“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.