[IC] Fallout: Under Silver Skies [Closed]

[Leidenschaft]

A Fresh Collab by Leidenschaft & @Stitches

Abigail hated her compulsion to fidget. It was the bane of her existence sometimes, but if she didn’t move a little bit every so often then she’d move a lot in a few moments and consequently end up getting shot...or worse; she’d pull the trigger on that gun of hers and blast her kneecap clean off. That’s why she pulled her goggles down to hang loosely around her neck. It’s why she drummed her fingers on the beer-soaked carpet, and it’s also why she twirled one of the backpack straps around the palm of her hand a couple of times.

It’s also why she didn’t jump out of her skin when Redding motherfucking Schmidt came crashing over the pool table and ended up slumped against it, staring her dead in the eyes. Abigail looked back, wide-eyed with surprise, and very quickly pushed a finger against her lips. Within moments, a gnarled fist grabbed Redding by his hair and the man went swooping right over her once more. Abigail wasted no time ripping open her backpack.

When Redding crashed back behind the pool table, a rusty Vaut-Tec lunchbox covered in stickers slid under his face. A set of pale, bony fingers clicked open the lid - a small bundle of stimpaks, a roll of yellowed gauze, and a shallow flask of potent alcohol lay within. Abigail laid a hand on Redding’s shoulder and hissed “You owe me, Mr Schmidt.” There was a rustle as Abigail crawled around the corner of the pool table, then a pause.

“Jesus CHRIST, you’re one fat motherfucker aren’t you?!” called out Abigail loudly, her voice cutting through the sounds of the carnage. She pulled the trigger twice, sending a bullet into Sid’s shoulder and back respectively as the brute tried to reach over and finish what he started. A big shit-eating grin was plastered over Abigail’s face but her hands shook too much to make a proper shot, even at point blank range. Spreading her arms out wide as Sid turned around to face her, she tilted her head back and laughed. “Come get some, you dumb sunnuvabitch!” she taunted. It had the desired effect - Sid lunged for her instead of going after Redding.

Sid may have been strong, but he simply wasn’t as fast as Abigail. And good lord, Abigail was fast. She moved like she was high off Jet, constantly ducking and weaving and avoiding the flailing limbs aimed in her general direction. Whenever Sid got too close to the furthest side of the pool table, Abigail was quick enough to shoot him once more and enrage him enough to make him turn back towards her. It became apparent after a few rounds of this game that Abigail wasn’t actually trying to kill Sid - the bullets were too flimsy to be able to rend through that thick layer of muscle and fat, not to mention that he seemed to be on a volatile cocktail of chems which made it far too easy for him to shrug off the pain. No, Abigail knew for certain that she could empty the revolver on Sid and leave herself defenceless...so she was providing a distraction. More specifically, she was drawing Sid away from Redding long enough for him to use her first-aid kit.

His salvation lay inside of an aluminum Vault-Tec lunchbox filled with first aid supplies. He grasped up a stimpak and scrambled against a wall, the sound of Little and Sid’s fight almost going unnoticed as he smacked the crook of his right arm. He found the vein that stood out and slid the needle into it, something he’d had practice at more than a few years. The effects wouldn’t be immediate by any means, but over the next few hours, he’d be up to snuff. He tossed the half-empty stimpak back into the box and tried to haul in a breath before it seemed like a knife had been twisted into him. He reached for his side, broken ribs, unsurprisingly. He rose to his feet with some work, his head still fuzzy, and watched Little in action.

Abigail huffed as she skidded under Sid’s legs and hopped over one of the dead raider bodies. Sid had tried to grab her as she slid but missed, arse in the air, looking at Abigail upside-down as she aimed squarely at Sid’s buttocks. Unfortunately, her opponent had enough sense to duck to the side and the bullet crunched against the concrete wall. Abigail pressed a hand to her lips, panting heavily; she had been giving Sid the runaround for several minutes now but her luck just ran out. Sid found himself staring at Redding hunched up behind the pool table, and his features screwed up with grim determination. “Fuck this! I’m gonna paint the walls with you bastards!” he bellowed, reaching for his previously abandoned shotgun on the floor. Abigail was fast enough to kick it out of the door, but Sid’s fist closed around her ankle instead. She shut her eyes and exhaled a low, rattling breath, preparing herself for the inevitable.

Redding sat and watched. He sat and watched a girl die right in front of him, this was something. The day was getting interesting, he thought numbly. He was waiting to feel better after the stimpak, even though he knew it wouldn’t do anything noticeable for him for the next couple hours. Now, Little dangled from Sid’s big paws like a mouse in a cat’s grip. If he knew Sid, Little wouldn’t die quick. He looked around him for his handgun and found nothing, he reached down to his boot and slid out a knife, a four-inch blade coming out of his fist.

Sid howled with laughter as Abigail struggled pitifully, hanging upside down. She missed her last two shots and threw the revolver at Sid as he stood up with leg hoisted high in the air; the screaming started when Sid raised his bulbous arm and had her dangling close to the ceiling. “Who’s laughing now, bitch?” he crooned, drawing the girl close before slamming her into the pool table. Abigail felt her teeth piece holes straight through her tongue and her shrieks broke off into whimpers and gurgles as blood bubbled out of her mouth. Her fingers groped the table for something, anything to hit Sid with but froze when she felt his hand close around her neck. He lifted Abigail up again and slammed her into the wall, revelling in the look of anguish and the sickening crack that accompanied her impact. Her vision darkened around the edges and her struggling became even more feeble. Where did all that adrenaline go? Abigail’s gaze slipped to the doorway, she couldn’t hear Sid hollering curses and insults at her over the ringing in her ears and the dull thud of her pulse...her mouth formed a word that she couldn’t find air to utter it with, pushing more blood out of her lips instead...she kept clawing at Sid’s knuckles but her fingernails were too short and stubby to do any actual damage, eventually her arms flopped to her sides.

“You motherfucker!” Redding yelled, leaping off of the pool table and springing into Sid’s side. He wasn’t heavy enough to bring the dumb ogre of a man down, but Redding was a good man with a knife. He wasted no time in muddying Sid’s mind with pain, three quick stabs to his kidneys and he ducked a wild punch, slicing across the inside of his thigh closest to his groin and Sid’s leg buckled, putting him on his side. Redding kicked Sid in his face, but he didn’t stop, he wasn’t going to have Sid show up at his door at night to kick it in and chop him up. And a little piece of him was sickened remembering Little’s helpless gurgles and the sight of her bloody lips twisted in a grimace.

Only one woman he let die in front of him and he never wanted to watch it happen again. Even if it was Little. “Who’s laughing now, bitch?” Redding hissed through gritted teeth and split lips.

Sid looked up just in time to see Redding’s boot plant itself on his face. He didn’t stop stomping until his foot hurt, until Sid’s face was barely recognizable under the blood, and not even then. Sid was a bastard, an unlikeable bastard and he’d been waiting for this very moment. Redding found that feral smile on his face again, angry at remembering Teresa Hallsley, angry at letting Francine go with that idiotic junkie fuck, and maybe a little angry at himself for letting Little’s beating go this far. Big wouldn’t be happy about that, he told himself.

He stood, panting and clutching at his side still. He turned to Little, fighting the urge to bend knee and ask if she was okay. The answer was damned apparent and she already had someone who’d be coming to ask her that. He picked up Little’s med-box and peeked outside the room. He looked back at Little, there was a time he’d have left with the first aid box without so much of a thanks. He peeked out the doorway, looked back at Little, out the doorway, and then swore. He reached over and helped Little to her feet. “We’re leaving.”

Abigail was curled on her side, mouth open and panting. She watched Redding demolish Sid through watery eyes and realised, with utmost clarity, that she may have just swapped from one ruthless monster for another. That is why when Redding grabbed Abigail and helped her up, she didn’t even hesitate in following his order - immediately she staggered the length of the room to grab her things, but her gaze kept flickering to the doorway with a look of panic. Her tongue was swollen, but she managed to lisp out “where?” as she stumbled over to Redding’s side again. She bent down to pick up a pistol from one of the dead raiders, and the room swam horribly under her feet...it took a couple of moments for her to push herself back into a standing position.

“Outside,” Redding said, “Away from here, anyhow.” He risked another peek outside the room and it was still a hail of bullets and blood. He looked back to see if Little was still following before he went for the window near the end of the hall. The sound of the glass breaking was lost in the maelstrom of lead and he draped his coat over an arm, running it around the pane of the shattered window to make sure he didn’t cut himself going through. Soon enough, they were out on the streets, crouching and listening for more mercenaries. There were two men going towards the Desperado and he ducked, planting himself as flush with the wall as he could.

The two battered survivors went unnoticed and they ducked into an abandoned, collapsed shell of a building, just enough wall left for shelter, but not enough ceiling to keep in any warmth. A shivering vagrant was in the corner and Redding pushed at him with his foot until he stumbled away, grumbling. They were still close enough to the Desperado that the gunshots still added an ambience to the night, among the crickets and other night bugs. It was silent between the two. One voice said to leave Little to fend for herself and get back to his apartment to plan his next move with Ramirez, the other said to stay. At least until Big got away from the fight… if Big got away.

He glanced at the fidgeting girl that’d placed herself some ways away from him- and the sentiment was not lost- and he felt sorry. In his stomping grounds and in stomping grounds the wastes over, she was the type of person he passed in the gutter, or sold his drugs to. And he knew all too well how drugs could make all the shit piling up around you seem so far away. But who was he to stop someone from doing what they wanted. He just supplied the means. “What’re you fixing to do now?” He asked and he tossed the box of first aid supplies clanking and bouncing to her feet, “You’re welcome to leave.”

