to an old wooden pole on the side of the road and left his guts at his feet. NCR wasn't too keen on following us after. We hit Fernley and I'd had enough of that gang politics shit."

He took another drink, then another, and after some careful thought, another. He'd puked outside of the bar in Fernley, snuck away to puke after he did that to Jon too. Jon was an okay guy, until he said the wrong thing.

"Wow!" Zelzibel exclaimed. "That's awful!" then she had the thought that Redding might do that to her. Images of her setting Redding on fire, then herself, then the bar, then the world flashed through her mind. "You're not going to do that to me are you?!" she clutched at Reddings arm, her grip was stronger than intended, "I like my guts! They let me pee out the radiation when I take rad-away!" Though she knew she didn't pee in bathrooms often, that was the easiest area for someone to come in and stab you. What would you do, with your pants down?

This gave Zelzibel a wise thought, "You should never have your pants down!" Without context, this made less sense than she thought it would.

"Just, you know, just keep making drugs. I got out of the raiding business because I didn't like gutting people. Easier to just flash a gun and let them come around on their own. Most people do." He set the bottle down, now feeling sufficiently slow and hazy. Zel's grip on him was odd, and this might have been the whiskey talking, but the touch of a female felt good. Even this one, and even if it wasn't sexual in any way. Then he looked into her eyes, deep, and saw nothing but pits of madness and remembered just who he was sitting next to. "Let go of my arm, please."

Zel reluctantly let go of Reddings arm, settling on gripping her knees tightly. "Once this guy beat me with a sock. Not just a sock, a sock with a fusion pack in it. It hurt. He'd find me when I was alone and exposed and do the same or worse. So one day, I found him, alone, his pants down. I punched him in the face, shoved his head in the toilet, and cut his back open with a razor blade. Then I shoved his head in the toilet. Then I kept doing it. Then I kept doing it. Then I kept doing it. Then he died."

She looked over to Redding, eyes wide, "Sometimes, I wonder if he was the one who did that to me. Except for the dying part. Have you ever been drowned, Red? The worst part is you can't stop breathing. Your body forces you to. You have no control. Then it hurts. Your body betrays you. Why won't it stop, why won't it? Then, you black out. Nothing. Have you ever felt nothing, Red?"

Redding met Zel's gaze and heard the words. As she said them, he lived them, almost. Being beaten, a woman like her. As crazy as she was, she was also a person. And it made him at least a small bit sad to know she was as small and helpless and as much of a blank slate as his daughter was at one time. He grieved a little bit for the little girl that Zel used to be. And her tale was a testament to the fact that even the smallest dog will bite the biggest man if the beatings go on long enough. And sometimes it doesn't even have to be the same man. Given enough beatings, all men start to look the same.

He wondered what this world would've turned his daughter into, what his world would. Given enough thinking, he didn't like the answers, "Maybe." He said, about feeling nothing, "Once." Holding a limp bundle in his hands, so small. Then he remembered waking up with the same blank slate of memory a toddler has before achieving their first moment of true consciousness, except he was a young man with a needle in his arm in a place he didn't recognize.

"That is god-fucking-awful, by the way. Are there any sort of memories that could even just be construed as happy rattling around that head of yours?" He asked, brow furrowed.

"Oh yeah! One time, when mom was alive, she played checkers with me. We played for hours, days, without sleep. Then, I beat her when she passed out and allowed me to check her double stacked piece with mine. She woke up and cooked us both a breakfast because we hadn't eaten in days."

"Huh." Redding just shook his head, pursing his lips before sighing and trying to remember his mother and if there were any memories of her he hadn't visited in a while, "What the fuck had to happen to us, Zel?"

At every turn, just when he was about to tug some thread of sympathy for the woman before him, she always seemed to find a way to cut that thread before it came out and hold a lighter to it. Except this time. He blew out an exasperated breath, his cheeks puffing out with it and stood, holding himself upright with a hand on the table. He found his ground and took his first step, then his second, third. Finally, he was just about to push open the swinging doors of the bar when looking over the top of them brought him a view of none other than Fimion walking towards the door with the most self-satisfied grin on his face. Which was never a good thing to see. "Fucking Fimion..."

Lilith ambled absentmindedly through the front door of the bar, “The Cracked Glass” if she had read it correctly. She’d been wandering about the town aimlessly for a few hours how, paying the gunfire and commotion in the background little attention. She’d considered wandering off to investigate but eventually decided against it - while not stranger to gunfights, getting involved in one that didn’t involve her was generally a bad idea. Best case scenario, someone gave her a little bit of money for her trouble and she found herself with several shots fewer than she started, and worst case she got shot herself and barely escaped with her life - and then she would have a potential infection to contend with.

