[IC] Fallout: Under Silver Skies [Closed]

[Stitches]

Earlier...
The sun bore down upon the wasteland with such ferocity that the horizon seemed to wobble violently from the heat. Two figures trudged monotonously through the midday sun in silence, boots crunching on the sandy chunks of tarmac. The Mojave desert was unusually quiet, especially around this time; anything that had a shred of common sense had found a scrap of shade to squat under. Aside from the low moan of the wind on the plains, the desert was practically silent, and the voices of the travellers rung out for miles.

The smaller one did most of the talking, slightly muffled under her bandana. Her arms swung jovially with every step, the fabric of her oversized clothing billowing behind her. She was garbed in a mismatch of filthy but colourful clothes, complete with a gaudy vault-tec backpack thumping the small of her back with every footstep. Her movements were upbeat, but her speech was whiny and irritating. “C’moooooon Brooksy,” whinged the lady. “Just a two minute break! My blisters have blisters and this backpack’s gonna snap my spine!”

The taller one had a sloping, heavy gait to his walk. His trenchcoat partially covered the guns and satchels hanging off his stocky body and his features were hidden under the harsh shadows of a wide-brimmed hat. “Two minutes is enough to roast us under this sun, if we keep this up we’ve only got a few more hours of walkin’” Brooks croaked, eyes fixated on the horizon as they continued trudging along.

“That’s Brahmin shit and you know it,” retorted Abigail sulkily.

“All this time and you still ain’t used to wandering’? Long way to go, kid.”

“S’not my fault!” she cried out in protest, tugging angrily on the bright blue backpack straps. She kicked angrily at a pebble whilst walking, not daring to alter the pace - any sudden shift from the steady rhythm would be enough to send a blast of exhaustion through her bony calves.

“Yeah, well you became mine.” Brooks grumbled under his breath, the long walk from early in the morning to late in the midday having lasted longer than he had hoped for, clearly taking its toll on him. Abigail, on the other hand, looked like she was positively bursting with energy. Every single step was lively and animated, and her gaunt features were pinched up into a childish pout.

There was a very long pause where Abigail sank into step next to Brooks, grimacing at her boots. Then she looked over the horizon. “I spy, with my little eye...something beginning wiiiiiith….S.”

Brooks remained impassive as he heard Abigail talk, shooting a “For real?” glance down at her. He eventually caved in and amused her by casting his gaze onto the wasteland, asking: “Snake?”

“Nope, try again.” Abigail peered off into the distance, grinning. “And hurry up, we’re gonna pass it soon.”

A thoughtful sigh escapes Brooks, eyes back on the road as he asks anew “Sand?”

“For once, it’s NOT sand. Wait for it, waaaait for it…” Abigail skipped ahead a few paces, bent over and picked up a rusty old motorcycle mirror that was half-buried in the sand. “The answer is Shiny!” she announced, proudly holding the piece of junk in the air for Brooks to admire.

Brooks’ boots crunch to a stop, staring down at the piece of junk shining under the sunlight. “Shiny ain’t a damn noun, Abbey,” he’d mutter, moving on with his steps and walking past her outstretched frame.

Abigail was already transfixed by the way the sun glinted off the grimy shards of glass on the mirror. “You’re a noun,” she mumbled distractedly. Reluctantly, she dropped the mirror back onto the dirt and peered up at her companion. “What’s a noun?”

Brooks turned his head slightly, making sure that that Abigail continued trailing after him as he continued, even if distracted. “Like a uh- person, place or thing.”

“Ah shit, you really are a noun then. That’s some reading shit isn’t it? Fuckin’ books-…”

“-Abigail-” Brooks interrupted, “Language, mind it?”

Abigail launched her hands up in the air, smirking. “Awright, calm down…” She stuck her tongue out at Brooks’ back and then caught up with him, matching his pace once more. She bumped against him for a couple of metres before shifting to the side - both of them were too weary and too hot to remain that close for long.

“How long again?” Abigail asked, peering up at Brooks’ dusty collar.

“A few more hours, we’ll be there by night.”

…

The lights of new Reno cut through the bluey darkness of the Mojave like a neon lighthouse. This time, the travellers were practically silent as the creatures of the Wastelands began to resurface and approach the road.

Abigail was now trailing a few paces behind Brooks, but she has lost all of the energy and enthusiasm from earlier. Her steps had become shuffling stumbles, and the sound of her panting replaced her usual excited joke or idle comment that persisted under the sun. Her body was bent forward as if someone had loaded her backpack with boulders, and her legs shivered every time her boot hit the tarmac.

She said nothing; she had no breath for complaining now.

Brooks came to a halt before the New Reno gates, casting a glance up at the hellishly glowing city. He turned, bending down to zip up Abigail’s jacket for her, noticing her swaying in a drowsy and tired state. “Alright, Abbey. What’d we say?”

She wobbled dangerously when Brooks forced her to stop. Her expression turned into a squint at the bright lights of the city as she rattled off the ‘rules’ monotonously; “Don’t talk to strangers, stick close, don’t take anything.” She pulled down her goggles from atop the battered motorcycle helmet; the reflection of the neon signs hid her drooping eyelids,  transforming Abigail’s sleepy expression into one of casual indifference.

Brooks snaps his fingers in front of Abigail, “Wake up, alright? We’ll get you somethin’ to eat, take that break you wanted.”  and with that he’d stand himself back up with a light groan, turning to enter the city with Abigail by his side.

The two eventually wandered across a bar named “Desperado”, its glowing neon lights matching the surroundings, making it look more presentable. Opening the door and having Abigail shuffle in first, he’d briskly guide her towards a corner-seat, strategically placing her so that he could see her every move while he orders her a solid enough meal at the bar. Abigail busied herself by taking off her backpack first, wrapping her backpack straps around her ankles to avoid getting it snatched from her before fishing out a cigar cutter from her pocket and playing with it. The corners of her mouth twitched into a smirk.

Brooks slumped himself into one of the bar stools, taking off his wide-brimmed hat and slapping it on the counter before him, shooting a quick glance back at Abigail and rolling his eyes with an annoyed groan as he noticed his cigar-cutter in her hands. Ignoring it he averted his attention back to the bar, where the barkeep was busy chit-chatting with a ginger thuggish looking man. Overhearing their talk he’d manage to briefly make out their respective roles, otherwise sticking to his own business.

[Kingfisher]

@Leidenschaft

David was impressed that Redding remembered his name, but he tried not to let his face show it. Needed to keep at least semi-professional after all, and the Pimp might take offense at the suggestion that he wouldn’t have recognised him. The big players in Reno tended to be quite...unpredictable, after all.

“The ghoul, huh?” The bartender took a moment to ponder that, as he set about serving the Pimp his beer.

Redding’s offer was a tempting one; so much so that it made David wonder if this was information he should really be sharing. But, then again, who was he to turn down a free shag?

“I ain’t see no ghouls specifically, but there was this fella in a mask ‘n shit talkin’ to Mancini. Didn’t see his face, but he could quite easily have been a ghoul, I suppose.”