Abigail hadn’t looked up at Redding because she was too busy rather frantically clicking Brooks’ cigar cutter. In fact, it didn’t look like she even noticed that Redding was speaking to her until she croaked out a reply, her gaze transfixed on the little metal object in front of her. “And go where?” she asked, shifting her weight. It didn’t matter anyway - everything felt like it was on fire. She was hungry and scared and everything hurt. “Am gonna wait for Brooks,” she decided after a moment’s hesitation.

She couldn’t even bring herself to look up at Redding, all of the rumours surrounding him were too terrifying and made him seem a lot worse than he probably was. Even with this logic, Abigail couldn’t quite separate the man from the stories, and the bloodied wretch standing a few paces away from her. “He’ll find us soon enough,” she continued with a very deliberate nonchalance. “And boy, he’s gonna be pissed. What’d you do-...” her brain fumbled as she glanced up at the man. She didn’t know how to address him with respect, and frankly she had seen enough to prefer staying on Redding’s good side. There was blood smeared across her chin and mouth and the exposed parts of her skin was covered in deep bruises, but she didn’t make a move for her first aid kit. “What...did you do to bring in those goons?”

“Who the hell knows.” Redding shook his head, “Teresa and her fucking sidekicks have had it out for me for a while. Only thing stopping them is that I haven’t pissed off anyone above me. Maybe they were just sick of waiting for me to slip.”

His hand went to his nose and he groaned, he could feel it grinding back into place as he set it, and his face was bloodied from Sid’s skull and the pool table he’d taken to the face. “Reckon we’re even now. I stopped that big bastard from killing you.” Redding said, gasping quietly as the broken rib dug into him when he pushed himself up to his feet.

He took one last look at Little. The way she looked at him, the way she avoided looking at him, it made his goddamn skin crawl. He bit his lip, he’d done a good deed, that was all he needed. If she had a problem with him being the one to save her instead of getting her twiggy neck snapped, that was on her. At least she was alive to look at him like he was no better than Teresa or Sid. He spat to the side again, “Tell your Brooks he can find me at the Cracked Glass if he has words for me.” His lip curled, today was shit, he’d lost a friend and almost died. Now he’d have to go find the rest of Teresa’s gang, figure out why they wanted him dead and kill whoever that was. Maybe even skip town. A little piece of him cracked, “You know, a simple fucking thank you would do you good in the future. Sid’s dead, you’re not. You’re welcome.” And he stalked off back to the Cracked Glass.

Abigail watched him go, rubbing her nose on the back of her hand. She said nothing, stared down at her feet, and continued clicking the cigar cutter patiently. All she had to do now was wait for Brooks to inevitably find her, and if not...well, she didn’t have to think about that.

He’d find her eventually.

[Tsar Gatto]

“BURN, YOU FUCKS!”

That was the only warning to the torrent of flames that assailed the bar-top the trio huddled behind, flames licking dangerously close as heat and smoke assailed them. The sounds of chaos were all around them, the sounds of gunshots, the screams of the dead and the dying and the crackling of the flames that were slowly consuming the building all around of them. Redding hurled a threat at bitch face and Annelise shot a look of bewilderment at the other man – was this guy for real? His shit had dragged all of them into this mess and now he was taunting the woman that was about to turn them all into extra crispy bits of jerky. She watched as he scrambled around grabbing two bottles and some rags, initially she thought he wanted to get drunk before he got dead, but she watched as he turned them into makeshift fire-bombs in a few moments before he twisted and stared at them.

“I'm going to throw these, you two're going to start shooting at that crazy bitch down there with the flamethrower” he instructed before hurling them. There was hardly time to think let alone time for niceties, but despite that Annelise couldn’t help but feel a prang of irritation at the way he barked the command at them. She turned her anger towards the raiders that were still shooting at them, firing several beams into the mess the bar had become. Where once there’d been chairs, tables and several people enjoying their drinks there was now a small crater where the grenade had gone off, carnage and flaming debris littered about everywhere as smoke filled the room.

As she squeezed off another few shots she noticed Redding bolt from behind the bar and disappeared into the chaos as she directed a few more shots towards bitch face before ducking down to reload again. “Think he’s coming back?” she shouted somewhat rhetorically at the other man. It was their turn to get the fuck outta dodge unless they wanted to join the rather long list of casualties she was sure this particular ‘shoot-out’ had caused. She risked a glance up as she noticed that for now fire-bitch seemed to have disappeared with the colossal beast of a man, spotting only a handful of remaining thugs between them and the front door. She was about to suggest they make a break for it when another symphony of gunfire joined the orchestra and a few moments later a figure lurched through the doorway with a pair of savage looking knives and started to fillet one of the raiders.

She watched as a round glanced off of the mask that covered his face before he nonchalantly walked through the fire and the flames before he ended the man’s life with a few quick stabs.

“Who the f...” she began as Teresa reappeared this time wielding a machete as she started to lunge aggressively at him, the slightly rusted blade coming within less than an inch of his head. She took aim at her with her pistol but they both were moving too quickly as they weaved around each other for her to risk it. She coughed as she inhaled, the smoke in the air behind the bar becoming thicker and thicker, the heat more and more unbearable – they had to move, but at least now nobody seemed to be shooting at them. She gave a quick nod to the other man as she scrambled forwards from behind the bar and moved towards the duo unsure of if she should intervene or not. Her brain screamed for her to get out, to run for the door and be done with the whole situation whilst she still could as her lungs begged for clean air but she couldn’t just leave whoever this guy was without helping – after all intentionally or not he’d created the opportunity for her to escape and she didn’t want to risk bitch-face coming out on top. She took another step closer and again aimed her AEP7 at the woman looking for any opportunity or opening to reduce her to nothing but ash before she yelled “Teresa!” in an attempt to get her to break her concentration for even a moment.

[Stitches]

“I'm going to throw these, you two're going to start shooting at that crazy bitch down there with the flamethrower” - was all Brooks heard before the ginger man took action. Although it certainly -was- a plan, Brooks couldn’t help but feel it add to his growing frustration at the man. After all, in Brooks’ eyes it was his fault they were in this situation as it is. It wasn’t a good idea, it wasn’t the best idea, but it was the only idea.

Along with the vault-girl, Brooks began firing away into the fray. Shot after shot, most of them blindly over the counter, he’d fire away only to retract his gun to reload: “Guys like him never do!” Brooks remarked to the vault-girl. Moments passed and the outcome of the fight wasn’t looking any better; sure, there were less bullets flying their way, but they were still flying.
Suddenly, there was a new spout of gunfire echoing through the building. It sounded harsher, heavier, either these goons had brought in bigger and better guns , or this was the sound of sweet NCR justice.

Either way, the bigger bullets caused the smaller bullets to stop. Now with the calm among them, Brooks mind snapped to Abigail. Setting into the mild panic that only she could put him, he peaked his head over the counter once more, glancing over the absolute wreck the bar had turned to, with only the woman dubbed “Teresa” left alive. With tunnel vision set in motion, Brooks picked himself up and hauled ass to the closest pace he remembered her going. Turning the corner and barging into the pool room, only to be greeted by the corpse of a man the size of a mutant, he stopped to voice up the stairs “Abigail?!” before rushing further down the hall to check the bathrooms, only to stop to a stand as he spots a smashed window. Brooks used the butt of his rifle to clear out any remaining shards before grunting and groaning his way through the window, “Abigail?!” he’d voice into the dark alleyway, slowing his pace as he paced forward in a steady fashion. Brooks stopped, scowling at a splatter of blood on one of the alleyway walls. Brooks voiced for her again, continuing his advance as he followed the faint marks of blood and windswept sand.

Brooks peered up at a seemingly abandoned house, entering it with heavy steps against the old and worn planks. Just as he was about to voice out for Abigail, he heard the light sound of constant and steady clicking. He followed it’s acoustic trail, entering a room to see a dark, lumped up, frame huddled in the corner. “Abigail?”

“Heeey…” mumbled Abigail, the cigar cutter dropping from her fingers. She had slumped against the crumbling wall and watched Brooks enter, mouth open and her breath coming out in slow, quiet wheezes. She tried to stand, but only managed a slight shuffle before rolling her head back and groaning. “G-got...got any new piercings…?” she croaked. Her tone was lighthearted but her voice was slurred with exhaustion.

Brooks lowered his rifle at the sound of Abigail’s voice, rushing beside her and resting it against the nearest wall, if one could even call it a wall in it’s current state. “Pumpkin’, you alright? You hurtin’?” he’d voice out at her lumped together frame as he stopped to kneel beside her. Brooks began removing his large duster. Abigail had tried it on before, out of curiosity, only to realize how heavy it was. It -did- however keep her warm, which she seemingly needed right now.

“Hip, shoulder, tongue, neck, back…” she started quietly listing off her wounds in order of severity. Upon closer inspection, it became incredibly clear just how fucked up Abigail was looking. Those bruises had deepened to a blackish hue against her grimy skin, and she could barely keep herself conscious. Her hands still trembled, but only slightly.

Brooks placed his duster, lazily folded, aside. Fishing out a lighter and sparking a flame as he held it close to one of Abigail’s shoulders, and gently tugging aside the neck of her shirt to reveal a painful deformation poking outwards. “That’s alright- you’ll be fine. Your shoulders busted though, we need to wrench that sucker back in, okay?” he’d speak out, steadily and calmly to ensure Abigail remains so too.

Abigail whined nervously and muttered a series of “no no no no no no”s in response.