No, she had been quite content to fiddle with the sights on her rifle and to slowly work her way through her by now miniscule supply of whiskey and beer - she could hardly feel the effects of the alcohol as it was, besides a slight warm buzz.

So with little else to do to pass the time except go investigate random bursts of gunfire, she had grudgingly dragged herself to her feet and marched around until she found a bar that seemed suitable. Or, whatever bar she saw first. That bar was perfectly suitable.

She waved noncommitally to the other occupants of the building, slowly making her way over to where the bartender, or at least the man she figured was the bartender, stood. “What kinds of beer d’you have on tap?” She asked politely, taking a seat at the bar. “And since I’m at my wits’ end, do you know of any work in the area?”

Clayton West savoured one last lungful of smoke, before letting his cigarette hit the earth with a soft thud.

He stood in a clearing of irradiated soil and sandblasted rocks, a few miles from Reno’s outskirts. Stretched out in front of him was a single-file line of of prisoners, all bound and gagged and forced onto their knees. They were dressed plainly, in bland rags, and seemed to be withered from malnutrition.

“Think that’s everyone,” Smog announced, making his way across the scorched earth, and over to West “How you planning on getting this bunch out to Utah?”

West said nothing, simply reaching inside the pocket of his trench coat, and removing what looked like a slightly chunkier revolver. He raised it over his head, firing off a short into the bleak silver sky above.

A smoldering red flare leapt out of the barrel, lurching upwards, until it disappeared behind a blanket of grey clouds.

No more than a handful of moments later, the sharp chopping of propeller blades hissed through the air, and the squat body of a Vertibird Gunship broke through the skies above. The Vertibird landed a stone's throw from where the two men stood, its engines gradually dying.

The side door opened with a hiss, and a figure that was clad from head-to-toe in a set of bulky X-01 Power Armor stepped out, sending up a puff of sand as their feet hit the earth.

“Ready on your command, sir.” boomed a deep, metallic voice.

“Excellent,” West nodded “let's get these mutants aboard.”

“Redding Schmidt! That’s the guy from the Desperados… The one those raiders were gunning for, the one responsible for that firestorm I suppose”.

As Annelise spoke to him, his mind slightly drifted. He still caught everything she said, but every now and then flashes of his past would hit him and leave behind a terrible headache. Sometimes he would hear voices, but he wasn't quite yet sure if he was thinking it all himself or if he was indeed going crazy. He saw his wife this time, as was usually the case. He could only feel her presence, though could not make her face out. She whispered faintly into his ear "You don't have to kill". Again, he wasn't sure if it was his own mind or not, as she vanished instantly and left him with an aching head.

"Good," Dallen replied, quickly massaging his temples and trying to ignore what had just happened. "Then he owes us for cleaning up the mess!" He stood and looked Annelise in the eyes, feeling more like himself again. "If he doesn't see it that way, maybe he needs someone killed. In this town, business is booming."

Just as the Cracked Glass came into view, Dallen turned his head and flicked away a smoke. His eyes caught a view of Frank, one of his older companions, running down the back alleyways of other broken down homes. The laser rifle was shooting off randomly, as was other gunfire. The fighting never seemed to stop in New Reno. Normally, Dallen wouldn't give a fuck about Frank's fate. However, he had been in enough gunfights to know that Frank was being pursued by others and might need a hand. Something about starting the journey with the guy made Dallen feel the need to pursue it.

"I'll meet you in there in a moment," Dallen said to Annelise. "Might be an advantage if we go in not knowing one another. I'll try to be quick." He pulled the backpack around to his chest, then pulled out some caps to give to her so that she could at least buy some drinks in the while. Dallen did notice a small group of ragged clothed and looking children, eyeing him as he put the backpack around to his back. He didn't think much of it, then ran off down the alleyways behind the buildings.

The city was like a labyrinth behind the lights and glamor. Within the first minute of following, the Cracked Glass was already well out of view. It wasn't long after when he found Frank, though the man was in quite the predicament. He was danger close with some other gang, all of them with weapons drawn and circling a clearly dazed and high off his mind Frank. Though his former companion, as mad as he was, was laughing even with these odds. Frank lowered his weapon to the floor and scratched his ass, still laughing. Dallen rose an eyebrow, wondering if this would even be worth it. He was too close as well, at least for his own comfort. The apparent leader of the small gang, mostly made of young boys trying to be hard men, moved toward Frank and started screaming in beats, "WHAT...THE FUCK...ARE YOU LAUGHING FOR...LOOK AROUND MOTHER FUCKER!"

