[IC] Fallout: Under Silver Skies [Closed]

[Kingslee]

At the man’s comment of cutting the girls tongue out Joel’s hand went immediately to his kukri handle. He saw himself pulling it from behind his back, leaping fourth and taking the man's head off with one powerful swing before he even started the process. Fortunately for the piece of human garbage Redding stepped in front of him, quietly urging caution and reminding him of who exactly they were dealing with and of the possible, probably even probable repercussions of killing the man. Joel wanted to end him so badly, the rage and adrenaline had given him the shakes. He’d already made the decision to end his life but now he’d been given reasonable, rational pause.

He could handle anything the crime families threw at him personally, he could probably even kill a good number of the higher ups, quite possibly setting the Lazzari family on the course of inevitable ruin. If he teamed up with the Torres family trying to off him would be one of the biggest mistakes they ever made. Then again the families didn’t play nice or fair, how long would it be until they went after his family? At best they would kill them. At worst… He didn’t even want to allow his mind to go to at worse. He let go of his blade, his teeth clenched. This asshole would get dead one way or another, he’d just have to be smarter about it.

He spent the next minute or two doing his best to keep himself in check, trying to quietly still or at least stall his rage. He almost succeeded in getting out of there, quietly following his new employer like a reprimanded attack dog. That was until Redding stopped going for the door, turning back around and becoming the aggressor in their little meeting, that perked Joel up some. He knew in his drugged up state Mancini was probably going to respond irrationally to Redding’s questions. He welcomed it. He could probably even sell self-defense to Donna if this got violent. Especially if Redding was on board. The drugged up piece of shit invited them there and tried to get Redding to buy flawed merchandise. When he refused the drug addled, pride fueled mob boss became enraged… Tried to kill them. Nothing they could do but slice him up.

Joel smirked, taking a few more steps back into the apartment, his hand going back to the handle of his kukri. Much to his surprise Mancini submitted, even agreeing to take the bag off the girl's head. As he took slow steps towards that goal Joel too stepped forward. He wanted to get a clear look at this woman's face. Mancini pulled the grubby old sack off of the woman’s head, revealing Darlia Lazzari underneath. Joel’s smirk was replaced by a look of shock, but in seconds even that vanished. He sped forward, closing the distance between himself and Manzini in maybe three steps and drawing his kukri out of its sheathe simultaneously. The last thing he saw before plunging the blade into the mobsters chest was the look of shock on his face. Taking his left hand off the blade he covered the man's mouth as he fell to his knees, leaning in close and slowly pulling the blade out of his chest.

“You have no idea how much I wanted to do this… Even still, you should be thankful. This is euthanasia compared to what Mrs Lazzari would have done to you.”

With that he let go of the man's mouth, spinning quickly and lopping his head off with one swift move. With a sigh of relief he turned to face Redding.

“Looks like this visit wasn’t a waste of time. Good call with the sack, we should bring her back to her sister… Once we clear a way out of this place anyway.”

[Stitches]

“I’ll take it. Brooks Moreland, for reference sake.” he replied, offering the man a nod as he pushed himself away from the bar, picking up his hat off the counter. “Hop along- and leave the bottle opener,” he scowled down at Abigail. Abigail grumbled as she fished the bottle opener out of her pocket and slammed it onto the bar, kicking her legs out to swing off the barstool and follow Brooks out of the casino.

The streets outside had finally begun to busy themselves as the two stepped out, Brooks placed his hat back atop his head, voicing down to Abigail, “We taking bets on where this guys holed up?”

Abigail shrugged her shoulders, still idly holding onto Brooks’ coat. “I mean, we better take a look at the Imperial first, but I’d rather not go in until we’ve scouted the surrounding area out. Who knows what weird shit that guy’s been paid to do, and if it’s a casino, walking in and out every few minutes will just annoy the bodyguards.” She took an inquisitive look at all of the dusty, half-awake thugs stumbling around the streets of New Reno hopefully. “Besides, with your keen eyes and his ‘propa’ appearance, he’ll stick out like a sore thumb in a place like this.”

“A yes or no would have been enough,” he stared her down.

“Hey, I thought it’d be a bit more useful than a bible verse about gambling,” replied Abigail smoothly. She grinned up at him.

Brooks grumbled, “Alright. Imperial it is.” And with that the two set off to the Imperial. Lavish and sophisticated, it set itself apart from the other casinos in terms of décor but is clearly dwarfed by the size and majesty of the Shark Club. Brooks squinted at the derelict building, heavily adorned with lights and decorations to accompany the big sign. Like the Shark Club, there were two bulky men stationed outside the main door who squinted back at him.