“We have to, sweetheart. It’ll only hurt for a second.” Brooks left his lighter burning, placing it on a nearby surface to help illuminate the makeshift operation about to go down. He’d reach out, with the obviously expected resistance from Abigail, taking a firm grasp of her affected arm and angling it properly. “I’m goin’ to count to three, and it’ll be over. You just sit tight, alright? It’ll be over in a second.”

Moments passed as Brooks himself got himself together, remembering back as to how the procedure was done. He began his count-down, “3,2-” and wrenched her arm back, socketing it back into her shoulder with an audible “pop”.

Abigail yelped in surprise and shouted something that would’ve been a curse if it wasn’t for her painfully swollen tongue, followed by the low hiss of a “fffffuck’s sake.” She rolled her shoulder a couple of times gingerly, the pain reviving her enough to move a little ways away from Brooks out of fear he’ll grab some other appendage and relocate it. There was a pause, and then Abigail muttered “Hungry” under her breath.

“First we find someplace to lay you down- here.” Brooks shut his lighter, pocketing it, and reached out for his folded up duster. He’d lay it over Abigail, who instinctively wrapped herself up in it. Slinging his rifle over his shoulder, and without further word, he’d slide his arms under Abigail and lift her up, carrying her bridal style. Thankfully Abigail was light and feeble enough to carry without much effort, the two began to make their way to the closest motel. Staying away from bright lit areas, as so far those seem to have caused the most trouble around here.

[Sol Grim]

The raiders all fell simultaneously to the ground, as Dallen and the ranger then entered the chaos inside. They took two different sides of the nearly burnt in casino, as fire and smoke made it difficult for him to see much. He stayed low and moved quick, now holding both hands onto one of his suppressed pistols. Entering the next, largely open area of the Desperado, Dallen spotted the aggressors. He fired two perfect shots into the first ones chest, then another into his head. Same method for the next, then the next. After a quick reload he continued moving forward, covering himself in and out of cover by the random objects and structures sprawled around.

A burning man suddenly rushed at him, sprinting full speed with arms outstretched. Dallen rolled across the floor, kicking out the guy's legs, then firing two bullets into his burning flesh. As he got back to his feet, another raider came from behind a half broken pillar. The raider grabbed Dallen's arms and then headbutted him, next he tackled him through the nearest wall, bringing it down entirely. Losing his gun, Dallen quickly pulled out his tactical knife, but the raider already had a grip on his arms. It became a test of strength, as the two men struggled for control of the blade. Dallen ended up with wrist control, and quickly wrapped his legs around the man's arm and head, sinking a deep triangle choke in by connecting his legs together around the man's body. Just before the raider passed out, Dallen gained full control of the knife and sunk it deep into the man's skull.

The man's body went limp, as Dallen then looked over to see a female raider attacking the ranger. It almost looked like she was about to get the better of the man, but the ranger's dog leaped into action. Chomsky rushed in and bit down hard on Teresa's arm, causing a slight pause in the action. A red burst of energy shot through the room and directly into Teresa's face, exploding skull and brain matter into a pulp of blood. The rest of the woman's body burst into a bright red blaze of ash, falling to the ground in seemingly slow motion.

Dallen picked himself back up, retrieved his weapon and pulled out a cigarette. He knelt down to the nearest burning piece of wood and lit up his smoke, then walked back over to the dog and the ranger. He noticed it was a woman who had taken the final shot, and even with the room stained in blood and spread with smoke, he could see that she was a vault dweller. The casino was finally clear from the raiders, but the mark they left behind was of a massive scale to the city. Bodies were littered everywhere, and all Dallen could think of was that he did this for free. Kneeling down, Dallen pet the dog just behind the ears. "Good boy."

Dallen then made his way over to the vault dweller and took a seat on the only stool left standing. Taking it upon himself to make his own drink, he put a shot glass down on the table and looked behind the girl at all the broken liquor bottles. Only one bottle of tequila remained. "Can you hand me that bottle, miss?" he asked, then looked back at Teresa's remains. "Oh, and uh, nice shot."

[Kingfisher]

The road ahead of our heroes is a dangerous one, which holds the promise of many different destinations.

With the information that Dallen uncovered, our group could easily return to the Pagans and collect their reward, but the mystery surrounding Project Hamilton and the Salt Lake Chasm still lies somewhere out there in the far off land of New Canaan, waiting to be uncovered. The camp outside of New Reno would be a good place to follow up on this lead.

Alternatively, the bounty on Rickman has yet to be claimed, and the promise of further work for the Donna Lazzari is a tempting one.

Further still, the assault on the Desperado cannot go unanswered, and the threat of a subsequent attack by the Federov crime syndicate is very, very real. Oliver has earned himself a reputation as a cold, ruthless bastard, to the extent that even New Reno’s hardest thugs and killers are wary of him.

And lastly, Mancini still wishes to speak with Redding. Maybe he’s offering something worth investigating?

[Leidenschaft]

“Jesus, what in the fuck happened to you?” Brian's Irish Brogue reached his ears over the din of the Cracked Glass's other patrons. Brian was an alright guy as long as you stayed on Ryan's good side, man was as loyal as a dog and held somewhat of a resemblance to a pug now that age had tugged some jowls down onto him and a droop to his eyes.

“Fiends.” Redding grumbled, the word making him want to overturn a table and beat to death whoever was at it. But he'd worked long and hard through the years to get his goddamn temper in check. He took a seat at the bar and ordered his usual.

“I heard about that gunfight at the Desperado.” Ryan said, setting down a glass and pouring two fingers of whiskey, “That one's gonna go down in New Reno history, lemme tell you. And one of Mancini's boys dropped by, said the man was still waiting for you to come by when you can.”

“I'll do that. Say, your couch still available?” Redding asked.

“Not until the Fiends stop chasing you, my friend. I like you, I do, but I got to watch out for my own business. I can't have gunfights happening here.” He shrugged, but Redding got it, “Sorry.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Redding waved him off, taking up the whiskey and downing it like he usually did, two quick gulps and only slightly grimacing, “I'll catch you folk later. You too, Brian, your old, saggy, Irish ass still owes me for that night with Kristi.”

He pushed the swinging doors out of the way and left them flapping at each other, Brian's laughter at least giving some measure of good feelings to the night as he went back home. He opened up his apartment door and felt the hard barrel of a gun against his head. He closed his eyes and gritted his teeth. No sense in complaining, and he'd run out of fuck yous at the Desperado, “Do it, you fucking pussy. I'll see you in hell.”

“Damn, Red, that's some hard shit there.” Ramirez said, lifting the iron from his temple, “Where'd you learn that? North Vegas? Fernley?”

Redding took a deep breath, his heart had to calm down the hell down now and so did he. If Ramirez wasn't his best friend, he'd have gotten the same treatment Sid did. “Sid's in the dirt.”

“What, how?” Ramirez asked.

“They came at me at the Desperado. Some other folks were there, I know Sid's dead for sure, probably got bits of his face stuck to the bottom of my boot still.” He chuckled, the thought of Sid being dead by his hand was something sweet, “I got out. I need you to keep an eye on our place, like you do. I'm calling in someone I knew when I get the chance for a meeting at the Cracked Glass.”

“Okay. Well, I'm going next door, bought some peyote off this guy and I wanna see what it's about.” He left with his shotgun still in hand and Redding made it a point to keep the Tec-9 near his side at all times. He went to work tying off his arm, smacking the crook of it and making fists. The vein started to pump and he got the med-x ready. Hit his vein with it, little in, sucked some blood back up and pushed the plunger through. When the thick band of rubber came away, Redding had to stop himself from slumping to the ground.

The gunfight was miles away now, Little and Big didn't exist, no Fiends were after him. His grubby apartment wasn't bad. Everything just felt nice. Very nice. His eyes were heavy and every time they closed he'd be somewhere different. Sometimes, he was with Simon, chatting up the local girls. Other times, he was with Jaime getting drinks at that roadside bar they'd come across. His favorites were when he'd see Teresa again and his daughter. It was weird in the dope dreams that Izzy would always be a baby, she'd never grow up or anything like that. A few hours later, he'd nod off for the last time and he'd finally get some semblance of sleep.

* * *

“Feeling better, you princess?” Brian greeted Redding again.

“I'd be feeling even better if I could see your wife again.” Redding flashed a grin at the old Irishman as he took his seat at the bar. “Usual. Anyone come to you with jobs?”

“Yeah, Mancini's boys, like I said. Other than that, pretty damn silent.” Ryan said, pouring Redding's drink with practiced hands.

“Mm.” And with his own practiced hands, Redding picked the glass up and downed it, “I need you to make a call to someone for me. Make sure they know it's from Redding.”

“Who?” Ryan asked, his hand on the phone.

“Old acquaintance; Joel.” Redding said, pushing his glass forward for another drink.

“So, you're going back to it, then. Running around the streets and all, being a cleaner.” Brian said, matter-of-factly. “Fiends pissed you off that bad, eh?”

“Yes.” Redding nodded, downing the whiskey Ryan poured for him, “Yes, they did.”

[Kingslee]

Joel Woods - The Desperado - Evening

Joel sidestepped once more, the crazed woman’s machete missing his shoulder by a couple of inches. At this stage he was giving serious thought to just pulling his Glock and gunning her down. That was before Chomsky sprang into action, biting down on the woman's forearm and causing her to scream and raise up the machete. Joel pulled his Glock 17 quicker than he ever had before, ready and willing to blow a hole through the woman's face before she could put one in Chomsky. He squeezed the trigger a millisecond after he saw a bright red flash in his peripheral vision. The laser explained why the cranium his 9mm round was about to bore through was no longer there. Fearing that the lasers actual target was him and had just missed he quickly rotated, aiming his gun at the woman with the laser rifle. It took him barely a second to figure out that she wasn’t a raider, even in the midst of all this chaos she was blatantly void of all the tell-tale signs of such a person. He lowered his gun quickly and gave a nod of gratitude.