---

@Sol Grim

Breckinridge stood, practically motionless in the centre of the street. He took the cigarette fairly casually, igniting it with a silver lighter which he pulled out of his flowing trench coat.

“I am.” the figure said, taking a drag from the cigarette.

“I don’t have any intention of telling you why, and I don’t suppose you’ll ever find out.”

There was a blur of movement, and then suddenly Breckinridge was pointing a silenced pistol squarely at Dallen’s chest.

“I doubt you can comprehend quite what you’ve stumbled upon, mutie. I’m sorry that your journey has to end here, but trust me when I say...it’s for the benefit of every American.”

---

@Stitches

Once David was done serving Redding, he turned his attention to the newcomers. The girl was prettier than most the street trash he got around here, and he was more than happy to sneak a few glances as he went over to talk to her companion.

“What can I get ya, friends?”

[Tsar Gatto]

One foot in front of the other, that was all she had to do.

Well, one foot in front of the other, keep both eyes peeled for anything hostile, watch for anything dangerous underfoot, stay hydrated and fed along with lugging the extremely heavy pack she now had fixed to her back – those were the things she had to do. Annelise didn’t know how long she’d been walking for before she finally spotted her destination, the silhouette of New Reno looming at the edge of her vision.

The sun had been bearing down on her for days and she felt thoroughly exhausted, both physically and mentally. The last time she’d stopped Annelise had realised that she was now entirely out of food from the vault, she’d eyed up some of wasteland food and settled upon some irradiated junk food from before the bombs had fallen. The thought of how old they were had almost made her nauseous, but then the taste of them definitely did – but it was a far lesser evil than the crusty chunks of god-knows-what meat or the poor shrivelled little squirrel with a skewer up its ass. Or at least that was what she told herself.

As she approached she saw a group of people with some pack brahmin heading directly towards her, most of them carrying weapons and covered in generous quantities of makeshift armour. She froze and gripped her laser pistol with her left hand, her heart already pounding as she considered what to do. What if these people were as bad as the raiders she’d already run into, what if everyone in the city was heading to was as well? She entertained her paranoia for a few moments before she pushed it away. She was certain that everyone out here wouldn’t be a murderer, she knew for a fact that the settlements were generally much safer than the huge stretches of lawless wasteland she’d been making her way through, or at least that was what the others believed. Either way she’d come too far to simply freak out and give up, so she continued to grip the pistol as she marched forwards with her eyes flicking from person to person as she got closer her heart pounding the whole while.

The lead wastelander was a woman, she had short shaggy muddy coloured hair and a stern gaze. As Annelise looked at her she stared right back at her. It took her only a few seconds to realise that the group were being as cautious as she was, worried looks and hands gripping weapons as she approached.

“Greetings friend” growled the woman with a slight hand gesture as Annelise got within speaking range. Her heart skipped a beat but Annelise quickly found her tongue.

“Hey” she croaked somewhat meekly, her voice dry and cracked from the lack of water.

“Vault dweller is it?” the woman asked gesturing to her apparel and pip-boy as the caravan guards came to a stop just behind her. Annelise nodded slowly as she eyed the array of goods and supplies that was loaded onto the odd two-headed creature.

“You’re a trader?” asked Annelise returning the gesture.

“Yup, looking to do business sweetie?” she retorted already heading towards her merchandise. Annelise hesitated for a moment before she nodded and started to remove her own pack somewhat cautiously. She was weary but spent about twenty minutes bartering back and forth with the woman, exchanging the chems, weapons and other possessions of the raiders for some of her various things. Annelise soon got carried away looking through the junk that the woman had, specifically the components and gizmos. Annelise walked away with various supplies for a few days and more importantly the things she needed to fix her rifle. Unfortunately though with her lack of experience and knowledge she’d been ripped off considerably, not that she knew but as she trudged into New Reno the trader watched her go before shaking her head and continuing on her way.

New Reno itself was... impressive to say the least. A mix-match of salvaged buildings and shanties with numerous huge neon signs that dotted what seemed to be the main centre of the settlement. Annelise wandered in trying not to gawk like she’d never seen anything even remotely like this, only half succeeding. Numerous individuals moved around the streets, some looked like farmers, others their occupation less easy to divine. Everyone though seemed grimy or dirty, or lacking that generally had an edge of hardness about them that she found rather unsettling. Some of the men she passed looked almost like raiders themselves – granted well dressed raiders but the same signs were definitely there. She gave them a wide berth as she looked for what the trader had described as fine establishments to ‘wet her whistle’ (the trader had been reluctant to part with her own water seeing as how they had a long journey ahead of them and Annelise could just get some in New Reno). The trader pointed her to a place called the Desperado with a casual warning to keep away from the more unsavoury types. As she approached she frowned, it wasn’t exactly the kind of place she had been looking for, but then she had no idea where else to head. At least she knew she could get a drink and sit down, rest and recuperate. Hell, she even could do with a drink after everything she’d been through – at least she knew the alcohol would be sterile.

As she walked up to the door a rather corpulent man practically collapsed out of the doorway, stumbling slightly as he held himself on the railings just outside. He turned a beady eye towards Annelise and mumbled something vulgar whilst grinning and trying to wink, the stench of booze wafting towards her. She shuddered inwardly as she quickly moved past him, already wondering if she was going to regret her decision. She moved inside and took a few moments to take in the room. The air was a little smoky and it was a little more occupied than she’d have thought but otherwise it wasn’t quite the hive of scum and villainy she’d expected. With her face down she made her way to the bar before she stood awkwardly at one end trying to avoid any attention. The bartender was in conversation with an older looking man, one of the several sat at the bar drinking. She removed her now considerably lighter pack before she sat on one of the stools, almost sighing as she took the weight off her feet. She still felt bruised in numerous places and her legs too now were almost agony, but she’d actually made it. Despite the hopelessness that threatened to overwhelm her at any moment she actually felt like she’d accomplished at least something and as she waited at the bar she couldn’t help but smirk to herself as she started to eye the bottles behind the counter uncertainly. She absently rubbed her neck which still ached too and couldn’t help but remember the raider who’d done it. She remembered his grotty body pressed down on top of her as he’d tried to first subdue her and then tried to kill her before she’d managed to kill him. She shuddered snapped her gaze up from the point on the bar she’d been staring at. She decided that she definitely wanted a strong drink, her smirk gone and her mood plummeting as she finally realised she had to figure out what in the world she would do next.

[Stitches]

Abigail snapped the cigar cutter a few times, peering up at the bar. She noticed that the bartender was staring at him, of course. Out of habit, she smiled shyly in return and politely feigned innocence...best case scenario, Brooks might be able to wheedle some gossip from him or maybe even a discount. Either way, Abigail was too tired to bother getting up and going to the bar herself.

Brooks offered the barkeep a pursed lip smile, “Iguana bits and a cuppa’ water for the lady at the back, and a scotch for me if you would.”
He briefly shifted his gaze back onto the thuggish ginger further down the counter, mild curiosity getting the best of him as his gaze was instead drawn onto the brightly clothed woman just entering the bar, soon enough realising she adorned a set of vault 96 overalls.
“Strange souvenir, that.” he’d speak out as she stops by the counter, nodding his head up at the woman as he refers to her attire.