Abigail yawned as she was patted down, rolling her eyes as her bodyguard got a bit more rough than he should’ve been. Luckily they didn’t seem to care enough to ask questions about her age and weren’t smart enough to give her a thorough check; she doubted either of them would find the little things she kept concealed on her person. It was routine practice - Abigail vaguely remembered a time where she used to smuggle chems through the streets before she fell too deep into her own addiction. It was one of her few useful qualities and Brooks made good use of it; he liked to keep a weapon on him at all times, even when some dim-witted guy in a dusty suit took his guns and knife at the door.

Things in the Imperial weren’t quite as shiny at they were at the Shark Club, but Brooks idly tapped Abigail’s wrist when she reached out for a fork on one of the tables. She made a few hostile grumbles before rather violently and deliberately shoving both hands in her pockets, glowering down at the floor instead of looking for the man they were meant to be searching for.

Rolling his eyes at Abigail’s little act, Brooks briefly spotted the exact girl, still clad in her vault overall, sat at a table across a sharply dressed man. Curiously narrowing his eyes, Brooks lifts a beckoning finger to one of the waiters, his elbow bumping into the grumpy Abigail. “Look who it is.”

Abigail didn’t even seem to care that much when she idly glanced up and spotted the target, shrugging her shoulders. Her tone of voice was nonchalant, but the words carried a different meaning, “You’re terrible at the whole ‘spying’ thing, you know that right? Are we getting something to eat?” Abigail grabbed a menu without bothering to ask Brooks, settling into one of the worn chairs. The moment the waiter arrived, she cheerily asked for “One Wasteland omelet and a box of Fancy Lads Snack Cakes, please!” knowing full well that she picked two of the most expensive things on the menu. She leant back against the chair contentedly, flashing another one of her cheeky grins at Brooks. “Wonder what they’re talking about,” she commented placidly.

Brooks stared at Abigail, knowing she ordered the most expensive batch out of menu out of some form of spite. “Water for me, please.” he’d nod dismissively as the waiter walked off to get their orders. Shifting his gaze back onto the couple sat ahead of them, Brooks ignored Abigail's question as he lightly shifted in his seat as the well dressed man seemingly stood up to hurry off to something. “That’s gotta’ be him, mhrm.” he settled himself back into a slouched back state in his chair, patiently waiting for the man’s return.

[Kingfisher]

“I don’t know what hole you crawled out of,” Rickman snarled, lording over the waiter like a pre-war playground bully “but unless you want to go scampering back, I suggest you start getting customers orders right for a fucking change.”

“But, Sir, they ordered-”

Rickman’s hand shot forwards, smacking the waiter in the side of the face.

“Don’t talk back to me, vermin!” He hissed “Just get out there and do your fucking job.”

The waiter quickly took his leave, whilst Rickman turned to face Dallen.

“So sorry about that, sir,” he smiled “is there anything at all that I can help you with?”

---

David Guttuso was having a smoke on the outside fire escape when he heard Mancini’s body hit the floor. He tossed what remained of his cigarette over the side of the railing, pulling a silenced semi-automatic pistol out of the breast pocket of his suit jacket.

“I’m not getting paid enough for this shit…” He grumbled, moving slowly towards the apartment.

The thug pulled a walkie talkie off of his belt, whispering into the mouthpiece.

“Might have a situation up here, lads. Get down here ASAP.” The message was relayed to Mancini’s private guard, but not wider Lazzari forces.

Once he was done, he placed the walkie talkie back on his belt.

“Everything alright in there Boss?” Guttuso called out, pounding his fist against the closed door.

[Sol Grim]

"Yeah, I'm here for a job," Dallen told Rickman. He looked behind himself down the empty hall, then back to Rickman, realizing the hall was empty behind him as well. He was thinking about talking to him first, maybe find out why he had a hit him. That's what he would have done just a day or two ago, but he was growing impatient. As Rickman began speaking on how the place wasn't hiring, Dallen started to undo his tie. "A different kind of job..."

He lunged forward and behind Rickman, quickly squeezing his tie tight around Rickman's neck. Kicking out one of the man's knees, Dallen was easily able to get him to the floor where he used both hands to strangle the man, with his tie. Rickman's face turned beat red as he struggled for air, but Dallen already had him pinned downed flat. A few seconds later, he went limp.

Dallen sat back up, put his tie back on, then dragged Rickman into the nearest closet. He dropped him in a corner of the small room, realizing now that there was blood. Rickman had a small knife in one of his palms, blood at the tip. Dallen then felt the sharpness of the pain, looking down at himself. Rickman stabbed him while he was being strangled. It was thankfully a minor wound, barely getting through the skin under his ribs. Just a scratch, but it messed up his white collar shirt regardless. Dallen felt slightly mad that the asshole had the nerve to stab him while he was choking him to death. He knelt down, picked up Rickman's small knife, then jammed it through the man's temple until the end of the handle could barely be seen. His knees cracked as he stood up again. It would probably be about thirty to forty minutes until any clean up employees stumbled in here, he figured. If any would even notice at all. Plenty of time to finally eat.