He watched as the man in the suit lit a cigarette from some of the flames and leaned down to pet and praise Chomsky.

“Good boy, indeed.” Joel smirked, following the man in black to the bar, only stopping a few times to lean down and check the pulses of non-raiders who he wasn’t sure were definitely dead. Most were, but one young looking lad had a faint pulse.

“I would take that bottle to go friend, unless you desire burn scars…” He spoke plainly, turning to the redheaded woman. “Thanks for the assist. Both of you. Now I need to go and give my employer some bad news.”

With that he put his handgun away and hoisted the unconscious lad onto his shoulder, grunting with effort as he made his way out the door, Chomsky following behind him. He got about a quarter way down the street and dumped the lad down against a building on the side of the road. He’d done as much as he was willing to for a stranger. He thought about going to tell his employer about the loss of the casino in person but decided against it. It was getting late and his apartment was closer anyway. So he headed home, reaching it in about ten minutes at a walking pace. He nodded to the Lazzari soldiers stood guard at the entrance of his apartment complex, walking straight through. A lot of mid-level Lazzari guys had safe houses there so they made sure they were always at least somewhat protected. He headed up to the third floor and went into his apartment, yawning as he took his AK-47 off and placed it against the wall. He’d have to clean it soon. He took his mask off and put it down inside the locker, picking up his phone immediately after and dialing the number of yet another casino, it being answered after several rings.

“Yeah?” The same voice as earlier asked.

“I killed the raiders but they had a serious arsenal. Grenades, molotovs, laser and plasma weaponry, even a damn flamer… Unless you can get a couple dozen men over there with a ton of water immediately that place is lost.” Joel said in monotone, attempting to steel his temper for the obnoxious man’s incoming outburst.

“Lost!? It’s a fuckin’ casino, not a goddamn bottlecap! I paid you to-”

“You paid me to kill. I killed. The rest is on you.”

Joel hung up.

---

Joel Woods - Home - Morning

Joel awoke, frantically grabbing the revolver he kept under his pillow and jumping out of bed, waving the piece around the room, sweating and hyperventilating. He’d been dreaming of being tied to a cross, but the cross wasn’t upright, it was laid on the ground and as he’d been looking around scared shitless and unable to move a small group of legionaries surrounded him and began hacking at him with machetes.

Standing still and taking deep breaths for about a minute allowed him to calm, after which he tossed the revolver onto his pillow and picked up the sweat drenched towel he’d been sleeping on. He turned it over to the dryer side and wiped himself down. By the time the phone rang his heart rate was back to normal, but it still made him jump. He closed his eyes and sighed.

A second later he answered the phone, hoping it would be one of his siblings.

“Hello.” Joel said, forcing some enthusiasm into his voice just in case it was family.

“Hello there Joel, it’s Ryan from the Cracked Glass.”

“Ah, I thought it might of been one of the many other Irishmen I know.” Joel spoke coldly, the emotion had disappeared from his voice as quickly as it’d arrived.

Ryan feigned a chuckle, one that did nothing to hide the inclination that he’d grown tired of that particular reply a decade or three ago.

“What can I do for you?”

“Might have some work for you is all. Well, a friend by the name of Redding does. Can you come to the pub to meet with him?”

“All right. I’ll be there in an hour.”

Joel hung up, but immediately dialed another number.

“Hello?” A familiar voice answered.

“Hey Sammy!” Joel’s smile beamed down the phone.

“Joel! What’s up!?” Sammy asked excitedly.

“You know, same old, same old. How you doing little brother? Mom not home?”

“We’re doing well! I’ve been reading about the Canadians before the Great War! And no, she’s at work. Sewing or some such for the apparel merchant.”

“Fair enough. Canadians, huh? Is it interesting stuff?” Joel asked, smiling continuously.

“Yes! It’s also sad though. The United States annexed the country because they wanted more of the resources and to be able to better protect the oil there since most of its supply came from Canada. They kept taking more and more though and some of the natives who were already worried about there being so many foreign troops in the country became incredibly frustrated. Rightfully so if I’m understanding correctly. Resources were becoming extremely scarce. As tensions rose protests started and resistance groups gained popularity… The U.S troops apparently began shooting both rioters and protesters on sight a little later on, which further fueled support for the resistance. There were a lot of atrocities, some of which were documented and made their way back here in the form of photos and such. That caused further unrest here as well as over there… Is that what happened in Nevada? Was there resistance from the natives due to the NCR wanting the power from the Dam and such?”

Joel half smiled, thinking. “I don’t really know, little man. I was mostly in the desert fighting enemy soldiers. The people stationed in New Vegas would know more about that. I heard some of the locals just outside of Vegas were angry about all the NCR citizens that were settling around there. It was a pretty poor area and they didn’t have much to go around. I heard that got sorted though. NCR and a local family started working together to feed both settlers and locals in the area and make sure any violence was put to a swift end. Tensions dropped a lot after that I’m told. That was before we were pushed out though, I’m not sure how things went afterwards. Hopefully there wasn’t too much chaos… Anyway, I’m heading out shortly, but I’ll meet up with you soon. You still want to learn how to hunt?”

“Hell yeah!” The boy replied excitedly.

“All right. First you’ll need to learn how to shoot. I’ll see if I can’t get my hands on a low calibre rifle for you. Don’t go anywhere without me!”

“I won’t!”

“Good lad. I’ll see you soon bro. Tell the others I said hi.”

The highlight of his week over, Joel got dressed and strapped on his kevlar vest, sheaths and holsters. After holstering his two handguns and grabbing his karambits and a kukri, he was ready to leave.

---

Joel Woods - The Cracked Glass - Morning

During the half an hour walk to the Irishman’s pub Joel thought about Redding. After his sister had died he’d made a sort of therapeutic habit out of murdering ruinous pimps and dealers. It was especially rewarding if like Redding, they were both. Once upon a time he’d stalked the man a little bit, him being a rising star in the sex game and all. Whilst gathering some intel on him he’d ran into some of his sister's old friends/co-workers though. Redding was a known asshole, and he’d kill you as easily as near any other thug in the town, but apparently when it came to pimping he was actually known to be quite benevolent. Well, as much as you could be in such a role. So Joel never did attempt to kill him and actually met him for other reasons over the years.

Reaching his destination Joel pushed the door to the dingy little bar open and went inside. He stood still for a few seconds waiting for his eyes to adjust to the far dimmer lighting. When they did he spotted Redding almost immediately. It wasn’t too often you saw someone with red hair, unless they’d dyed it somehow. Casually strolling up to the bar Joel took a seat down next to him, nodding a greeting at Ryan.

“Nuka Cola please boss.” With that his eyes drifted over to what would likely be his next employer. “You look worse than me and I had to fight a crazy, drugged up raider queen armed with a flamer and a fucking machete last night… So, who do you want me to kill?”

[Tsar Gatto]

Annelise gazed around the chaos that was now the Desperado, head still swimming with the events that had unfolded since she’d arrived in New Reno. She gazed from corpse to corpse and sighed, was this what life would be for her now – fucked up shootout after another until something went wrong and she was the one laying dying. She looked to the only other two people who seemed to be still standing cautiously, after all just because they’d been on the same side moments ago but she didn’t know if that would still be the case now.

"Can you hand me that bottle, miss?" came the voice from the man she’d seen crash through a wall with one of the raiders moments ago. She stared at him for a few moments appraisingly. He had dark clothing and dark hair, but otherwise looked more ‘normal’ than anyone else she’d really seen yet... handsome even she considered.
"Oh, and uh, nice shot." he added as he glanced at the remains of the raider woman she’d vaporized moments ago.

The masked man chimed in “I would take that bottle to go friend, unless you desire burn scars…” before turning to Annelise “Thanks for the assist. Both of you. Now I need to go and give my employer some bad news” and with that he left with what looked to be the only survivor other than them. Suddenly again the weight of everything threatened to come crashing down over her, but she was determined not to break down again – she still needed desperately to rest and recuperate . Suddenly the bottle didn’t look like such a bad idea she thought as she took a few quick steps and snatched it up and examining the label as she didn’t recognise it.

“You were pretty... eh... impressive yourself” she shot back somewhat awkwardly before holding out the bottle to him. As he reached for it she jerked it upwards out of his reach and tried to smirk.

“So, is there anywhere is this town where we could drink this, preferably without a bunch of psychotic fucks busting in the door and trying to kill us? Because I’m getting kind of tired of it”.

She tried to speak lightly but the pressure of everything she was facing leaked into her voice, her lingering gaze though she didn’t intend it gave away that she was reaching the end of her endurance, that she in a roundabout way was asking for help.

[Kingfisher]

Somewhere, deep within the windswept landscape of Post-War California, an old radio crackles to life. With a jolt and a whir, a spark that was extinguished centuries ago flares back into being, and the soothing voice of Jo Stafford drifts over the bombed-out husk of the valley.

‘See The Pyramids
Along the Nile
Watch the sun rise
On a tropic isle
Just remember darling
All the while
You belong to me’

Out of the unwavering darkness of midnight, two figures appear, slipping into view.

“Thank you for meeting with me, sir,” says the first, a man in a grey jacket and old military boots “I’m glad you’ve come round to our way of thinking.”

“I’ll admit it took some persuasion,” the second figured grumbles “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.” says the first, nodding sharply “What’s best for the people of the wasteland.”