Abigail had also taken to looking around the Desperado, particularly around the bar where Brooks was sitting. Usually she idly pointed out ‘targets’, and she could see a few easy ones right now - a group of men in farming gear were playing poker on a nearby table, and one of them clearly had some caps in his coat pocket. A drunkard was trying to flirt with a hooker and Abigail could see the (probably broken) pocketwatch had fallen from his greasy waistcoat and dangled by his hip; he would’ve been too drunk to notice if Abigail just...took it. She looked away from the shiny, shiny pocketwatch and clicked the cigar cutter a few more times. Something she noticed earlier made her snatch another glance at the bar, and she was incredibly glad she wore her goggles indoors because her eyebrows raised in shock.

Abigail leant back a little bit to take a better look, then cursed under her breath and stared resolutely at the table. “Of course he’d sit next to a Schmidt,” she muttered bitterly. The Brothers Schmidt were practically famous in Freeside, and in Abigail’s honest opinion, Redding was by far the most...unpredictable. She’d only ever seen him once in person, albeit for a fleeting moment, but the rumours that circulated afterwards lasted for months. She had hoped to leave those undesirables when she teamed up with Brooks, but it looked like fate brought her back to her Freeside roots...she just sat there and prayed that her travelling companion had enough sense to leave Redding alone.

[Leidenschaft]

Redding sucked his teeth, nodding, before he took a swig from his bottle. “Thanks, for the information and the beer, friendo.” He raised his bottle to David, “And come around any time, we're always open.”

So, the man in the mask was who he needed to look for. Last person that he talked to was Mancini, and Mancini wanted to talk to him now. What a big ol' stroke of luck that was. He didn't like running around for the native big-wigs past giving them their dues like anyone else making a profit in New Reno. His eyes followed David as he went to serve a new face that'd plopped himself down none but a few seconds ago. The man had a quiet strength about him and a face that had seen better days, for sure, He knew the type, tote a gun in exchange for another man's caps. The stranger glanced back with David and even Redding hazarded a glance of his own, growing a little uncomfortable with his back to the entrance. This man entered without him knowing, who knew the next time someone wanting in on what Redding had could stroll up and give his face a new hole.

It was just a mousy woman sitting on her lonesome, probably came in with the big stranger. Like always, he chose to keep it civil. A wordless nod and a raise of the bottle was enough. He took another swig, then another and sighed. As cliché as it sounded, he just didn't feel like Francine was really dead. He still felt like he'd walk in his room at the hotel and find her lounging on the couch like she always was, a ready smile and a crushed pill waiting for him. Kristi and Bobbi wouldn't take the news well, he knew, mostly because Bobbi was a broad off her rocker since the overdose. A problem for another time, he took another drink and looked in the big stranger's direction to see a girl in one of those vault jumpsuits. He didn't know there were even vaults out there that still had people living in them. “Vault Dweller.” He muttered to himself, no indication in his voice whether he liked that fact or not. Today was becoming far too interesting for his liking.

He rolled his jaw, looking between the Vault-Dweller and Big- figure that was a good enough name for now. He noticed the Vault-Girl seemed distant, a bruised neck, looked like she'd been roughed up good recently. Of course, only one way to learn the wastes were shitty. His gaze slid away from her bruises and scrapes and back to the bartop. He took another swig, reaching in his coat pocket and pulling out two cigarillos. He pushed forward a couple caps and nodded at Vault-Girl to David- for her drink, it meant, but went unsaid. He tucked one cigarillo between his lips, offering the other to Big. Something told him that Big and Little arrived in town and weren't the average tourist.

"Just blew in?" Figured it wouldn't hurt to know a new face without a reputation in New Reno, especially if they were hired guns like he had an inkling they were.

[Kingfisher]

Somewhere, deep within the windswept landscape of Post-War California, an old radio crackles to life.

“Thank you for meeting with me, sir. I’m glad you’ve come round to our way of thinking.”

“I’ll admit it took some persuasion, but I truly believe you and your men have the right of things; the right vision for America.”

“That’s all we ever wanted, sir. What’s best for the people of the wasteland.”

“And you think Hamilton is the right way to go about it?”

“The only way, sir.”

“Very well. This is everything my people could find about 93. I hope it proves useful.”

“I’m sure that it will...Mister President.”

George and Oliver Fedorov hadn’t been very close in recent years. George had gone and decided life was best spent mooching off others and drifting from place-to-place, whereas Oliver had become the leader of The Deathless; one of New Reno’s most prominent gangs. George spent all his caps on Golden Globes vids and jet, whereas Oliver ran arms deals and stole weapons from the NCR. George was generally hated and looked down upon, whereas Oliver was both feared and respected by the people of New Reno.

But at the end of the day, George was still Oliver’s brother. And when Redding Schmidt killed George over a dispute about a dead hooker, Oliver decided it was time to send a very clear message that the Fedorov’s were not to be fucked with.

Fifteen heavily armed mercenaries made their way down the neon-lit streets of New Reno on that particular night. They were some of the deadliest members of a gang once known as “The Fiends”, having moved West after the death of Motor-Runner. Every raider was garbed from head-to-toe in armour fashioned from old belts and bits of leather, and they were armed with state-of-the-art weaponry that had been looted from a Gun Runner caravan.

The three toughest and meanest of the group acted as its leaders. They were…

Warren ‘The Wretch’- a vicious bastard with sharp teeth and a sharper eye. He wielded a submachine gun, and tallied each of his kills by marking them on his flesh.

Sid ‘The Ogre’- A giant of a man, built like a super mutant, with cold eyes and a double-barrel
shotgun in his hands.

And finally

Heartless Teresa Hoyle- the most vicious bitch west of Hoover Dam. She liked to send her enemies out in a blaze of glory with her flamethrower, or stick them with her machete when they got too close.

Folks were quick to get off the streets when they saw the Fiends coming their way, and it wasn't long before the usually bawdy nightlife had pretty much flittered away.

“I can already fucking taste the blood,” Teresa grinned , letting out a snorty cackle“I’m gonna light this join up like it's the Great War, come again.”

“We’re only getting paid to take care of Schmidt.” Warren reminded her, grumbling slightly.

“Sure, sure,” Teresa nodded “anything else is just for fun.”

The Fiends made their way up to the Desperado, where two of Donna Regina’s most intimidating thugs stood guard.

“We’re not too keen on tribals.” One of the big men muttered, peering down at the raiders from beneath his black chilby.

Sid blew two holes in his chest, painting the Desperado sign red. When the other man reached for his gun, Warren planted a bullet between his eyes, letting his corpse slide slowly down to the ground, a red smear splattered against the wall behind him.

Teresa was the first to head inside, leaping through the doors, and tumbling into the Desperado. She decided her entrance wasn't quite dramatic enough, and proceeded to grab hold of a pool cue from one of the tables, and beat a man over the back of the head with it.