He made his way back down the hall and over to Anneliese, taking back his seat and stuffing his face with the sweetroll that was in front of him. When he was finished, which didn't take very long at all, he cleared his throat and looked back at the dweller.

"...good," he said, continuing what he could remember of how he left the conversation. "We should, uh," He paused a moment to stuff a few napkins into his inner jacket. "Get started on that soon. I have a few errands I need to run, you can come with me if you like. Shouldn't take long. Or, we can meet again somewhere. Nice weapon, by the way." He took the moment to admire the look of it, the image of Teresa's head blowing up suddenly coming to mind.

He finished off his coffee. "Listen, this probably goes without saying," he started, taking out a cigarette and pausing to light it up. "Where we're going, there might be...people, after us. It'll be dangerous. I don't know who might be after this. We just stay low, we should be fine. No one is looking for us yet."

[Leidenschaft]

Redding watched Mancini's body hit the floor and the anger guttered out in him, replaced by a very lucid sense of regret. Now, this had gone and muddied the waters a whole lot more than he was ready for. He cursed himself for being so goddamned quick to anger and looked at Joel, “I understand we were both very angry at Mancini,” Redding said, rubbing at his face, “But if we go around killing everything-”

There was a banging at the door and one of Mancini's guards was on the other side of it. Redding swallowed, this entire situation was getting just too damned cloudy for his liking. He bent down and unsheathed his boot knife before unlocking and opening the door. He met eyes with the guard, “The fuck are you guys doing in here?”

“It's alright, man, Mancini tried to get up and you know how he is with his binges-” Redding's hands went for the guard's wrist, pulling him inside the room and he put his back to the guard, flipping him up and over himself. As the guard hit the ground, Redding twisted the guard's gun hand again, forcing him to drop the handgun. Resting one knee on the back of the guard's neck, Redding snatched the pistol up and hiked the man's coat up, retrieving the extra magazine stuffed in his belt. He leveled the barrel at the back of the guard's head, letting the suppressor rest on his skull. “Why does Mancini have Darlia Lazzari here and why is she in such a shitty condition?”

He looked up, hearing the pounding of footsteps of other guards now above them. He hooked an arm around the guard's neck and hauled him up, nodding to Darlia, “Joel, get Darlia, we're leaving.”

Redding pressed the barrel of the handgun against the guard's temple and urged him forward, still in his headlock as they went outside onto the fire escape, the sounds of banging on the door giving him more reason to get the hell out of there. As they walked, he nudged the guard with the handgun, “You can walk and talk.”

[Kingfisher]

Meanwhile, on the roof opposite, a pair of gunmen took up position, watching Redding, Joel, and the guardsman make their way down the Fire Escape.

"What do we do?" One grumbled to the other "they've got Matthew."

"Orders are orders," the other one said coldly "not a word of this gets out, not to anyone."

"But-"

"Matthew knew the risks when he signed on," the second gunman snapped "no loose ends. That's what we're being paid for."

A rifle went off with a bark, sending a lone bullet whizzing through the air. The guardsman that Redding was holding hostage took the bullet between the eyes, his head exploding in a splatter of brains and carmine.

[Tsar Gatto]

Annelise kept working, occasionally her hand darting out to grab another handful of sugar bombs as she disassembled the pistol and replaced the primary components of the AER9. Her hands moved quickly and precisely as she refitted the crystal arrays before she focused them with a few minute adjustments and connected the diverters. As she started to fix the carbon-fiber housing and realign the stock Dallen returned from wherever it was he had disappeared to and stuffed his sweet roll down in a few quick mouthfuls.

She stared at him for a moment before she smirked to herself and looked back down at her rifle, seemed he was as hungry as she was after all. He cleared his throat and looked at her, her attention again on him as he continued to speak as if he’d never left.

"We should, uh... Get started on that soon. I have a few errands I need to run, you can come with me if you like. Shouldn't take long. Or, we can meet again somewhere. Nice weapon, by the way."

She watched as he stuffed a few napkins into his jacket and suddenly noticed the fresh blood on his shirt. "You got red on you” she pointed out gesturing to the spot just below his ribs as she glanced back down and continued tinkering with her AER9 for a few more moments.

"Listen, this probably goes without saying," he started, taking out a cigarette and pausing to light it up. "Where we're going, there might be...people, after us. It'll be dangerous. I don't know who might be after this. We just stay low, we should be fine. No one is looking for us yet."

She met his gaze again and stared at him briefly for a moment as she thought about what had just happened and what she quickly realised was a fresh wound. She glanced over to the direction that he’d disappeared to for what must have been less than five minutes and back at him as she put together the facts.