‘See the market place
In old Algiers
Send me photographs
And souvenirs
Just remember
When a dream appears
You belong to me’

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

“The only way, sir.”

“Very well.” The second man reaches into the breast pocket of his blazer, pulling out a crisp paper file, which he offers to the first “This is everything my people could find about 93. I hope it proves useful.”

“I’m sure that it will,” the first man takes the folder in one both hands, something akin to a smile briefly flickering across his steely face “Mister President.”

“So, what happens next?” asks the President.

“One of our agents has set up a meeting with the Van Graffs. Between them and this file, we’ll have enough information to put our plan in motion.” explains the first man.

The president nods once, placing a hand on his chest.

“Semper fidelis.” He says.

“Semper fidelis.” Repeats the first man.

‘I'll be so alone
Without you
Maybe
You'll be lonesome, too
And blue’

[Stitches]

Everything was bright and fuzzy when Abigail woke up. Even though it had been several years since she was plucked from the streets of Freeside, the familiar ache of a broken body was enough to instinctively force the girl to stay incredibly still and wait for her thoughts to become coherent sentences again. Rather disconcertingly, she felt the familiar chewiness of some form of fabric in her mouth, and her hazy mind jumped to the conclusion that she might be gagged - but not blindfolded. She played dead until she realised that these bright and fuzzy Freeside streets were rather warm and comfortable...that was when she opened her eyes, just a little.

Abigail was in a motel room, rather gaudily decorated but fairly clean for Wasteland standards. She wasn’t tucked in, rather laid on the bed with care. Someone had tended to her tongue; she spat out a gauze swab pushed in her mouth after realising that it was not, in fact, a gag. Her gaze slid across the orange pattern on the walls until it settled on a dark silhouette hunched by the window. Abigail blinked a few times until the figure swam into view; it was hard to miss the little book in his hand and it was a dead giveaway.

“Hnnmh…Brooksy.”

Brooks remained sat back against the chair, propped up by the window with the light from the outside beaming down on him through a slit he opened to look out at the streets. In his hands was his trusty bible which he used to keep himself busy. Every day he read a new page, over and over again, soaking in every word.  He wouldn’t call himself a religious man, but the occasional verse had some truth to them. The book seemed to practically contain answers to questions he’d been searching his whole life. As Abigail stirred, he placed his finger in between the page open in front of him, to remember where he left off. “Mornin’, Sunshine,” he’d voice out, cracking a smile knowing the last thing Abigail likes to do in the morning is engage in conversation. “They’ve got some strange fellows here alright, all night n’ day people in wacky costumes parading around.” he’s state, trying to pull her from her slumber.

She hoped it was just hunger. Dear God, it must be the hunger. She hoped the shivers were just because she was cold, but there was a gnawing sensation in the back of her mind...she kept rubbing the crook of her arm subconsciously. Abigail stared at Brooks patiently, clearly not listening to him in the slightest as realisation started to dawn upon her - why the hell, what possessed HER of all people to give this self-righteous prick ALL of her Med-x? She clenched and unclenched her jaw and stared at Brooks without really seeing him.

“Come on, don’t fall asleep. Let’s sit you up.” he’d place a strip of paper in between his most recent page, laying it aside by the window before shuffling over to aid Abigail upright. Then he moved over to where last night's pot would be, the contents still fresh and warm, and splatter it onto a makeshift plate. “Made it early this mornin’, one good thing about this place is that stores are open almost twentyfour-seven.”

With Brooks’ help, Abigail was able to sit up and help herself to the (cold) fire gecko stew and the sunset sarsparilla. She hadn’t said a word since she woke up and kept pushing her tongue against the roof of her mouth tentatively...there were dull pangs of pain but she could feel that the punctures had healed over thanks to a stimpack or two. Using the reflection from her bottle, Abigail gingerly brushed her fingers across the bruises on her neck, exhaling through her nostrils. Before Brooks could say anything else, Abigail looked up at him and croaked out “Boss.”

It was rehearsed. How many times had Abigail run through this conversation in her head? He could hear the careful tone of voice, the slight inflections she used to give it realism, honesty, spontaneity...it was impossible for her to lie to Brooks. Abigail, for all her skill, could pull off a proper lie to anyone - but not after spending so much time with him. He knew what to look for. “I know what we agreed on, and you know I’ve been very good at sticking to your routine. I haven’t complained once. But this once...just this once, I think I need a full dose.”

And Abigail was a devilishly good actress. She never broke eye-contact, her bright blue eyes boring into Brooks’ dark gaze so steadily that she could’ve been talking about the weather for all anyone else knew. The way she idly played with her spoon, scratched her ear and waited ever-so-patiently for the response; it was all a ruse. She felt like she was controlling a big puppet, she was acutely aware of every twitch and pull of her muscles...it was an out-of-body experience that she was only ever exposed to when she really, really had to think hard over her act. It was enough of a distraction to quell the tingling sensations that preluded the withdrawal, and that was the most convincing part of it all; she didn’t have that glint in her eye. There was no sign of true need, just an honest and pragmatic suggestion. Purely for survival’s sake.

“No.”

She didn’t miss a beat in responding. “Ok, ok. But I’m in a lot of pain right now, Brooks. I’m really weak, and I’m going to need more than usual to get back up on my feet pretty quickly.” She set aside the bottle and plate, giving Brooks her full attention.

Brooks let out a sigh, reaching up to re-adjust his collar before flicking his hands at Abigail as he emphasized his point “Abbey, you already need more than your average to get anythin’ from that crap. You’re breathing, you’re standing, and even talking back. Desperate times, that’s what we talked about.”

Abigail pushed her tongue against the roof of her mouth, doing everything in her power to remain calm. “You know where we are, right? I’d much rather you gave me something now instead of having to go off and find some myself - do you know who that man was, the one from the bar?” Abigail shifted her weight a little and instantly regretted it; she winced, screwing her face up from the pain. “That was Redding Schmidt, one of the biggest pimps and drug dealers this side of New Vegas. And he told me where to find him. I think you’d rather I didn’t fall to temptation and instead took the dose that you’re able to control, no?”

Brooks’ facial features took on an unimpressed scowl, giving Abigail a long, pregnant stare.
“Excuse me?”

Abigail held her hands up defensively. “I’m just saying it how it is, Brooksy. You and I both know I do stupid shit even when I’m high - what risks am I going to take when I’m going through withdrawal? This is the last place you want me to really start sobering up, there’s too many...opportunities. Just keep me going until we’re out of New Reno, then when we’re in the middle of fucking nowhere you can cut me off. Then I can’t do shit about it.”

“Abigail, listen. How many times has this been? How many more times are you gonna go through this exact fuckin’ talk. You’ve managed this long and now you wanna’ throw it out the window?”

“That wasn’t a proper excuse, Brooks,” remarked Abigail a little too quickly. She clenched her hands together and took a moment to control herself. “Look. All I’m saying is I don’t want to go through withdrawal here. Not now. It’s far too dangerous - we both saw how fucked up this city is just last night, and you want to be worrying over me on top of all that?” Abigail looked away for a moment, swallowing nervously. “At least you’ve still got control over the dosage,” she repeated quietly.

Brooks folded his arms, a slight wave of disappointment washing over him. “I control the dosage. You stay by my heels. And don’t you even -think- about sneaking off and getting your own dosage. Abbey it WILL end bad.”

Abigail couldn’t look him in the eyes and it took every ounce of willpower to avoid breaking into a sly grin. “It’ll be better in the long run, trust me,” she replied heavily.

“Zip it.” he’d snap at her, shooting her another deathly scowl.

...

Brooks let out a grumble, shutting and locking the door to their motel room behind them as the two walked down and out of the cool and shady motel stairway and into the sunny and dust settled streets of New Reno. It was early in the morning, the sun had just risen and the streets were slowly busying themselves. Brooks slapped on his wide-brimmed hat to block out the rays and gazed up and down both ends of the road, mumbling to himself as he voiced out to Abigail “Fella’ I asked mentioned bounties are at one of the casinos.” as he began walking up the streets, taking it easy as the two were in no particular rush. They must have been lucky with the neighbourhood as the people passing them or crowding around the street stops seemed decent, average, and just trying to get by. All the better for Brooks, as the two usually caught enough attention as is. That’s what he liked about the big city, everyone minded their own business.

Abigail was certainly keeping to her promise. She was pretty much bumping elbows next to Brooks, sticking to his side in an oddly uncharacteristic silence. She pulled down her goggles to keep the sun out and kept her gaze fixed on the floor, tugging sulkily at her bag straps. After a very, very long pause she hazarded a glance up at her travelling companion and asked “did you say casinos?”

“Exactly what I said. That means tip-top behaviour, yeah? Guards in casinos ain’t the same as guards in grocery stores. You steal from them and not even -I- can stop ‘em from breaking your hands. I’m dead serious about that, Abbey. We’re only going in to see what bounties we can fish.” he’d speak, sternly and to the point, gaze focused on the way they’re going as the two take a turn.

Abigail was slowly coming out of her shell and regaining her usual upbeat optimism, but she still spoke with an edge of cautiousness. “We used to have the Atomic Wrangler in Freeside. I didn’t go in there though, I wasn’t old enough...pretty sure it was a whorehouse as well as a casino. Don’t you want to play a couple games while we’re there?” Abigail held a hand up. “Ah, no, wait. ‘For the love of money is the root of all evil: which some coveted after, blahblahblah. Amen.’” She bowed her head solemnly and pretended to pray as she walked.