“Listen up, cocksuckers!” She shrieked, giddy with bloodlust “which one of you cumstains is Redding Schmidt?!”

[Sol Grim]

"You can kill me, sure," Dallen said. "You'll never get your map back, though." Dallen took another hit from his cigarette. "That's the least of your worries. In about fifteen seconds your going to start feeling ill, something like a stomach ache. In thirty, you'll start spitting up some blood. I coaxed your cigarette in poison, and you'll die before you can find an antidote. I have the antidote, near by."

Dallen waited for Breckinridge to look at the cigarette he was smoking, in that split second, quicker than an eye could blink, Dallen pulled his .357 and shot the man's right knee out completely. They were close enough to where Dallen grabbed Breckinridge's firearm and tossed it aside. The man fell to his knees immediately, increasing his pain.

"That has to hurt," Dallen said.

As Breckinridge fell to the floor, Dallen grabbed him by his trench coat's collar and yanked him into the nearest broken down house. He shoved him to some open flooring and then finished off his cigarette.

"I just wanted to talk," Dallen said. "...then you had to piss me off. I already knew you were the one killing the pagans, now I want to know why. If you tell me, I won't break your left arm."

Dallen grabbed Breckinridge's right arm and shattered it. He pulled the limb up and held it firm, then used his knee to break it in half. As the man screamed, Dallen walked in front of him.

"I want to know why your killing the Pagan's, but more importantly, I want to know what this map leads to," Dallen told him. He pulled out the map and threw it to the floor. "I know you're tough, so this might take a while. If you don't tell me what I want to know, your body parts will start falling off."

Dallen pulled out his tactical knife and held the man's right arm firm.

"I lied about the cigarette being poisoned," he said. "Call it chance. Now, you have me to deal with. You have nine fingers left, so start talking."

Dallen chopped off Breckinridge's pinky.

[Tsar Gatto]

Annelise followed the grain in the bar with her eyes, pausing to examine each stain or knife-hole that adorned the old wood. She snapped her focus up as the barman stood in front of her and set a beer down in front of her and with an appraising gaze he offered “Looks like you could use one. That’s from Mr Schmidt there”.

The barman gestured down the bar towards the aforementioned ‘Mr Schmidt’ but Annelise simply continued to gaze down for a few moments longer before she asked “Don’t have something a little bit stronger do you?” She managed to lift her head and smirk at the barman before she rounded her head to look for whoever it was that he’d gestured at. As she did though a trio of gunshots rang out at the entrance to the bar cutting through the atmosphere in the Desperado like a hot knife through butter grabbing the attention of the occupants. Moments later the doors burst open as the evident perpetrators stormed into the place, everything unfolding in mere moments.

The most unhinged looking woman Annelise had ever seen lead the way flanked by a pair of equally unhinged looking men. The woman proceeded to snatch up the nearest pool cue and smash it over the skull of the closest patron, sending him crashing into a table before he lay on the ground clutching at his now bleeding head as he huddled and whimpered. Only the radio interrupted the brief moment of silence before she spat “Listen up, cocksuckers! Which one of you cumstains is Redding Schmidt?!”

Annelise let her gaze flick to the bar for a second, her eyes going to the man in the scuffed leather jacket sat just beside the older man she’d noted earlier. She’d been about to look at him moments before everything had gone from normal to fucked up in less than ten seconds and somehow she knew it was him they were looking for. She clenched her jaw as she gazed back at the crazy woman brandishing the pool cue and her ‘associates’. It was clear that they were raiders, even to Annelise – her last encounter with them was fresher in her mind than the bruises on her face were, she found her heart again pounding as her hand slowly moved to rest on the handle of her laser pistol. She stared from the scarred freak brandishing the submachine gun to the colossal beast nursing the almost comically small looking shotgun in his meaty arms. They were flanked by countless more, some still filing in as others looked to be waiting just outside as they watched with shit-eating grins on their scabby faces.

She hadn’t been in the wasteland long, but already she was getting the feeling that nothing ended in a logical straight forwards manner out in this twisted expanse. It crossed her mind that she could point out the man she believed they were looking for, but it wasn’t worth entertaining the thought of what they would do to him, or to her for that matter – no, that would be beyond stupid. This was going to get real deadly real fast. She continued to glare at bitch-face as Annelise affectionately named the crazy woman-leader as she tensed and prepared to fling herself over the bar. Her body ached and her muscles practically screamed in protest at the thought but she counted herself lucky that she at least had that. She wouldn’t want to be one of the poor bastards sat at a table in the open once the bullets started to fly judging by the firepower these sickos were packing.

[Leidenschaft]

Redding kept his gaze at the bartop, both his hands still around his beer bottle, the glass starting to form beads of water rolling down to his hands ever so often. For such a violent entrance, it had made the bar silent and stock still. Redding's heart was going at a good pace, alright, but fuck them if they thought he would go out without at least spilling some of their blood. As murmurs went up around the Desperado, he took it as a safe time to talk now, albeit in his quietest voice as he subtly looked at Big and Vault-Girl, “You and your little friend are on the chopping block just as much as I am if I know who just walked in here.” He said, letting that sink in, “And you too, Vault-Girl. The second you see me so much as twitch, we three're getting cozy behind this bar.”

“Now, Mr. Sch-”

Redding fixed David with a savage glare and he shut up, slowly sinking behind his bar, the time had passed for being nice. Another gunshot rang out and the cry of a random patron pierced the silence with it, “I'm running out of patience-”

“Fuck you!” Just then, Redding stood up fast enough to send the barstool clattering against the floor, throwing his beer bottle at one of the mercenaries and pulling his pistol, emptying the magazine as he leapt behind the bar. First thing he did was push David out of the way and grab the short-barreled sawed-off the barkeep kept at hand. By then, the Desperado had erupted into a glorious cacophony of yelling and gunfire, Redding could barely hear himself think. Oh, yes, today had become far, far, far too interesting for Redding's liking. One merc strayed too close to the bar, advancing under their partners' covering fire. Redding leaned out from behind the bar, squeezing the trigger and feeling the jolt in his shoulder, emptying one barrel that blew the leg off one at the kneecap. The other barrel was used to turn the gangly fuck with two knives' head to a fine mist with the occasional bit of skull. Two down, but there was still too many for Redding's comfort.

His mind went to the mousy woman on her lonesome, but she wasn't his problem. Still, Big would not be happy if Little's blood was on his hands. He reached over and grasped up the box of shotgun shells kept near the hooks the gun was kept on. He reloaded, not quite enjoying the soft shower of liquor and glass from the exploding bottles above him. “I'm gonna catch you Teresa, and your two fuckhead partners! First thing I'm doing is ripping your goddamn heart out, you bitch!” He yelled from his cover, already imagining it as he gritted his teeth, his eyes wide. He hazarded another peek and emptied a barrel into One-Leg, making his face a red, pulpy crater and ceasing his incessant swearing and pleading for his mother. As he plucked a shell from the box to replace the spent one, he looked over his shoulder, "How's everyone holding up?" He asked, slipping his second magazine into his pistol with a satisfying click as he released the slide catch.