A suspicious expression covered her face as she continued to stare at him and she seriously considered what it was that might have just happened. Seconds later the expression was gone and she went back to what she was doing and shrugged as she said “well, if we both need to get something from inside that vault then it makes sense to work together. But if we do then you have to tell me everything you know about that vault and what exactly it is you want from there.” She hesitated briefly and looked up to meet his gaze with the most serious expression she could muster and added "And if we’re going to be working together I want you to tell me everything thats going on. I mean I haven’t been out here long but I get the picture that everything out here is fucked, like really fucked. I know that to survive you have to do things that aren’t exactly glamorous in the slightest.”

Again she paused briefly and she took the opportunity to finish the rest of her coffee too before she finished “What I mean to say is don’t sugar coat things for me. I need to know how to not die out here and I get the impression that you’re someone who can handle themselves.”

She continued to stare at him to see what his response would be, she still didn’t know exactly what kind of man he was but he’d shown her more kindness than anyone else out here and hadn’t yet tried to take advantage of her in anyway. She wanted him to know that she was serious, that she wasn’t just some vault-girl who had no idea about what life out here was really like.

[Stitches]

Abigail immediately pushed the wasteland omelet towards Brooks as she tore open the box of snack cakes. In a precise, fluid  and well-practiced movement, she scooped three cakes into her little fist and jammed all of them into her mouth at once. Her cheeks bulged with stale sponge and irradiated sugar as her broad smile could barely contain the food behind it, chewing away in silence whilst she happily swung her legs back and forth on the chair. She never took her eyes off Brooks however, and idly scratched at her elbow whilst his stony gaze seemed fixated on the hallway where their target wandered off.

Brooks forked at the omelet, not really hungry as his eyes remained on the table the sharp dressed man had gotten off of. Some time passed and the man returned back to his seat, he could see the vault-girl talk to him but not really make out any word. With the omelet half-eaten, Brooks stood himself up with a groan, placing his fork on the plate. Along with Abigail, the two made their leisurely way towards the fine-suited man and vault-girls table.

Brooks slapped a friendly hand on the man’s shoulder as he neared the table, pulling close a nearby chair and seating himself by the table in between the already seated. Abigail also dragged a chair from a nearby table and twirled it around, sitting on it backwards as she rested her head on her hands and smirked.
Lowering his tone so none aside the seated could hear, Brooks said “You must be the fine fella’ Donna’ hired. Now I don’t know what your job is, nore do I need to know. However the lady’s gettin’ impatient so i’m gonna’ need to go back knowin’ what the status on that is.” he’d remain impassive as he spoke, eyes briefly flicking down at the patch of red staining the man’s shirt.

Abigail let Brooks do his thing. She knew he could handle himself, and since she hardly seemed intimidating there was no point trying to coerce anyone. Instead, she rather curiously watched the vault girl fix some sort of complicated weaponry on the desk. Her wrist disappeared into her own box of snack cakes as she nodded towards the machinery, rather innocuously asking “Whatcha doing over there, vaultie?”

[Sol Grim]

"Fair enough," Dallen said and coughed, cleared his throat, then took another hit from his cigarette. "Rule number one, never stay in one place for to long. You never know if-"

Dallen cut himself off at the feeling of the stranger's hand touching him. He noticed the man's bible at his hip before anything, as he grabbed a nearby chair and joined the table. A young girl did the same.

Brooks said “You must be the fine fella’ Donna’ hired. Now I don’t know what your job is, nore do I need to know. However the lady’s gettin’ impatient so i’m gonna’ need to go back knowin’ what the status on that is.”

"Donna's hiring kind of young," Dallen said, looking at the girl who already seemed transfixed on Annelise's weapon. "Jobs done, as of just a few seconds ago." He looked over at Annelise as he said that, giving her a hint as to what he does. If she didn't know already, she was going to really quickly. He turned his attention back to Brooks. "Donna needs to work on her patience. We were heading that way anyway, you can join if you like."

Dallen finished his cigarette, ashing it out in a tray, then immediately pulled out another and lit it up to smoke along the way to the Shark Club. A gunshot could be heard outside, somewhere in the city. Nothing new, this town was a warzone.

"Shall we?" Dallen said as he got up and headed toward the outside.

In a place like New Reno, mercenaries were seemingly everywhere. Most of the time Dallen found himself having to kill them, depending on the situation. It was nice for a change to run in to some without violence starting, however it was still early. Such were signs of experience and professionalism, something Dallen felt had been starting to fade away from the modern day merc. These were also the types one could use on their side if needing a bigger task done, such as clearing out the camp outside of New Reno and saving the Pagans. The girl, however, was another matter. 'Probably his daughter', he thought.