Brooks couldn’t help but smirk at Abigail’s words. “I wouldn’t know where to start. My father was a gambler but he sure as hell didn’t teach me jack.” he’d tilt his head up, making out the word “Shark Club” on one of the signs further down the road. “Sounds about right…” he mumbled to himself, following the directions.

Abigail started to smile. “Oh, it’s easy. First you take all of your caps, and put them on one of the squares...then you throw cards at the other players, pick everyone’s money up and run away-oooooh.”

It became immediately apparent why Brooks had warned Abigail to be on her best behaviour, because the Shark Club’s luminous sign shimmered in the morning sunshine. It was quite likely, given the condition of the casino on the outside, that there would be just as many beautifully shiny things inside as well. The guards stationed at the entrance glared skeptically at Abigail as they approached, one of them stepping forward and making a vague gesture to the girl. “How old is she?”

“Twenty.” he lied. “She’ll be by my side.” he didn’t lie. The two were begrudgingly let in, not before passing the obvious weapons check. With both Brooks and Abigail disarmed, the made their way past the guards and inside.

“I mean, it could be possible,” murmured Abigail as she pulled the cigar cutter out of her pocket. When she took a good look inside, she instinctively gripped onto Brooks’ coat - her gaze was immediately transfixed by the loud and brightly lit slot machined, but it slid from one place to another. She looked rather overwhelmed. Her free hand clicked the cigar cutter desperately as she fought the completely irrational compulsion to physically reach out and grab the entire casino in her little bony fingers.

Brooks lead the two towards the nearest bar, moving briskly as he knew Abigail’s attention span was already at it’s limits. As they arrived he helped Abigail onto a stool, leaning against the counter himself as he placed his hat on it. The bar itself was mostly empty, aside from a few of the workers coming back and forth from behind it. Overall, it looked like a clean and prestigious establishment, calm in the early hours. Nodding up at a worker as he approached him and Abigail, “Mornin’. There’s talk of jobs you got here. Mind directing me to someone?”

[Leidenschaft]

A short, but very sweet collab by Leidenschaft & @Kingslee

Redding took a couple of puffs off his cigarillo, sighing the smoke out across the bartop. Showing weakness and fear was a death sentence, and weak men and cowards never got far anywhere, especially not in the world he was put into. If he'd learned one thing running with his brothers, that was it. So, it was with hot blood when he found his hand going to his .38 tucked in his pants every time the swinging doors flapped open. It wasn't long that the person he was waiting for was the one in the doorway. He let the smoke out through his nose before he answered Joel's greeting. “Funny thing, that,” He puffed a couple more times and took a sip of his whiskey, “A drugged up raider queen with a flamethrower tried to roast me last night.”

He sighed, “Which brings us to the reason why you're here. I can't count on Ramirez for this, he watches my house and my girls as it is, but he isn't like you or me. I took to earning caps rather than busting them, you hear? But you and I both know what I came from.” Redding puffed on his cigarillo and sniffed, “I need to see Mancini about business. I'm going to give you two-hundred and seventy caps in advance to stand next to me and look dangerous. Whatever Mancini wants me to do, you'll get half my pay to stick around long enough for us to nab a Fiend wherever they're hiding out these days and figure out why they want me dead so bad.”

“The Fiends are gunning for me, but busting into the Desperado like that? You and I both know Heartless Teresa and her Fiends wouldn't risk getting on the Families' tempers without good reason.” He growled, puffing on his cigarillo for a couple seconds, “I can only assume you don't know about any bounties on me. I haven't woken up with my throat slit, so I figured.” He shrugged.

Joel remained quiet and listened. When Ryan placed his Nuka Cola down in front of him he dug into a pouch on the front of his vest and took out a handful of caps, sliding what he owed over with a nod of gratitude. He took sips as Redding talked and smirked when he mentioned that he had been attacked by the very same woman. Well, probably. New Reno was a fucked up town but they typically didn’t get two flamer wielding psychopaths in one night. He wandered whether the mob bosses would be pissed at Redding for being in one of their places when all that shit went down. They would want somebody to blame, he just hoped it wouldn’t be him personally. Or Redding for that matter, at least until their business was concluded.

With Redding having finished his offer Joel thought about it for a few seconds. Almost three hundred caps to just stand there, that was a no brainer. Going after a fiend? That could get very messy, especially if they had to torture whoever they grabbed. Fucking chems those lunatics were on sometimes made them near impervious to pain. Still, worse comes to worst they’d just have to tie the asshole up for a bit and wait for withdrawal symptoms to start kicking in. They’d tell them anything if they waved some jet in their face at that point. Whatever Mancini wanted them to do would probably be worth while. Man was rich enough to pay well. The kicker was why he would want Redding in the first place. He’s obviously tough as nails but why wouldn’t he hire one of the more active mercs? It was common knowledge that Redding mostly stuck to pimping these days. It was curious. Either way, should turn out more than worth it.

“Alright, I’m in. You have any idea why Mancini asked for you for this job though?”

"Who knows." Redding shrugged, taking another sip of whiskey and another couple puffs, setting the cigarillo down on the ashtray, "I've got a reputation, sure, but going around and being a cleaner isn't something I've done in a while. I'm hoping it's not that kind of business, really, I've got danger looking for me and I'm not too keen on the idea of meeting it in the middle."

Redding snorted without much humor and shook his head, pushing himself out of the bar stool with a grunt at the aching spot that was his body. Tossing a few caps to Ryan, he nodded to Brian and the two took their leave. Redding knew there was a professional respect between the two of them, he never tried to become friends with the man though. In his line of work, freelancing, the man you were slapping backs and shaking hands with could be the man you were stabbing in an alleyway or shooting in the back of the head at a bar the next day. Thankfully, Redding and Joel never seemed to take jobs that put them on opposite sides. One, because Redding liked Joel, and two- a great, big two- was because Redding had seen first hand what Joel was capable of. Redding had quick hands and knew his way around a knife, enough to get him a reputation and the name Cutter in his and his brothers' brief stints as raiders out in the wastes before Fernley, sticking up travelers and raiding caravans. But Joel, the man was something else. When he wasn't looking friendly, there was something in his eyes, the same thing he saw when he used to look in the mirror couple years ago.

Redding looked sidelong at the man at his side, happy that he was on his side, at least as long as the caps came his way. But that was cleaning, Redding knew, "So, uh, how's business these days?"

Walking through the streets of New Reno had always been something of a treacherous affair for Joel. When he was a youngster he would always be terrified that someone would rob him and take what little caps he’d made working. That did happen a few times but he was lucky enough not to be shot or stabbed during them like a lot others. Maybe because back then it was so obvious he wasn’t a threat. His manner screamed victim. Nowadays he was on edge because at any moment someone could run up on him and gun him down for any number of reasons. Too many enemies. Too many possibilities. A friend or relative of someone he’d killed. A family or gang he’d been hired to work against. Or maybe just someone who’d been hired by one of the former people just like him. For that reason his eyes scanned the streets and every time he went around a corner he readied himself to pull one of his guns or knives.

He shrugged his shoulders in response to Redding’s question. “Same as it ever was I reckon. This life doesn’t seem to change much, the people just get replaced as they fall.”

Redding picked at a callus on his palm, a soft exhale from his nose at the truth of Joel's observation, "Ain't that the truth."

They walked by a man in the gutter who almost looked dead. Redding wouldn't have been surprised if he was, but then he stirred, opening bloodshot eyes and a sigh escaped a pair of lips that peeled away from each other, immediately starting to bleed. Redding shook his head, looking forward once more and going back to scanning the streets. There wasn't much cover here and he lamented the meager five rounds the cylinder of his .38 held. A brace of five speedloaders was hidden on a leather shoulder holster under his coat, lending at least some semblance of comfort. "That's why I got out of it. All the good that fucking did with the business at the Desperado." He sighed, "Sometimes I miss it, though. Someone hands you a sack of caps, you squeeze off a round in the back of someone's head and you get the other half of the pay. Of course, dealing involves less itchy trigger fingers, and my girls working at the Golden Globe and escorting tourists on the side is some extra."

A few minutes of walking and small conversation had them at the other side of the street from Mancini's. A hulking man at the door in a fitted suit stood, arms crossed. Redding rolled his jaw, not trusting many people after last night, Mancini and a shitload of his armed guards not anywhere on the very short list of people he did trust. "Alright. Anyone even breathes in a way you think is suspect, we're getting out by any means."

With that, Redding took the first step off the curb and into the road, crossing to the front door and staring up at the big door-man. He had his best thuggish face on, just like his old days running in North Vegas and Fernley. "It's Redding. Here to see Mancini."

[Kingfisher]

@Stitches

“Fa you ‘un the lil girl?” The worked asked, scratching at the stubble on his thick jaw “Yeah, I think I gots somethin’.”

The worker paused for a second, taking a drag from the cigarette he held in between his fingers, whilst a slender thread of smoke trickled back over his shoulder.

“The donna sent this pretty-faced boy out to do a job fer her, ‘un he ain’t come back. Some secret mission above my pay grade, but we need ta’ know what he’s up to, ya dig? Tallish fella, straight, dark hair, and a big coat. The Donna sent him to snoop about the Imperial. If you can fish ‘im up fer us, I’d say there’s a solid 200 caps waitin’ for ya.”

---

@Leidenschaft @Kingslee

“Mancini’s expecting you, Redding,” the doorman grumbled “Didn’t say anythin’ about no soldier boy comin’ with, though.”

Nevertheless, the doorman let them past, moving to one side so that the pair could make their way into the apartment.

Mancini himself was sitting in a wooden chair, one leg fidgeting like crazy, as he inhaled a mouthful of jet.