[Kingfisher]

@Sol Grim

Breckinridge was something of a hard man, but even his pain threshold had its limits. A gunshot through the knee, a broken arm, and losing a finger, had certainly pushed him past his limits.

“Gah, Fuck! Alright, Stop! STOP!” the man shrieked, grasping madly at his hand, as bright red blood spurted out of the crooked gash where his pinky finger had been.

“Jesus, FUCK!” he yelped, shaking and juddering in agony “The Pagan’s aren’t dead they’re just...missing. We’re keeping them at a camp, outside of New Reno.”

It took Breckinridge a good thirty seconds before he could speak again, his face contorted in a mess of pain.

“The m-map...it leads to Vault 93. The Tribals in New Canaan...they’ve started fucking worshiping it, or some shit. If you want safe passage through their lands, you need an offering to their Blood God. That’s what the Pagans are going to be.”

---

“Fuck you!”

BANG! BANG! BANG! KABOOOOM!

A volley of gunshots rattled through the air, tearing to shreds anything unlucky enough to be caught up in the hellish downpour of metal and fire.

Even with Redding pushing him out of the way, David was unlucky enough to get clipped by a stray shot from one of the Fiend’s, blowing his brains out all over the bar counter.

The Fiends didn’t relent, letting loose and spraying bullets in every direction. Pool tables were ripped into splinters, bystanders were riddled with holes, and the glasses that still lined the counter exploded in a mess of glass shards.

“You’re a dead man, Redding!” Teresa giggled, swaying with giddy excitement “Your threats are fucking Brahmin piss in the wind.”

Still tipsy with joy, Teresa skipped over to the corner of the room, where a pre-war jukebox sat. She gave it a little kick and it blared to life.

“Now this is more like it!” she cackled, a big toothy grin planted on her face.

“Time to root out the mole rats.” Warren said darkly, the hint of a smirk spreading across his wiry face. One hand slipped down to his belt, wrapping around the grenade which he kept there.

“Boom.”

He pulled out the pin and tossed it across the room, the grenade landing behind the bar counter, as time started tick tick ticking by. Every second was precious.

[Stitches]

The moment the three gunshots rang out, Abigail started kicking her legs free of her backpack and slinging it over her shoulder. She stuffed the cigar cutter into her pocket and rested one hand on the table whilst her eyes darted around the building. She was acting purely on instinct alone; being the underdog made her much more jumpy when it came to the slightest hint of danger, and where most folk looked puzzled or alarmed at the bangs, Abigail was already trying to choose between making a break for the stairs or rushing to the toilets.

Abigail was still making up her mind as the Fiends burst into the building, hollering for none other than Mr. Schmidt himself. This gave her pause; she didn’t dare to move her head, but she knew exactly where Redding was - sitting right next to her Brooksy. Her jaw clenched. She grabbed the table even tighter. This brought Abigail back to her Freeside days, but she’d never been caught in such an...extreme situation. She could count over 10 armed mercenaries, all crammed in the dingy bar and just itching to turn the Desperado into the Mojave’s biggest sieve. Anything caught in the initial wave of bullets was sure to be decimated...and worst of all, she was right in their sights.

Another gunshot made Abigail flinch as a the drunkard with the pocket watch took one for the team, crumpling up and hollering in pain. The very moment Redding cursed and launched into the air, Abigail wrenched her arm upwards, toppling the table to make a quick barricade  - or a quick distraction - and pelted it towards the nearest door she could find.

It didn’t take long for the bullets to start raining down where Abigail once sat, aimed in the general vicinity of the bar. With the mercenaries’ attention firmly fixated on Redding, Abigail was able to shoulder barge into the next room and slam the door shut behind her. It was abandoned, of course; a half-finished game of pool was left on the table and shattered glasses as the two patrons must’ve sprinted off to hide somewhere a little way off from the action. Behind the table were two large bookcases, full to the brim with dusty boxes, books and other knick-knacks which Abigail couldn’t care less about.

Barely thinking, Abigail leapt onto the pool table and ducked on the other side of it. She scooped up a pool ball on the way over; if push comes to shove, she could call someone’s bluff and pretend it was a grenade. Her breath was rattling in short, shallow pants and her eyes were wide. Now that she was in relative safety, the reality of the situation crashed down around her; she was cornered, hiding, and unable to tell what is going on. The only visible exit was blocked by a small platoon of bloodthirsty gunslingers, and Brooks was probably rubbing shoulders with the only man they’re fighting to get rid of. This wasn’t her first gun-fight, and it wouldn’t be her last...in a vain attempt to regain some normality and maintain composure, Abigail checked herself over for wounds.

She was bruised and a little windswept, but otherwise managed to get out of the firing range unscathed. Whether her luck would persist was another matter entirely; Abigail knew she was running on borrowed time here. She entered the fight exhausted and her calves were already burning and throbbing from such a short sprint. Half of her shivers were the protests of her strained limbs, the other half were out of sheer terror. She felt like there was a bottomless chasm in her stomach gnawing away at her last reserves of strength, and even though she wasn’t at all sleepy at the moment she knew it would creep up on her when she least expected it.

The goal was simple - get out of the bar and hide until Brooks made it out, because Brooks always made it out alive. Sure, sometimes he was bleeding or wounded but he always, always found her. Abigail knew he wouldn’t die. She just did. That was why she ignored the little voice of reason which tried to worm its way into her head and suggest, god forbid, that Brooks may not be able to find her this time. One hand plunged into her bright backpack (which was now impaled by debris) and grabbed a revolver, checking the chamber’s fully loaded. She snapped the safety off, pointed it towards the ground, and clutched onto the gun with two trembling hands.

The plywood door did very little to hold back the onslaught of bullets crashing into it and Abigail tugged down on her motorcycle helmet, shaking violently. Even if she wanted to, she couldn’t make a single noise - her throat closed up and she felt she couldn’t breathe as her body took over and controlled her frantic, shuddering gasps. She felt like she was on autopilot, powerless to resist what has been drilled into her for as long as she could remember yet grateful that she didn’t have to think about it. There was a brief pause in the carnage, long enough for Abigail to hazard a peek from beyond her hiding place.

The door had been blown to splinters and hung pathetically on its hinges. Abigail saw Teresa skip to an old jukebox and give it a kick - then she turned to face Abigail. She turned in her direction, she could be looking right at her--...Abigail inhaled sharply and jerked her head back. Her grip tightened on the revolver sitting on her lap, every muscle tensed, straining to hear the slightest movement or approach that could be discerned through the chaotic bangs of 15 guns firing all at once.

[Biscuits]

Brooks wasn’t eager to stay stood out in the open after the sound of gunshots so close. With a flinch he’d turn to ensure Abigail had made her way to hide, something he always hoped she’d do when shit hit the fan.
As the three head honchos along with their plethora of goons came barging into the bar Brooks was already hauling ass over the counter, pressing himself against its woodwork as the bullets started hailing above. Aside from the low, almost annoyed sounding, grunts emitting at the ever so close whizzing bullet, Brooks remained as calm as possible. This hadn’t been the first time he got entwined in another man's shoot-out, clearly.