"How much is she paying you to find me?" he asked Brooks, as he made his way toward the exit.

[Tsar Gatto]

Dallen agreed practically without hesitation before he cleared his throat and between drags of his cigarette started to explain "Rule number one, never stay in one place for too long. You never know if-" but at that moment she recognised one of the men from back in the Desperado as he gave Dallen a friendly slap on the shoulder before and pulled a chair up. Seconds later he was joined by a very thin but smirky girl, Annelise glancing between the two of them for a moment before she continued her work.

The older man spoke calmly, his voice almost soothing in its tone “You must be the fine fella’ Donna’ hired. Now I don’t know what your job is, nore do I need to know. However the lady’s gettin’ impatient so i’m gonna’ need to go back knowin’ what the status on that is.”

It was a question, but phrased in a totally none-threatening manner, one that elicited a friendly enough response from Dallen with a brief comment about the girl’s age.
"Jobs done, as of just a few seconds ago." he explained with a knowing glance in her direction. Annelise took a second to realise the implications of his gesture and what he said and she slowly glanced down the corridor he had disappeared down.

Her attention however was diverted when the young woman asked “Whatcha doing over there, vaultie?” as she stared at the rifle and pile of discarded components that was once the laser pistol.

Annelise snapped her attention back to the rifle in front of her as she explained “Fixing my AER9” as she tightened the last section of the alloy casing and started to fine tune the emitter “Some thick headed raider scum wasn’t being very polite so I had to aggressively introduce the crystal array to his face” she gestured to the old shattered array that was covered in dried bits of blood and gore as she subconsciously rubbed the dark ring of bruises around her neck.

She finalised what she was doing with the rifle just as Dallen stubbed out his cigarette before immediately lighting another one "Shall we?" he asked as he got up, his conversation with the other man fairly short.

Annelise quickly stuffed the remains of the pistol and components into her satchel as she examined the pair of newcomers once more. She spotted the small leather book and the metalic cross on the older man and quickly and wondered if he was some kind of priest, if priests even still exist out here that was. The girl had a few cuts and bruises, looking as battered as Annelise felt and she wondered what it was she’d had to endure out here. Both of them, like everyone else out here could do with a good long bath she considered briefly at the layer of dirt and grime covering them.

She got the impression that Dallen didn’t know the pair, but he didn’t seem too interested in introducing himself either. She was starting to get the impression he was a man of few words who generally didn’t waste much time with unnecessary pleasantries. She stood and nodded a greeting to the possible preacher and commented “Nice to see you made it out of that place alive” making reference back to when they’d both huddled behind the bar in the Desperado yesterday.

As they stood and began to make their way out she found that she was walking beside the girl as Dallen and the other man continued to talk about whatever this job was. She rolled her eyes as a cloud of smoke drifted back into her face and she resisted the urge to cough and she instead introduced herself as she shouldered her rifle “I’m Annelise, by the way”. She considered introducing Dallen too but decided against it for the time being, after all if he wanted to he could do it himself she was sure.

[Leidenschaft]

“Fuck!” Redding jumped back into the hotel room, not bothering to stick his own head out there to get plugged. “Things are getting real fucking serious.”

He wasted no time in crossing the room to the door into the hallways. He looked through the peep-hole in time to see a bodyguard with a foot cocked back. He jumped back just as the door came open, banging against the wall. The wall behind him exploded with the sound of a shotgun blast just as he dove behind it. He raised the gun and sent two rounds through bodyguard's chest that rounded the corner, getting to his feet. He went to go back to the door but another bodyguard grabbed hold of his wrist, wrestling him across the room until he was backed against a wall, the barrel of the gun slowly coming around to point at Redding's own face. He brought his head back before cracking it into the guard's nose. He pushed the guard away from him, placing a foot behind the guard's own before coming down on top of him with an elbow that split open the skin of his forehead.

A few more of those and the guard was down. There was a pause now and Redding meant to use every precious second he had of it to searching the room for Mancini's stash. He found only empty inhalers and there was something that caught his eye. There was more leftover residue along the mouthpiece and a far more bitter smell to it. It immediately dawned on him what it was. He swiped a finger across the black film on the mouthpiece and touched it to his tongue, immediately grimacing and spitting. That was ultrajet. What Mancini was doing with ultrajet, he didn't know. Hell, what Mancini was doing with Darlia, he didn't know, but rumor was that she was hiding from the ghoul mob for some reason that was above his pay-grade. He stuffed the ultrajet in his coat pocket and snatched up the suppressed handgun, taking point in front of Joel as they left the room. They made it as far as the stairs before they had to quickly duck through the doorway to them. Redding slammed the door behind them, Joel already descending the stairs. Redding wasn't far behind, looking behind them every so often at the sounds of the door opening and footsteps following them down.