Slumped up against the wall behind him, was what looked like a young girl; unconscious, with a bag over her head, and her arms bound by rope.

“Schmidt, thank fuck you’re here.” he exclaimed, as they stepped inside, his wiry body jolting upright. “Who's ya friend?”

His forehead was caked with sweat, and his eyes were wide and bloodshot.

“Have I got a deal for you!” He exclaimed “a F-I-N-E piece of arse, right here.”

Mancini gave the unconscious girl’s body a little nudge with his foot.

“I hear you lost a girl, and was thinkin’ you’d be wantin’ to restock your goods, no? I’m sure we can work somethin’ out.”

[Stitches]

Brooks stared at the bartender, not quite making out his accent before finally turning to give a shifty look at Abigail, “Would you kindly…?”

Abigail abruptly dropped the silver bottle opener she managed to wrap her fingers around, wide-eyed with surprise and looking a bit sheepish as she gripped onto the greasy wood of the bar so tightly that her grubby knuckles turned white. “The donna sent out a man to do some sort of job and he’s gone missing,” she explained. “He doesn’t know what that job is but apparently they need to know where he’s gone and what he’s doing. He’s tallish with straight dark hair and a big coat, and he’s meant to be investigating the Imperial. I uh...I assume he wants us to find him for 200 caps.” Abigail rubbed at her nose a couple of times and focused intently on Brooks’ cigar cutter, clicking it at a desperately fast pace.

Drumming his fingers on the counter, Brooks nodded after Abigail finished translating. Turning back to face the barkeep he asked, “Anyone else on the job I should be aware of? And anythin’ you want me to relay to this… I don’t assume you got his name?”

[Kingfisher]

"No name, sorry, sah," the figure said, shaking his head "he was a lot more...propa' than most folks you'd seen round Reno. Not too shouty either. You'd know not to fuck with 'im just by bein' near him."

Once again, the man took a puff from his cigarette.

"The mission was secret-like, so the Donna only entrusted it to one person. If you find 'im, see what's been keepin' him so long, and tell him that the Donna's runnin' outta patience."

[Leidenschaft]

“Man can't hire his own muscle?” Redding brushed past the door man and into Mancini's place.

Redding raised an eyebrow at the scene before him. Mancini wasn't his usual self, a sheen of sweat adding a gross glow to him as his eyes flitted about the room. He kept quiet, not able to control his lip curling in contempt at what was before him. “I'm here to see what you got for me.”

When Mancini nudged a limp body with the toe of his shoe, he shook his head. Under all the dirt and the grubby, ill-fitting clothes, he saw the curves of a woman, though over her head was a sack. He looked at Joel, knowing the man's reputation of hatred for slavers of any sense of the word, flashing a look that told him to calm down but he completely shared the feeling of unease and disgust at the sight. He looked at Mancini, “I can find my own girls, Mancini. What's special about this one?”

[Kingslee]

Joel gave the guard a blank look before pushing past him and following Redding into the apartment. He immediately regretted coming on the job as he took in the sight before him and knew almost instantly that the chance of him leaving without using his kukri to cut off Mancini’s head had become miniscule. As the drug addled piece of shit offered to sell the person on the floor to Redding it took every fiber of his being not to draw his Glock and blow a hole in the man's head. He looked to Redding, trying to gauge his reaction mostly but also trying to figure out whether he would have to open him up as well if he went after Mancini. Thankfully they both seemed to share the same look of thinly veiled revulsion. Redding’s was also a look of caution however, or rather on urging caution. Or maybe calm, probably both. Either way the intended message was rather clear.

The former soldier looked back to the figure on the floor, his temper dangerously close to boiling point. She was dirty and had probably been beaten, maybe worse knowing Mancini. He looked back to the dead man walking, his eyes boring into him, filled with hate and anger. He just about managed to contain himself, albeit temporarily. He would see where this conversation went but he could feel it. He was one shitty remark away from painting the room red. Or maybe he would keep his cool and just come back later to off the prick without witnesses. Of course Redding would connect the dots easily and word would likely spread. Still, right now it felt like it would be worth it and it was very nearly a decision removed from clearheaded choice, soon hate, killer instinct and reflexes would take over.

[Kingfisher]

"This is a beautiful, gorgeous lookin' thing," Mancini babbled "with a rack an' a rear like you wouldn't believe!"

The mobster slowly climbed out of his chair, wandering over to the drinks cabinet that he kept in the corner. With shaky hands, he cracked it open, taking a swig of scotch straight from the bottle.

"She's got one hell of a body, friend, and she ain't hooked on any chems or the like. The birds a little delusional, seems to have some kind of...mental imparement, so I don't have the time to deal with her."

Mancini downed another mouthful.

"Had to cut her tongue out, the loony bitch, stop her from mouthing off...I reckon someone like you could make good use of her though. Give her a special home, and all."

[Tsar Gatto]

“So, is there anywhere is this town where we could drink this, preferably without a bunch of psychotic fucks busting in the door and trying to kill us? Because I’m getting kind of tired of it”.

She tried to speak lightly but the pressure of everything she was facing leaked into her voice, her lingering gaze though she didn’t intend it gave away that she was reaching the end of her endurance, that she in a roundabout way was asking for help.

"Not really," Dallen replied bluntly. "Psychotic fucks are all that's left, they're around every corner. Should of stayed in your vault, red."

Dallen snatched the bottle of tequila and took a quick chug of it, before handing it back to her. Annelise gazed at the bottle of murky liquid for a moment and threw all caution to the wind and she too took a large chug from the bottle. Seconds later she grimaced and shuddered slightly at the burning sensation, it was what she had expected and she simply frowned and took another swig forcing the drink down.

The pair made their way out of the burning Desperado, just before the fire really picked up. As he and the vault dweller made it outside, a small group of people were coming to the streets to watch the flames flicker and burn. Dallen took the moment to join them, staring back at the fire in brief thought. Maybe she knew something about the map. She was a dweller, after all.

"There's a diner in the Imperial," Dallen told her. "That's about as safe as it gets. I'll buy us some food and rooms, separate rooms, and maybe you can help me out with some questions I might have. Deal? Just some, vault questions."

Annelise raised her eyebrows in surprise at his generosity and just about mumbled her thanks as she followed behind him. She didn’t want to let her guard down but she was just so exhausted that right now she didn’t have it in her to do much other than follow behind him and let her tired eyes gaze around watching for any potential threats.

Without waiting for her to agree, Dallen made his way in the direction of the Imperial. He was beginning to tire, as he realized his stomach growling. He hadn't eaten anything all day. The last meal he could remember was a rad roach.

As the Desperado's fire became distant and the Imperials massive pillars came into view, a tired Dallen pulled out another cigarette and lit it up. His stomach grumbled again, as he filled his lungs with even more smoke. Annelise watched him, again too tired to voice her bewilderment at his choice to smoke. Normally she’d have launched some smartass comment about his life choices, but right now it didn’t seem appropriate even if she did have the energy and desire to do so – in fact right now she felt more like asking him for one than anything else.

"So, what brings you here? What made you leave the vault?" Dallen asked breaking the silence again. He didn't want to press the woman to much, but he could already tell she was vault fresh. He remembered his very first time in the wilderness of the wastes, he remembered the feeling of it all.

She gazed at the imperial before them and licked her dry lips absently before she took another swig from the bottle before she handed it back to him and responded dryly “In hindsight I’ve got no idea why I chose to leave…” Her voice caught in her throat as she thought back over the others, images of their bodies flashing through her mind as she once more felt overwhelmed. “I…I… uh, it’s a long story” she finished slightly dejected as she used every ounce of her remaining strength to hold herself together as she clenched her jaw together.

Even as the woman spoke, he could tell the exhaustion was talking hold of her. It was for himself as well, though he felt he could go for a while longer yet if need be. The Donna would be waiting for him to complete his mission, however she never told him whether it all had to be in one day. Besides, he chose the Imperial to stay at just in case Rickman showed up anyway.

As the two entered the Imperial, they walked on over to the diner as the doorman approached. "Tell you what, we're both tired," Dallen said. "Why don't we just get some rest, meet here in the morning? Two rooms, please."

The doorman nodded and told them, "Rooms 1 and 2, just behind those doors."

Dallen handed over the caps and then looked back at the vault girl. He took another shot from the bottle and then handed it back to her. "To be continued," he said.

She summoned the willpower to smile at him as she thanked him for the room and took the bottle as she watched him go before she too disappeared into her room.

Normally Dallen had nightmares every night. He'd see the people he lost, the people he's killed. He'd see his wife again, but only versions of her from after her death. This night, however, he slept peacefully. It wasn't the tequila or the bed he slept on, it was something else. His thoughts seemed to be only of project Hamilton. Vault 96.

One room away Annelise too slept soundly, though the tequila and her exhaustion had a lot to do with it. Despite her state it had taken her quite some time to doze off, her mind seemingly unable to switch off as she thought over what had happened again and again as she fought off bouts of tears. It was only when she’d consumed another few large gulps of drink was she able to finally fall asleep, though it was far from dreamless.

****

He awoke with the first light of the sun, as the rays flickered in through the window blinds. Having slept in his attire, it didn't take him very long to be up and ready. After washing his face and brushing his teeth with a questionable hotel provided toothbrush, he made his way back down to the lobby diner of the Imperial.

"Coffee, please," he ordered, as he sat in wait for the vault dweller. He'd give her some time to show, but a feeling in him said she'd be half way to Mexico by now. It didn't matter either way, as his plans for the day still stood. Find and kill Rickman, then head to the camp where the pagans were being held. Whether Red showed back up or not was just an added bonus.