Dallen dropped the backpack to the ground, as it only slowed his reflexes down. He unholstered his firearms, one in each hand, and took a few steps forward. It was going to get messy, he knew.

"WHY ARE YOU STILL LAUGHING YOU FUCKING MORON!!"

Frank stopped laughing and raised an asscheek up, it was in this moment that Dallen paused and realized that Frank didn't scratch his ass, he pulled a pin. Frank farted, as the second later the grenade in between his asscheeks went off. The explosion was quick and sudden, tearing everything around it to pieces. Dallen flew backward and slammed his already aching head into a brick wall of a building.

He blacked out, but just for a moment. When he came to, his sight was blurry and his head was now ringing. The few flammable objects lying around the alleyway were lit on fire, and the remains of all the people were found throughout. The next thing he saw as he turned over to his side, was one of the children from earlier stealing his backpack and running off.

"Get back here...you little shit!" Dallen yelled, which resulted in him spitting up some blood. The man coughed and then instead of getting up to his feet, decided to lay back down on his back for a minute or two. His white collar shirt and black tie were covered in debris and blood, mainly from the others but he was bleeding himself in various places along his right side. His face turned back to its normal color as he slowly inhaled and exhaled, calming his heart rate down in the process. When he felt as fine as he was going to feel, he pulled out a cigarette from his shirt pocket and lit it up. He took a few long, deep drags as he continued to rest on the dirty ground. "Fuck this town."

Eventually, Dallen got back to his feet and made his way into the Cracked Glass. He was in quite a bit of pain and had lost the backpack to some brat kids, but he still had enough caps in his pant pocket to at least get a drink or two. Without even noticing who all was around him, and trying to hide the obvious fact that he looked like shit, he sat at the bar and laid some caps down.

"Whiskey," he ordered.

David looked at Lilith with a surprised expression, "Work? Here?" He looked to Redding and at Zel. "I mean, that depends. What kind of work are you comfortable with?"

Lilith raised an eyebrow at him, "Any kind of work, scavenging, guarding, ruthless bloody murder, or interior design. I'm a budding renaissance in a can in the field of occult brahmin blood wall murals!" She waited expectantly, nodding her head in the direction of the bar's stocks of alcohol and hoping he would take the hint. "Really, as long as it doesn't involve spreading my legs for an obese ghoul with a Ronto accent, I'll do just about whatever you have."

The bartender looked nervous, "Look, don't say the M word here ok?" he looked to Zel for a moment. Then he asked, "What do you want? We serve a mean whiskey."

Zel glanced, to her left, at Lilith, "You do murder for work?" she thought of Big Joe, who had one of his surviving multi-personalities act as a rapist and murderer, "There's people who pay for that?" she leaned forward, with a frantic wide-eyed look. "Are you a rapist?"

"Murder, assassination, housekeeping, y'know. One party wants another party dead so they hire a third party to start a party in the second party's party and add some intestine streamers to the decor." Lilith made a face, "never been a favorite of mine. I'm okay at sneaking around, but never been fond of it." She pointedly ignored the latter question the strung out woman had asked, instead looking over to the bartender, "Thanks for the offer, but I'm not looking for anything too strong tonight. I've got a bit of a gut feeling that being plastered off my ass might be even less healthy than normal. Have any beer, cider? I knew one guy down in... some random town in Baja that made a mean mutfruit cider. Shit was like the nectar of the gods, but with more radiation."

Sighing, she looked back over at Zel, "And ah, no, I'm not much a fan of rape. Or rapists." She paused for a moment, then added brightly, "Except as target practice! They're excellent for that!"

David looked at Lilith with the expression of one who was insulted, "I got some kind of cider..." he looked through his bottles. Cider was a sort of alcohol made from apples, which were rare in non-dandy-appled form. So many bars had come to the practice of calling drinks made out of banana yucca fruit or barrel cactcus "cider". He retrieved a bottle, that actually said BANANA YUCCA, ALCOHOLIC BEVERAGE, MADE BY CACTUS JOE. He tore the label off in a surreptitious manner, "Yeah, of course. That's ten caps, by the way."

Zel looked at Lilith, wondering if she were from Zels vault. Would she have to kill Lilith? She imagined herself ripping Liliths throat out then eating it, to gain Liliths strength. But what was her strength? Would she want it?