He raised his gun and fired off three rounds, two of them hitting a guard in his side and he slumped over. The sound of bone cracking and a scuffling echoed around the stairwell as the guard's body clumsily rolled down the stairs. At least one other was tripped up, as a yelp was heard before more grunting and the sound of falling down concrete stairs. They finally reached the bottom, Redding opening the door and flinching as a searing hot pain shot through his side. He stumbled back, his hand coming back red. “Shit.”

The guards chasing them down the stairs finally caught up, one's head exploding with a shotgun blast from the gun Joel snatched. The other tripping himself up as he scrambled back up the steps, blindly firing above Redding and Joel's heads. Redding peeked back up the stairs and fired two rounds through the guard, watching him slump and then slide down a few stairs before stopping. The first guard to come through the door into the apartment building's lobby caught buckshot to the chest, spraying blood across the wall while Joel smashed the barrel into the face of the one that followed. Redding took a quick aim and squeezed off two rounds into the chest of the other guard. He could hear the rest of them yelling in the lobby. He ran over and took the AK from one of the guards lying in the doorway. The door to the lobby was propped open by one of the dead guards' feet, offering Redding a sliver of a view to the lobby. “Where's Mancini? You have him?” He heard from the lobby.

“No.” Redding said, “Fucker's dead. He roughed up the Donna's sister, we roughed up him.”

“Why don't you come on out here so I can rough up you, big man?” The guard on the other side of the door said.

He shook his head at Joel. “You know who's on the other side of this door with Darlia?”

“Two fucking corpses?” Came the other side.

“Redding Schmidt and Joel Woods.” Redding said.

“The pimp and the killer?” Another voice from beyond the door ventured.

“Yes.” Redding nodded to no one, “You are correct. Now, there's two ways we can play this out. We can come out there and kill all of you or you can clear the way for us and the Donna won't have your fucking balls cut off with piano wire for standing by while Mancini beat the shit out of her sister.”

“Fuck you.”

“No, it's true. If I'm lucky, I'll be the one holding the wire so I can laugh while you scream. Of course, no one has to get neutered if you let us pass.” Redding said, “You're making this harder than it needs to be.”

“Why don't we come in there and-”

“Didn't work out for your two friends, though.” He spied one of them moving into view of the crack in the door. He stepped back and squeezed off a round and watched the guard drop his gun and prop himself on the desk before collapsing. A hail of gunfire punched holes in the door as he dove back from in front of it. It let up as they reloaded and Joel kicked the door open, firing off twice with the shotgun and Redding heard someone go down. His fellow cleaner ducked back into cover as the firing resumed. Redding popped his head back out with the rifle shouldered, letting go a burst of four rounds into one of the guards and the wall behind him. Another guard showed himself from behind a pillar but before he could bring the shotgun to bear, Redding plugged him in the shoulder and neck.

“Need to get a fucking stim.” Redding said, trying not to look down at the spreading red at his midsection.

* * *

The door to Redding's apartment crashed open as Redding stumbled through. Joel wasn't far behind with Darlia and the three of them rested inside the hotel room. The stimpacks were still slowly taking effect, but bullet wounds did tend to hurt. Redding stayed in the corner, nursing his gut-wound and Darlia wasn't in any condition to protest as she was laid on the bed by Joel. The snipers on the rooftop didn't make it easy for them to leave. There was no talking from any of them, but they were all glad to be alive. Redding looked at Darlia and the feeling that he and Joel had stepped into something far bigger than just a simple job plagued his mind.

[Kingfisher]

Esteves was pissed.

Months of intricate planning were all coming undone, and there was almost certainly going to be life-ending consequences if he didn’t act quickly. And now Mancini wasn’t answering his fucking phone.

Frustrated beyond reason, Esteves had called an emergency meeting with his contacts, who had just now come swaggering into his private bar.

“Forgive my brashness gentlemen...BUT WHAT THE -FUCK- IS GOING ON?!” The Ghoul slammed his fists down on the counter, glowering at the two new arrivals “Is this some kind of fucking joke?! I was promised, GUARAN-FUCKING-TEED, that everything would go off without a HITCH! Yet here we are! So much for your word being golden, West!”

Clayton West sat calmly on the other side of the bar, sipping at his drink. He was a handsome man, with a strong jaw and smart dress sense.

Then there was the other man. “Smog” he called himself; a raider from the ruins of Oregon. Whereas West was lithe and well-groomed, Smog was big and broad, with a scraggly beard and miss-matched armour.

“Respectfully, Mister Esteves,” West began “we did instruct you to account for all variables. Mister Smog and myself can hardly be blamed for your own shortcomings.”

“You wanna get smart with me, Clayton?!” Esteves snapped, his words coming out as a hoarse rasp “because I am in no mood to fuck around!”