Taking in deep, heavy breaths from his nose, all Brooks could hear for the moment was yelling and screaming, bullets breaking bottles and embedding themselves into the concrete walls, and the splatter accompanied by the barkeepers body going limp onto the counter.
As the ginger voiced out, Brooks could do nothing but shoot the man a clearly unimpressed scowl, “How many of them-” he stopped mid sentence due to the all too familiar sound of a grenade pinging against the wall and bouncing down between the three tucked behind the counter. Brooks, not wasting a second, reached out for the grenade and tossed it right back over like a game of hot potato, only a lot more deadlier.

“We stay squatting back here any longer and we’re -done- for.” he’d bark out, his adrenaline starting to rise along with his voice as he slowly came to the realization that the grenade could have just killed all three of them, however he managed to keep his composure.

[Andreyich]

@Kingfisher
Fred nodded to the man, making a mental note to go to the Torres family later. But he felt he had some... business to do with the Donna. He did a little dance on the spot, popping a few mentats. "Ooooooooooooooooohhhh yeah!" he shouted as their effects came upon him, his pupils dilating to take up almost his whole eye and then closing up to a small point. Now he was ready to have a real battle of wits and words. He blasted his recharger pistol into the air a few times, enjoying the pretty lights once more.

Finally ready he ran out of the opposite end of the alley he was in knowing the laser would attract more like the rotten (literally and metaphorically) mouthed woman. An insane laugh trailing after him he stopped just outside the building. He knew the Donna would have goons and Guards and he would probably be stripped of his weapons; so he had made sure to hide his grenade he bought earlier in between his buttocks. He had made sure to do this before, knowing he would not have thought of that in his mentat-modified state of mind. He went to enter the shark club, ready for whatever awaited him.

[Sol Grim]

"What's in the vault?" Dallen asked Breckinridge. Dallen quickly found himself interested with it all, it was all to very tempting not to explore it. It didn't actually matter what was there, as he already found himself needing to go and find it himself. He was already addicted to it faster than he had gotten addicted to smoking cigarette's. "And where's this camp at, exactly?"

Dallen threatened another finger to be removed as he asked the questions, and whether or not the wounded man answered back, the erruption of gunfire took to his attention. It sounded like it was coming from the strip, not that far off. Could have been any random gunfight, but something told him his crew was involved. Either way, it was time to find them all again and tell them what he learned so far. Maybe see if he could spot his mark in the process, kill two birds with one stone.

With the information he had, Dallen calmly stood over Breckinridge and slit his throat. Not a clean slice, but more of a shove in and jigsaw the knife back out. Blood shot out into a pool before the man, as he held his shaking body until it went completely limp. Dallen then took the man's weapons and equipped his shoulder holsters and leather armor that he had been wearing underneath his suit; also picking up the map again and pocketing it. He left the man nearly naked and face down in his own blood.

A flash suddenly struck Dallen and he found himself wince. An image of his wife appeared in his mind. She lie naked and covered in her own blood, how the raiders had left her. The image of her felt real, as if it were really her before his very eyes. Then it was gone. He found himself on his knees, a deep pain setting in his temple. Pulling out another cigarette, he let out a deep sigh, then took a drag. Once the nicotine hit, he shook his head of the cobwebs and left the broken down building.

He still felt a bit of a daze as he headed back toward the lights, back toward the gunfire. Using the alleyways, and taking an alternate route than the one he came from, he found himself just outside the Shark Club. A few laser beams shot off in the alleyway nearby, and he quickly after spotted his crew mate, though he just now realized that he didn't even know his name. The companion looked drugged up and ready to go on a massive killing spree, which is exactly the state of mind Dallen needed him to be in. Though it was questionable to even approach the man in such a state, Dallen went forward anyway and stopped him just as he was about to enter the club and probably make some bad decisions.

"Hey, guy," Dallen said. "I need your help. I found out where the Pagan's might be, but they're probably heavily guarded. I say we go, get the Pagans back to their people, and get those caps we're owed. Maybe find the girl and the ghoul in the process?" Dallen took a look at the man's eyes, then looked over to the Shark Club. "...you were about to kill everyone in there, weren't you?"

[Kingslee]

Joel was sat down on his camping bed, his back against the pillow and wall. He was reading a magazine entitled Guns and Bullets. It was an issue he had never read before and he had hoped there would be something in it about shooting scoped rifles at long distances, something he’d never really gotten the hang of and wanted to due to recently acquiring a Winchester rifle. No such luck though. There was a section on disassembling and reassembling the AK-47 but that was relatively easy. Easy enough that he’d mostly managed to teach himself with a little bit of tinkering anyway.

Sighing and closing the magazine he got to his feet, as did Chomsky who had been laid down next to the cot. He gave the dog a scratch behind the ears whilst looking around his small apartment wearily. It wasn’t very clean, it looked more like a military stockroom than someone's bedroom honestly. There were crates of ammo lying around, guns and even swords rested against the walls around the place and an open locker filled with armor, holsters and sheathes was in the corner. Everything an enterprising mercenary might need, or in the case of the dozen or so bladed weapons, want.

Suddenly the phone rang, startling Joel. He almost smirked. There were only a handful of people who had his number. His family and one or two employers covered most of them. Either way they would likely have something for him to do and in his mind almost anything was better than sitting around at home. He walked over and answered it.

“Hello?”

“Get your ass over to the Desperado now! Before one of those fucking waste rats burns it down!” Some asshole shouted down the phone. Joel recognized the voice, just another semi-important made guy from one of the town's better paying families.

“How many of them are there?”

“How the fuck should I know!? Bitch who reported it to me said a shit ton. Maybe a dozen.”

“All right. 400 caps.” Joel spoke plainly.

“400!? You outta your fuckin’ mind kid?”

“Fine. Let the place burn. You can tell your don how you lost him a sizable part of his income because you were too cheap to hire a decent merc.”

“All right! All right. 400 caps it is. Get over there now, I want those fucks dead before they do any irreparable damage.”

“Understood.” Joel said, hanging up.

He went over to his locker and began quickly gearing up, putting on everything he had since he’d be going up against so many enemies. Finally he grabbed his AK-47, putting the sling over his shoulder and grabbing three spare magazines for it. A hundred and twenty rounds should be plenty for ten or so raiders, even with his aim. He slid one of the magazines into the rifle and pulled back the charging handle, heading out the door and whistling for Chomsky to follow him.

[Tsar Gatto]

“You and your little friend are on the chopping block just as much as I am if I know who just walked in here” whispered the man she assumed was Redding “And you too, Vault-Girl. The second you see me so much as twitch, we three're getting cozy behind this bar.”

Annelise’s stomach did a little flip as she tried to prepare herself for what was to come, of course he was right. Barley a few seconds passed before Redding screamed “Fuck you!” and started to unload on the extremely numerous group of raiders.