Lilith shrugged, fishing around in one of the cavernous pockets of her coat for a few caps which she obligingly tossed onto the table. "I saw you pull that label off, for the record." She commented idly as she took the drink, "I'll let it slide if you tell me of any decent work you've heard of in the area."

At that moment Fimion pushed open the swinging doors that lead into the Cracked Glass with a little too much Gusto, causing them to slam into the doorframe either side. He grinned stupidly as several of the patron's eyes went to him and gave a little wave as he made his way directly to the bar where he spotted Redding with several others, not that he paid them much heed. He placed the heavy lockbox on the bar with a thud and started to attempt to pry it open with his fingernails unsuccessfully.

Zel looked at the box, temporarily forgetting the should Zel kill Lilith dilemma. "What's with the box?" She looked at the box, a secret. She wondered what worlds the box contained. Would the box make her happy? She had to know. "What's in the box?" she said, frantically.

Fimion's gaze snapped up at the woman who was addressing him, his eyes narrowing suspiciously as he clutched at the lockbox protectively at her somewhat frenzied expression.

Lilith looked over curiously, eyeing the lockbox's sturdy construction. "I don't think you're going to pop that open with your fingers anytime soon. Unless you have a cutting disc hidden in them somewhere." She raised an eyebrow, "Just what's in there?"

Fimion's gaze flicked to this second woman. He hadn't expected questions, but then he hadn't really thought any of this through. "My box?" he asked, trying to sound innocent. "It's where I keep my caps. I just, eh... lost the key". He licked his dry lips, the bitter taste of the jet still lingering. He still didn't like the way the first one was staring at the box longingly.

Zel looked at the box then back to Fimion, "Give me the box." Her eyes were bloodshot, like she'd taken a hit of psycho earlier.

Fimion stared Zel dead in her eyes as his face twisted into a feral snarl, his hand coming to rest on his newly acquired shotgun. There was no way he'd be handing over his box to this bitch. With his other hand he clutched the lockbox closer to his person, gripping it as tightly as he could.

Redding took one last swig from the bottle of whiskey that David had generously provided, setting it down and pushing it away from himself, already sufficiently shit-faced for the occasion. A fuss had started over Fimion's great new box of mystery. Once Fimion's hand touched his gun, he saw Brian's vast form stand up from his chair. Redding spoke first, "Fimion, get your hand off that fucking gun unless you want me to hold you down while Brian cuts it off."

Zel, having the patience of a mayfly, said, "Hey, look, over there, there's a Crocabilly Manfucker!"

Fimion who had been staring at Redding looked back to Zel. He hadn't the slightest idea what a Crocabilly Manfucker was, but without thinking his eyes darted over to where she was pointing, his chem addled brain only realising moments later he'd fallen for the oldest trick in the book.

Zel lurched forward, trying to rip the box from Fimions hands. She added her feet to the occasion, but because she was trying to sit on a barstool this ended with her toppling over, both arms and feet pressed against the box, hopefully pulled towards her.

As Fimion felt the lockbox being pulled from his grasp he frantically clutched onto it with both hands, his gun instantly forgotten as he scrabbled to keep possession of it. As Zel tumbled sideways both the box and a snarling Fimion tumbled after her, the three of them crashing into the barroom floor as they grappled for possession of it.

The cold steel of Redding's .38 nuzzled against the back of Zel's neck and she had enough sense to freeze. Brian took a fistful of Fimion's shirt and hauled him back a few feet, leaving the box in the middle of the two who'd been hissing and spitting like cats over it. Brian shook his big head with Redding, "Fimion, I haven't seen you in weeks and this is how you want your reunion with the Cracked Glass to go? Brian stepping on your head like a grape?" He leaned closer to Zel's ear and felt a static buzzing of instinctual danger he ignored, "And you, don't think just because you make my drugs doesn't mean you're above me blowing open your neck." He leaned back and his voice rose, "We're all friends, right? We're all going to sit and have a quiet fucking discussion about why this box is so goddamned important, yeah?"

Zel cautiously rose to her feet, her eyes never leaving the box. She sat down, her eyes rolling as the box was moved about.