“Sounds to me like that's all you’ve been doing.” Smog spoke up, in his deep, grumbling voice “Krezzman has kept up his end of the bargain, as has West. You were tasked with acquiring the offering, and you efforts so far have been laughable at best.”

Esteves felt a sharp spike of rage swelling up inside him, and he started to see red.

“How -FUCKING- dare you-”

Suddenly, Smog was on his feet. He grabbed Esteves by the scruff of the next, twisting one arm behind his back.

The Ghoul yet out a shriek of pain, just as Smog slammed his face down against the bar counter.

“The -FUCK- are you doing, asshole?!” Esteves hissed, spitting out a few droplets of blood.

“The President deems you to be a botched asset, Mister Esteves,” West explained as casually as if he was discussing the weather, slowly rising to his feet “Mister Smog will assume control of your operations from this point onwards.”

“Like -FUCK- he will!” Esteeves snarled, the wood muffling his words “as long as I draw breath-”

“I can’t imagine that will be for very much longer,” West shrugged “you’re too much of a liability to be kept alive. Quite frankly, you’ve been living on borrowed time for far too long.”

Esteves paused.

“H-hold on now…”

Smog pulled a .44 revolver out of its holster on his belt.

“W-wait! WAIT!”

-BANG-

Life left Esteeves with a gasp, his rotten brain spraying across the counter. Smog let go of the ghoul, sending him tumbling to the floor. His dark blood soaked into the carpet, turning it black.

“Damn zombies forced our hand.” Smog grunted.

“We’ll have to do the best with what we’ve got left,” West declared “get the Pagans loaded up into the trucks. We leave town tonight.”

[Chrononaut]

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

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

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

"Uh, are you ok?"

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

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

"I mean, that's cool."

"I know what he looks like!"

"Yeah?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Tsar Gatto]

As they made their way into the Shark club Annelise gazed around at the array of poker, roulette and other various games that were being played in the casino with an interested expression. A guard did approach to take their weapons however a quick word from Dallen was all it took to get him to back off. Obviously working for this ‘Donna’ character had its advantages she mused as she continued to watch the gamblers.

She’d heard occasionally about how big gambling had been before the bombs fell, hell there’d even once been a whole city not so far away that had been practically dedicated to it she’d been told. But she’d never actually understood the pull of it, the drive that made people risk what they had in order to maybe gain something in return. The odds of the whole spectacle didn’t make much sense to her, after all the more times you gambled the more your chances of losing multiplied. That was of course if you did it more than just the one time she thought to herself.

She took a few moments to watch one of the card games that was being played. One man was giving cards to three others who seemed to be indicating if they wanted another card or not. Occasionally one or two of them would get their money back, but usually the card man won and took their little round colourful things. If she was going to play it’d make sense to take his place she thought to herself.

They made their way through towards the elevator at the back, walking through a prong of the establishments patron’s as they did. She could feel many of their eyes on her and she even heard a low wolf-whistle from somewhere, which left her feeling awfully uncomfortable for a few seconds until she remembered that she’d already killed…. six, seven, no…eight? She realised she already didn’t know exactly how many people she’d killed with all the chaos in the Desperado, but either way she was sure that she’d be able to handle herself if it came to it now that she had her rifle back, but still – she was starting to think that the practically skin tight vaultsuit might not be the best thing for her to be wearing.

The guards at the lift grunted a greeting at Dallen and stood aside to let the pair in. As they ascended in the slightly jerky lift Annelise absently said half to herself “I need a jacket or something…”

As well as the physical issue she was already getting tired of people knowing that she was fresh out of a vault, after all it seemed that moreso to her than anything else that it was a sign of her inexperience in the wasteland.

As the lift doors opened before them she was surprised to see that the top floor was like another casino, just much emptier and filled with various armed thugs and a singular woman. She looked powerful, Annelise thought to herself as she watched her. She was broad shouldered and had luscious olive skin and an expression of almost serene dominance. She was wearing the most hideous dress Annelise had ever seen, some kind of tacky looking cheetah patterned dress. She definitely didn't want to wear anything like that anytime soon. When combined with her somewhat oversized rings she looked like quite the character indeed, but not one you’d particularly want to mess with unless you had to.

Annelise tried to make it look like she knew what she was doing as she followed Dallen’s lead, attempting to look more like a useful asset than some kind of lost vault girl. Unfortunately she soon got distracted as she looked over at the multitude of old machines up against one of the walls. Some were obviously broken and some she couldn’t see anything wrong with, but they all looked pretty damn interesting to her. She started to wonder about the different kinds of components they’d have inside them. It was only when Dallen started speaking was it that she suddenly snapped her attention back to the matter at hand.