That was when the shooting really started. Annelise gripped the wood of the bar with both hands before she flung herself over the counter-top and came crashing down harder than she had intended, her body sending her waves of pain in protest as she narrowly avoided a hail of bullets that smashed into the wall and bar causing shards of glass and wood to go flying. She felt her temper rising as she once more felt a sense of profound wrongness, a sense of extreme loss and she couldn’t help but blame on people just like these raiders. Already they’d killed several of the people who had just been minding their own business having a few drinks – gunned them down like animals, they’d denied her even a moments rest and now she would have to fight for her very survival once more.

With her face twisted in a snarl Annelise levelled her AEP7 and using the bar for cover she began to fire as rapidly as she could sending precise fiery crimson beams streaming towards the raiders. She hit several of them seriously wounding at least three of them, one of them losing an arm adding his gurgling screams to the mess of shots and screams that filled the air. Annelise emptied the clip before she ducked back down, moments later buckshot screaming past into the wall where her head had been moments later. There was a sickening sound that Annelise was becoming all too familiar with as the bartender took a round to the skull and his limp body collapsed. This time she simply grimaced as chunks of brain and skull once more lightly showered her.

"How's everyone holding up?" shouted Redding over the ear-splitting din as he too reloaded his weapon. Annelise glared at him as the cheerful tune of Butcher Pete started up with the cackles of bitch-face who was apparently thoroughly enjoying herself.

“Just fucking peachy!” she yelled back still glaring at him as she picked a chunk of grey matter from her shoulder. Moments later the older man started to ask “How many of them-“ but was interrupted as there was a clatter and a grenade bounced onto the bar and landed directly beside the three of them. In less than a second he snatched the thing up and hurled it back the way it’d come.

“We stay squatting back here any longer and we’re -done- for” he yelled as Annelise stared at him mouth slightly agape at how casually he’d snatched up a live grenade and saved all of them. There was an ear shattering explosion as it went off and Annelise’s ears started ringing. She stumbled slightly before she pulled herself back upright and blurted to herself more than anyone “This is fucking crazy...” Another cluster of rounds smashed into the wall above them showering them in further debris and she gripped her pistol tighter and inquired “Anyone know of a backdoor to this place?” It was hardly a plan but nothing else came to mind, her initial burst of aggression had subsided with the grenade and now the reality of the situation was really starting to set in.

[Kingfisher]

@Sol Grim

“Project Hamilton.” Breckinridge said simply, followed by “South East of Reno...a couple of miles, or so.”

The knife which took Breckinridge’s life came as no surprise. It was something of a welcome relief, by this point.

“Semper Fidelis…” he gasped, as blood bubbled in his throat. He hit the ground with a thud, and watched his life trickle away.

---

“Teresa?”

“Yes, Warren?”

“They threw my grenade back at me.”

“Yes, Warren.”

BOOOOM!!!

The grenade went off with a thunderous bang, raining shrapnel and fire down upon the fiends. A fat metal splinter embedded itself in Warren’s left eye, whilst the force of the explosion knocked him to the ground. He thrashed about on the floor, wailing and screaming in a pile of his own blood.

“They got Warren, Tessi!” Sid exclaimed.

“I can see that, thank you.” Teresa hissed through gritted teeth, fiddling with the knobs on her flamethrower.

“All right, meatbags!” The raider bellowed, some of the mirth draining from her face “Lets see what city-wimps taste like!”

She squeezed the trigger of her flamer, and a crackling lance of fire hissed across the room, spraying the air just above the bar counter, and spitting flames in every which way direction.

“BURN, YOU FUCKS!”

[Leidenschaft]

Redding was still clutching the coach gun hard, he could've sworn that grenade was the end of Redding. But Brooks tossed it right back over, turning back to him, “We stay squatting back here any longer and we're done for!”

Redding swallowed, “You think I don't fucking know that?” He raised his voice over the screams and bullets. It was stating the obvious, and right now, talk of being done for was not helping him think. He breathed, this wasn't his first gunfight. The Vault-Girl asked about backdoors and that only put him in mind of how stupid the architect was that built this place. Anyone wanted to leave and not use the front door ought to just jump...out...a window...

He reckoned they could do just that, get some distance between- A gout of flame came so close overhead he could feel it drying up his eyes. He gritted his teeth, adrenaline helping him throw out his fear for anger, of which there was an endless pit of it in his younger years. He thought he'd leave the life of a thug behind and become a businessman. How stupid was he? “I've made better people than you disappear, Teresa!” He yelled, “Worse too!”

His mind was scrambling, they needed to get out from behind this counter but he didn't want to get crisped down to the bone. If only he had a grenade. Or... He scrambled over David's corpse, pushing it out of the way by the shoulders, “Lucky bastard got off easy...” He grumbled. Behind the counter were his rags, and there was the now-rare intact bottles on the shelf behind him. He snatched two down by the neck, stuffing the rags inside just enough. With his lighter, he set the rags aflame. “I'm going to throw these, you two're going to start shooting at that crazy bitch down there with the flamethrower.”

He didn't wait for them to voice their agreement or their complaints, just tossed the bottles as hard as he could, not caring where they landed. He just needed a distraction, and a distraction was what he got. He heard one of the mercenaries stumble from behind his overturned table, his left side in flames when he peeked out. Redding dashed from behind the bar while Big and Vault-Girl fired their guns over the counter, firing his own handgun along the way, and managing to catch the man on fire in the chest and neck, dropping him. He'd made it across the mile-wide room, breathing hard and near shitting himself. He turned to run down the hallway and a stabbing pain brought his thoughts to a unanimous halt. He reached down to his side and his hand came back red. He groaned, slumping against the wall somewhat and turning his head towards footsteps.

They were not Big and Vault-Girl, unless they'd turned into raiders in the space between the bar and him. Funny thing, adrenaline, makes everything slow enough to notice stupid details. One of them had a boil on his face, a nasty thing, while his friend had no eyebrows and replaced them with an assortment of piercings. He raised the coach gun and emptied a barrel into Boil's face, obliterating his head, but before he could do the same to No-Brow, the raider had his gun up. Redding ducked out of the way without thinking and a line of bullet holes stippled the wall next to him, the last bullet ripping a hole in his shoulder. Redding could feel it, and he yelled. Redding's coach gun boomed and No-Brow caught the buckshot in his neck and chest, stumbling back with a choking gurgle and landing on his back. Redding threw the empty coach gun spinning stock over barrel into the head of the raider just coming around the corner. He caught two of Redding's nine-millimeters in his chest and stumbled to the side, falling to the ground.

Teresa rounded the corner and that was probably the most fear he'd felt at the sight of a woman. Then again, that gangly bitch barely qualified as one. “Bye, Redding.”

Before she could bring her flamethrower to bare, Redding sent himself at her, yelling at the top of his lungs. He slammed into her, picking her up as he ran and slamming her back against a wall. She reeled back with her head and cracked Redding's nose, sending a brilliant burst of light across his vision. He heard the throaty rasp of her machete leaving its sheath, “I said bye, Redding.”