It remained to be noted that David went on with rubbing the insides of each glass with a wash towel while the other patrons mostly went about their business. The Cracked Glass was never a fancy establishment, but it was a hardy one. "I'm sorry your first night in town has to go like this, Miss. I usually try to keep the strays away or in line, at least in the parts of town where my name matters." He smiled warmly, though Lilith could probably tell he was very drunk, "I'd be rude if I didn't ask for a name, I'm Redding Schmidt. I may have some business opportunities, but it isn't the kind you'd think of me. I think you've got talent with that gun of yours. How's it sound to put that talent to work for me? My caps are just as real as any of the Families."

Lilith had already flicked off the safety and begun to draw her own piece, though she was more occupied with stepping out of the way in case things got uglier. She stood aside until the man who had put a stop to the confrontation introduced himself to her as Redding. "Hardly my first night here," she replied cooly, gingerly sitting back down and turning to face him. "Tell me about these 'business opportunities" of yours, if you don't mind. I'm not questioning your money, but I am. And I need to know just who I'm shooting at - it's not generally conducive to one's health to shoot at the henchmen for the Families unless you're doing it for another one of the Families. Or someone bigger."

Redding flashed a wolf's grin, "Hands change every day here." He stood and nodded, "Not long ago, I was a small man out of Fernley with nothing to sell but a trigger-finger. Now, people know me. Business opportunities are as follows- kill the people I send you to kill, kill the people they might send to kill me, get paid. I'm a salesman, of sorts, and my product is a sought-after commodity by the likes of everyone from him and her-" and he thrust a thumb over his shoulder at Zel and Fimion before pointing a finger out at an arbitrary direction, "-to the Dons and Donnas, and the Families out there in the far-off Strip."

Fimion stood with a distraught expression as he watched Redding and this woman chat briefly, his eyes occasionally flicking to his box or to Zel who was still staring hungrily at it. What the fuck was this chick's problem? Not only had she tried to take his shit, but now she'd made Redding pissed at him. He decided there was little point in lying to Redding, after all he usually figured it out sooner rather than later.

He waited a few moments longer with his eyes on Zel before with a defeated look he blurted "Look - I'm sorry Redding... But she tried to take my shit!"

He pointed an accusatory finger at Zel as he continued "I took this box fair and square from the Jungle as my fee. I was just gonna see if maybe you could help me open it s'all. That and see if maybe I could see Francine."

"Francine's dead, Fimion." He turned away from Lillith, wolf's grin falling to a drunkard's grimace, "Maybe one of the other girls. While we're talking as friends, Fimion, what is in that box of yours? I can only guess from your fucking reputation it was got in some way I don't want to know about."

"Oh" replied Fimion glumly, his mind still on Francine as he explained "Some cats came into the Jungle n shot up the management, I decided not to stick around and just saw the lockbox they keep all the caps in jus sittin there. Chems too." he joslted the bulging bag slung over his shoulder as if to verify his story. He looked up from where he had been staring at the ground and asked "How'd she die?"

"Forced overdose. She was a good girl, didn't deserve that." Redding trailed off, sitting back in his stool, "Some people busting in and shooting up the Jungle Gym? Fiends?"

Fimion shrugged as he scratched at his arm. "It's not like I stuck around to ask questions."

Lilith had stood to the side, watching ambivalently. She took the chance to inject herself back into the conversation, tapping Redding on the shoulder to remind him of her presence. "Sounds like we have a deal, then." She walked over to where she had left her drink on the bar, taking a generous gulp of its contents. "So, just tell me where to start."

Once upon a time, the man had been known as Malcolm Haber, the caravan merchant. In the days after the Great Winter of 2130, he dropped “Malcolm”, and just stuck to “Haber”. His new comrades in arms, the Super Mutants of the Master’s Holy Army, were like family to him for two decades, until the day the Cathedral crumbled.

The man had taken many names in the centuries since, but now he was known only by his grandest of titles;

King Krezzman.

“Your grace,” one of his raiders came running over him, dropping to one knee before his King, with the distant spires of New Reno etched against the horizon “We’ve just received word from Lee; everything has been set in motion.”

“Good,” the Super Mutant’s voice boomed from within the confines of his raspy metal helmet “I am pleased. It seems that West made good on his promise.”

The giant rolled his enormous green shoulders, causing his armour to creek.

“Tell the men to get into position. Our conquest begins, now.”

---

The first wave of Krezzman’s cannibal horde swept into New Reno, taking the city completely by surprise. A feral tsunami of blades and guns tore down upon the city, rolling over the slums and the casinos.

Savage howls flooded the night.

The raiders had come to take Reno, and they were willing to pay for it with blood.