Annelise woke slowly and groggily, feeling far worse than she had in a long time which considering yesterday was quite the achievement. Not only was her body still protesting it’s mistreatment but her head too was throbbing. She hadn’t drunk that much but it had been on an empty stomach and that seemed to have been enough. As if to remind her as she swung her legs off the bed it growled its objections and she groaned as she rose to her feet and made her way into what passed as the bathroom to the little room. The mirror was dirty and cracked, but otherwise did the job. She looked at herself and frowned – it was almost like she belonged in the wasteland now. The bruises around her neck and on her face were slowly disappearing, but not before they’d turned a deep shade of blackish-purple. Her hair was a bit of a tangled mess and still had bits of ash and dirt mixed in, as did her face and hands. Right now she would have given anything to be back in the vault with a shower and some real food. Instead she settled for cleaning herself as best she could, scrubbing at her face and hands before she washed her hair in the sink before finally feeling a little more human and ready to meet with her new ‘friend’ as she left the room.

As the vault dweller finally showed, Dallen placed his map on the table he was sitting at and took a sip of his coffee. "Does this mean anything to you?" he asked.

Annelise sat down and peered at the somewhat tatty map that he’d spread across the table somewhat interestedly, she’d never actually seen a map on paper before and spent a few moments examining it. Something twinged in the back of her mind as she examined the landscape and the marked location.

“Huh” she wondered aloud as she lifted her pip-boy and flicked across several of the pages before she stopped on the map. She turned another dial a few times before she inhaled sharply and gazed from the screen to the map and back several times. It was unmistakable, the location highlighted on his map matched the location that Carrie had pulled from the vault mainframe almost identically so.

“It actually means something to me yeah…” she ventured slowly, unsure of what exactly he was asking or if she even had the answers he was looking for “and good morning to you too” she added with a touch of light sarcasm finally feeling a little more like herself as she too ordered a coffee, her mind far from the tragedy that had led her here.

“Well” she said as she took a sip of the coffee before suddenly stopping as she grimaced again and stared down at the mug as if it’d just told her to go fuck herself. “They call this coffee?” she asked him with an expression of bewilderment before she continued “so long story short I don’t know what exactly is there, but I do know that in all likelihood there is some kind of high-tech facility there”. She held up her pip-boy screen for him to see as she quickly pointed to the similarities on the two maps “Carr… someone I knew pulled these coordinates from our own vault mainframe. We were looking for a reverse-osmosis machine or at least parts we can use to fix our own. That was the only location we could come up with since our mainframe had been fried years ago.”

The server, a rather pasty looking youth approached them again, this time to see if they wanted any food or a drink refill. Annelise glanced around at the rather unappetising array of food on the other few patron’s plates and after a few moments asked for some sugar-bombs, still not able to bring herself to eat anything that had once lived out in the wasteland.
"Two sweet rolls, as well," Dallen added to the order, of which he had full intent to pay for. "And, uhm, whiskey."
Again Annelise raised her brows at him, alcohol this early? Sure there wasn’t much out here to occupy people, but it seemed a bit much to have whisky with breakfast.
As the server nodded and made his exit from view, Dallen glanced over at the vault girl, uncaring yet curious. His job, which in the current moment was still ongoing, required a lot from a person. Sometimes the job required certain emotions to be forced to become void. After awhile of that, it becomes second nature. Such a lifestyle required whiskey, lots, and lots of whiskey. In a way, it made everything seem right.
Dallen realized the situation. She needed to go to save her people, he needed to go for...what? Because he overheard a conversation with Breckinridge? Because his ego was edging him to finish this out? All Dallen had to do was let it go. Get his caps from the Pagans, then be on his merry. This time tomorrow he could be half way to New New Mexico, but he had to see it out. In a sense of his mind, Breckinridge's death couldn't have been for nothing. It was the secret. The secret of project Hammilton. It was simply just something different for an aging merc. He had to know what was there.

"My name's Dallen, by the way," he said. "Dallen Larson."
The server was quick with the sweetrolls, sugarbombs, and whiskey. Dallen quickly took his shot and lit up a cigarette right after. He sat back in his chair and relaxed. He already knew that things in his life were about to get more hectic.

"You need the parts, I need what's inside," Dallen said. "You're a good shot, but being out that long in the wastes, you're 'gonna need to be better. I can get you there, I'll even get you back to your people with the parts you need. I just need you to guide me. I need your pip-boy to open the vault. What do you say?"

Annelise thought for a brief moment before she nodded and stuck her hand out for him to shake “Annelise Fuentes, and you have yourself a deal”. She didn’t know why she already was agreeing to work with this man, but after all she didn’t really have much of an alternative. Nearly everyone else she’d met had either tried to kill her or leave her to die - everyone apart from Dallen that was.
As he was about to extend his hand to return her handshake, he noticed a man yelling at others in the background. It wasn't loud yelling, yet the voice was clearly heard as it carried over the few others conversing in the diner. A man in a suit yelling at the employees of the Imperial casino. Had to be Rickman. The manager...his mark. After the man finished scolding his workers, he went off down the hall.

"Uhm, I'll be right back," Dallen told the vault dweller.

Annelise watched him stand and make his way into the casino with a perplexed expression. She ripped open the tatty box of sugar bombs and started to cram the morsels in her mouth as she ate quickly, suddenly reminded of her hunger. It wasn’t much but it was damned better than anything else. Still watching Dallen curiously out of one eye she quickly removed her bag and pulled out the array of tools and various bits of scrap she had purchased yesterday before she removed the functioning laser pistol and placed it on the table with the remains of her old rifle – dried blood still encrusted into what was left of the emitter and crystal array. She sighed sadly at the sight of the bent and broken thing, but wasted little time as she started to work on cannibalising parts from the laser-pistol as she started to rebuild her AER9 – she had a feeling she would be needing it again soon one way or another.

[Leidenschaft]

At the mention of cutting her tongue out, the grip he had on his revolver made his knuckles white. He felt the same urge as when he plugged the junkie that killed Francine. He never laid a hand on his girls, bruises were bad for business but he never felt the need to hit a woman. Oh, Francine really put that to the test sometimes, but never did he crack. But cutting a girl's tongue out. He looked to Mancini, thinking just how easy it'd be to plug him right then and there. Open up his throat with his knife, throw him out of a fucking window. Push him out of his chair and smash his head in with his boot heel. He slowly exhaled through his nose and drew in a breath, trying to calm himself. Nothing would be gained by letting himself slip back to his old murderous ways. His brothers weren't here to drag him out of the shit like they used to be.

He stepped in front of Joel, it seemed his body got warmer from the waves of malice emanating from the other man. He could see it in his eyes. He spoke in a voice quiet enough to go unheard by Mancini and to lend some weight to his words, “Now, you remember where we are. Remember who this piece of fucking dog-shit is in front of us,” And he met eyes with the soldier, “You and I don't need to make enemies of the Lazzaris by doing what we both are itching to do.”

He let his gaze linger on Joel, trying to make his point sink in. He and Joel had survived this long in their businesses and going around killing capos for junkie whores down on their luck was not the reason. He stepped away from the soldier and met eyes with Mancini, or at least looked at Mancini's eyes while they rolled around aimlessly in the high. “Well, Mancini. The Golden Globe doesn't have a use for a girl who can't talk and is fucked in the head, so I can't put her to work there. No tourist's going to pay me for a broad who's crazy. I'm having a hard enough time with Bobbi.” He shrugged.

He turned to go for the door, but as his hand was a finger's breadth from the knob, he stopped. The questions picked at him like a crow at a corpse. Nothing about this felt right the more he turned things over in his mind. Mancini seemed... off. His hand rested on his hip, his thumb just happening to brush the metal frame of his revolver. Fancy that. “Say, why're you being so goddamned vague about this chick? If she's no use to you, why didn't you just off her instead of wasting another man's precious damned time...” He had to stop himself from rushing Mancini and stabbing him until he could make even Joel blush, he continued calmly, “...Precious time and frankly insulting him by trying to dump damaged goods in his lap. I pay my dues to the Lazzaris. Same as any businessman in your lot's neck of the woods, and by extension, I'm paying you. So do me one kindness in return for not being a prick in your side. Take off her hood.”

One, he was very agitated that he came all the way here expecting a job with guaranteed caps. Two, the man was trying to sell him damaged goods- 'Oh, this apple? Yeah, it's fucking rotten and there's a worm on the inside. Had to cut off a moldy bit, but look at the rest of it! Ain't it beautiful? Got a sheen, don't it? Whaddaya say?' Anyone else made him a proposition like that, they'd be dead in the gutter as an example. Before Mancini could make a move towards the girl or not, he spoke in a quiet voice, "The two cleaners alone with you in this room would very much like you to remove that girl's hood, Mancini." He realized his revolver was in his hand, but he had no complaints about that.

[Kingfisher]

"H-hold on now, no need for guns friends." Mancini stammered.

That in itself was uncharacteristic. A lieutenant of the Lazzari family threatened at gun-point, and he was still being civil? Why the sudden polite tone? "Who the fuck do you think you're pointing that pea-shooter at?" would've been more in-character for Mancini; someone who was universally considered to be up his own arse.

"I can tell I've upset you," he added "I know you like to be proper with your ladies, you got a rep for it 'un all."

Mancini took a few slow steps towards the girl.

"I'm just gonna take the bag off, nice 'un slow, like..."

He reached down, gripping hold of the old sack, and slowly lifted.

The girl underneath was undeniably her sisters sister, even through all the blood and bruises.