“Fuck you, Teresa.” Redding brought his gun up but before he could squeeze the trigger the Fiend sent herself hurling at him with a shrill scream, swinging for his head but he ducked back. He went to kick her knee and break it, but she pulled her leg back. Redding fell backwards and swore, then he felt the biggest hands he'd ever felt take up two handfuls of his jacket and then he was flying. A pool table broke his fall and he sat slumping against it, trying in vain to drag in a breath. He looked up and caught eyes with Little, cradling a revolver. Between the terror in her eyes and the thumps of Sid's footsteps, he knew he'd be the death of this girl. He would've said sorry. But there weren't enough sorrys in the world to save her.

The moment was cut short when thick fingers snaked through Redding's hair and pulled him back before slamming his face into the stained green felt. Redding managed to grasp up a pool ball as he fell to his side on the ground. Sid grabbed him by the collar and he could feel hot breath on his face as he hauled him up to get eye-to-eye, his feet dangling above the ground, even being six foot. “I told you if we met again I'd open you right up and feed you what was inside.”

Redding was running out of fuck you's. He didn't get a chance to use the ball as Sid's big, stupid, thick skull of his smacked against his face twice. Again, he was made weightless and he crashed into a shelf, getting to all fours next to Little behind the pool table.

[Sol Grim]

A few panicked locals ran by the Shark Club, distracting Dallen for the moment. More and more came running past, all of them heading away from the gunshots and explosions. Though he couldn't see the action itself, the amount of people running away from it told him it was bigger than the average gang shooting. Dallen grabbed the nearest local passing by, asking "What's going on?"

"Terrorists!" the man shouted. "They're shootin' up ev'ry one at the Desperado!!"

Dallen released the scared man's sleeve and he continued to run off in the safer direction. Curiosity and a moral sense of law and order directed Dallen's steps forward. Whether Frank followed or not, Dallen went into the terrified crowd, heading the way they were all desperately trying to flee from.

As he calmly walked through the people, he noticed one other person walking toward the gunfight as well. The man was suitably equipped, and had a dog with him. Without any words, Dallen knew the man was doing the same as himself. He looked over at the dog, then the man and gave him a nod.

As they approached the Desperado, the smell of smoke and death became more potent. Bodies were littered in the streets, mostly civilians, but also some raiders as well as some of the casino guards.

"Whoa..." Dallen said at the sight of it all, now standing still next to the stranger and the dog. They were in the middle of the street as the gunfight continued.

Looking down at one of the corpses, Dallen noticed it was the whore from earlier. She was lying face down with many holes in her back, her eyes a wide open dead glare.

A burst of flames erupted from the inside, while many of the raiders came out to the streets. The gunfight was happening inside and out, death all around. It was only a matter of seconds before the raider's got up and noticed them.

Dallen looked over at the stranger. "Shall we?"

Pulling out both of his silenced firearms, he opened fire at the group of thugs.

[Kingslee]

Joel was nearly sprinting, his rifle in his hands and sweat pouring down his brow. He wasn’t quite as fit as he’d been a few years ago, city living would do that to a soldier he guessed. It didn’t take him long to start seeing people running in the opposite direction, he almost sprinted directly into a few of them because of the speed he was going at. Their faces flashed fear at seeing the masked man and his dog, fear that worked in his favor as they quickly stumbled out of his path. Most of them looked uninjured. He guessed most of the patrons who had been in the actual bar were probably dead, raiders weren’t known for carefully picking their targets in a firefight.

Finally reaching the street the Desperado was on he stopped in his tracks to assess the damage. There were corpses littering the streets and although he couldn’t yet see inside of the casino he knew he probably wouldn’t be getting paid for this job. The place looked like a fucking mess. He caught a man on the other side of the road in the corner of his eye and quickly looked up at him, sensing something was off about his manner. The man’s nod told him what he’d already figured out after a mere second of looking at him. They would be killing these raiders together. Though was he also supposed to be getting paid for it? Either way they could and would be helping each other. Both of them walked towards the bar, spotting the couple of assholes that were outside of the bar's entrance, likely stood guard.

“Shall we?” The man asked.

Joel nodded, raising up his rifle at the same as his new compadre raised up his handguns. They both opened fire, although one couldn’t tell they were both shooting by sound alone. The noise of the AK-47 firing at fully-automatic was deafening, even outside. It dwarfed every other sound. Four seconds later the rifle's magazine was empty. Out of the 30 something rounds they had fired together Joel couldn’t tell who’s had killed the two sentries, but they were both dead as fuck, their chests torn upon by the sheer volley of rounds. Joel quickly switched out his magazine, putting in a fresh full one and pulling back the charging handle. Already the guns barrel was smoking, if he went through a couple more magazines that rapidly the damn thing would probably be on fire. He rushed forth, taking cover just outside of the casinos double doors and looking at his new comrade in arms.

“On three! One! Two! Three!”

He moved just out of cover, leveling the sights of his rifle at the first raider he saw and popping off four rounds. The first couple missed, the latter two didn’t, blowing holes in the man's face and neck. He turned his weapon on another target just as she was turning around, letting off another volley of shots but seeming to miss all of them. The crazy bitch started towards them, firing back with what seemed to be a pump action shotgun, peppering their cover with buckshot.

“Fuck this! Cover me!” Joel shouted, sliding his rifle behind his back and pulling out his two karambits. He waited for a second, counting the sounds of buckshot hitting their cover and taking a deep breath. As soon as there was a second longer interval between shots he sprinted inside, pelting toward the woman reloading shells into her shotgun. Seeing him rapidly approaching she quickly took the shotgun by the barrel, swinging it at him like a baseball bat. He ducked quickly, bringing the blade in his left hand around the back of her knee and pulling it towards him, slicing her open and making her fall to her knees. Before her scream was done and she could react any further his other blade had entered her throat, the curved design making it so it went in the right side and the point of the knife came out the left. He he tore it out, completely opening the wound. Getting back to his feet he looked towards the bar. He highly fucking doubted he’d be getting paid for this. There were corpses everywhere, both civilian and raider. There was explosive damage and even small fires going on, not to mention the seemingly hundreds of bullet holes.

He was snapped out of his ill timed thoughts when a small caliber round glanced off the side of his mask. He looked towards his aggressor, saw his .22 caliber Ruger pistol and smiled as he walked briskly towards him. The man's shiny eyes screamed shock, even as he raised up the pistol again and Joel’s blades sliced into his wrists, causing him to drop the weapon and retreat, stumbling backwards. Joel looked into the man's eyes as he sheathed the karambits and withdraw his combat knife, moving forward. The man’s eyes widened and there was probably a “no” in there somewhere right before the knife was plunged into his abdomen. He went limp, falling against Joel. Being quite a bit taller and heavier the man nearly toppled him, but he managed to stay up just about, pulling his knife out and plunging it in once again before moving off to the side and letting him fall. If the man wasn’t already dead he would be very soon.

It was then that some insane looking woman swung a machete at his head, frighteningly fast even for Joel’s standards. He only just managed to duck out of the way and would have freaking swore the thing cut off a few strands of his hair. He continued to duck and dodge, caught somewhat off guard by the woman's skill.