"Not fiends..." Dallen muttered, taking in his fifth shot of whiskey. He was now broke, but it didn't matter. He could already hear the chaos starting from outside the Cracked Glass. The sound of gunfire suddenly rose, higher calibers sounding off in Dallen's ears as he noted the change. A few buildings down the block were already on fire. "King Krezzman...and he's here."

He looked at Redding as he spoke, not seeing Annelise anywhere in view. It appeared that they had taken too long to get out of New Reno, as the once further distant sounds of chaos suddenly encompassed the bar. They were already surrounded, though luckily not the main focus. Dallen stood before them all for just a moment longer before pulling out his sidearm and taking aim toward the entrance. Smoke canisters filled the streets, as random bursts of gunfire went off in various areas.

"This might be a good starting point..." Dallen said to the other merc in the room.

He had no idea how good any of these people were in a fight, but it was a fight they were going to get regardless. The first raider busted into the entrance in a hurry, not fully realizing how many were inside. The raider and Dallen had a slight second staredown, before Dallen put a bullet in his brain. The next few coming were not quite as dumb as the first, staying behind cover as they opened fire into the bar.

Dallen flipped a table over for cover, as most of the gunfire coming in flew over his head. There was no time for introductions, but from what he overheard of the group just a moment ago, he knew Lilith was a merc and Redding and his comrades probably knew how to fight back, seeing as how Redding, much like Dallen, had been good at surviving street side bar shootouts. The bat shit crazy girl was the wildcard, and probably would rather chase the bullets then flee from them. It didn't really matter much though, as even if they were all the best trained mercenaries in the country, King Krezzman had an army it seemed.

"There a back way out?" he asked Redding, of which he was unsure if his voice carried over the intense noise. Dallen returned blindfire back to the aggressors as he looked in the group's direction, still wondering where Annelise was.

Lilith allowed herself to grin as the sounds of gunfire erupted outside the pub. Something told her that this was no random skirmish, and was in every way linked to the agreement she had just struck. The man, Dallen, had apparently reached a similar conclusion. “In truth, I think a better starting point would have more hookers and booze, but this is probably a close second.”

She unslung her rifle, reflexively flicking off the safety as the rapid onslaught of an apparently coordinated assault reached the pub. The first man to enter went down right away - courtesy of Dallen, and Liltih gave the next two to barge through their own high velocity lobotomies. Lilith ducked behind the counter, hurriedly shoving two rounds through the rifle’s loading gate. “Well this is a right mess you’ve gotten us into.” She yelled over the din, “And yes, it’s your fault! Don’t ask me how but I’ll find a reason in a few hours to berate you for, I’m sure!”

As the outpouring of lead from their enemies showed little signs of letting up, Lilith again found herself wishing she had spent some money on grenades instead of booze.

She threw the rifle’s sling over her shoulder, drawing her pistol instead and joining Dallen in emptying her magazine in the general direction of the enemy. Generally, she preferred medium range firefights.

Risking perforation, she popped up from behind the counter, firing off a flurry of eight shots before the gun ran out of ammunition, she saw with satisfaction that two of their assailants had gone down.

She joined Dallen in interrogating her employer of a few minutes now. “A way out that doesn’t involve death would be amazing right now!” She yelled, sporadically firing off a few shots at their attackers to keep their heads down. “Slavery or imprisonment aren’t options either, for the record!”

Whereas a lesser warlord would’ve stayed behind his warriors, using them as fodder to pave the way to a steady victory, King Krezzman stood at the front lines, raining hell upon the people of New Reno, side-by-side with the most brave and bloodthirsty of his soldiers.

“Stand and embrace your fate!” He bellowed, his Plasma Rifle loosing rounds of chemical death upon a pack of the Donna’s men.

All around him, flames leapt towards the sky, as black smoke rolled ever upwards. Bodies littered the streets, whilst those who were lucky enough to escape the cannibal horde’s wrath fled deeper into the city.

Once the last droplets of blood had been spilled, and the weapons of his men had quieted, it was the barking of gunfire still coming from the Cracked Glass that caught the Super Mutant’s attention.

“Press the attack,” he instructed the men around him “I will deal with this little nuisance...myself.”

King Krezzman stomped over to the pub, forcing the door off of its hinges, and hurling it over his shoulder. He stepped inside, finding the bodies of his men strewn around his massive feet.

“I’ll commend you on surviving this long,” The King’s laughed boomed outwards, as he addressed the band of survivors gathered in the pub “but your good fortune has run out.”

The Super Mutant, pulled a plasma cell off of his belt, slipping into a socket on his rifle.

“Time to die.”