[Kingfisher]

Donna Regina Lazzari was grinding the remains of a Grey Tortoise cigarette into the crystal ashtray on her desk when Annelise and Dallen appeared. The latino woman let the slightest hint of a grin tug at the corner of her lips, as she looked up to address the pair.

“I take it Rickman is dead?” the inflexion in her voice made a simple question sound that much more like a bold statement.

“A little slower than I’d have liked, but the Torres family will get the message, all the same.”

She paused, taking a moment to look Annelise over.

“I have five thousand caps for you...but who's your friend?”

[Sol Grim]

"Here," Dallen said, as he handed over his trench coat to Annelise. "You can give it back when you find your own. Maybe there's a tailor on the way out of town." Looking down at the bloodstains and dirt on his once white shirt, he realized it was probably a good idea to find new clothes. With the caps he was expecting to receive from the Donna, such a task would be simple and then some. However, five thousand caps was a lot. If the Donna wanted to keep it all, this would be a good time and place to take him out. Unfortunately for Annelise, she would get caught in the crossfire. "Listen, I don't trust the Donna. If anything happens, all you have to remember is..."

The doors of the elevator opened and they were met with the Donna's armed guards, who then led them over to Donna Regina Lazzari. He scoped the room as they approached the lady's desk, same as before. Without his jacket, all of his weapons could be seen holstered to his hips and chest. It didn't matter, he was confident that he was fast enough to take out at least half. Which was partly a reason he even brought a companion in the first place, safety in numbers.

Dallen nodded as the Donna spoke. "There were...distractions involved." Then the Donna's attention shifted over to his ally, Annelise. "She's...one of the distractions. Call it a side job. She's not important." He flinched as he said it, looking over to see Annelise's reaction. "I mean, thanks for the business, it was a pleasure."

[Kingfisher]

“Well, then,” the Donna smirked “I’d say our business is concluded. I’ll talk to my people about getting you your caps.”

She spun in her chair, just as one of her body guards began making his way over towards her.

“Ah excellent, when can-”

Suddenly, there was a flicker of steel in his hand.

“What the fu-”

It all happened before anyone could react. The helmet-clad figure rammed the tip of the blade into her neck, stabbing again and again and again, as a fountain of crimson spurted out of her bronze flesh. She was gasping, trying to scream, but no words escaped her. She hit the floor with a thud, letting out one final wheeze, before her body went still.

Then, in a flash of motion, the guards had their weapons drawn; pointed squarely at Dallen and Annelise.

“In a few hours, this city will be under the direct control of King Krezzman,” the assassin explained “we strongly suggest you’re not around when that comes to pass.”

[Sol Grim]

"Fair enough," Dallen said to the assassin. He wouldn't forget that he was owed caps, a lot of caps. In his line of work, if the one paying were to be taken out, the payment either moves on to the new big bad or becomes void entirely. It was a hard pill to swallow for Dallen, however this wasn't the time or place to push the matter. There were too many guns aimed on them already, no need to get killed over gang turf. "We were just leaving."

Dallen and Annelise exited the club as freely as they had entered, regardless of the quick change in power. Some assassins followed a code, which could very well explain why they were both still alive. Either way, Dallen was still pissed off. He snarled his nose a bit as they got back to the streets, lighting up another cigarette. "That could have gone better...or worse, I suppose. I still have one more job to do, but we might need more guns." Gunshots continuously rang throughout the city as he spoke. "The rest of my team I was sent here with are all MIA. Either dead, or have lost what little of their minds they had left. It wasn't a particularly professional bunch."

He walked as he continued to speak, trying to catch the vault dweller up on what's been going on. Not because he fully trusted her, but simply because she was the first person he had been able to talk to for a very long time. He also knew she had no part in any of this, which made her a viable listener.

"We were hired to find some missing Pagans," he continued. "I think I know where they are. They're being held captive for some sacrifice. Project Hamilton. Where the map leads. I don't know exactly what is there, but I do know it is important. That's also where we find your parts you need."

They wandered through an alley, passing a few lowlifes and drunks huddled near each other for warmth. Dallen pulled his backpack around and opened it up, pulling out a few jets and tossing them freely to the people.

"These are for information," Dallen told them. "I need a buyer, I big one."

They were told about Redding and Alejandro, but since Dallen had already killed Alejandro and was selling his merchandise, Redding it was. They were pointed in a direction that he may or may not be at, and so they went.

"We need guns, since the Donna situation didn't work out, now we need caps to get those guns," he informed Annelise.

[Tsar Gatto]

“In a few hours, this city will be under the direct control of King Krezzman,” the assassin explained as he wiped his bloody hands on the Donna’s tacky jacket “we strongly suggest you’re not around when that comes to pass.”

Annelise stood and stared with her mouth still slightly agape as the Donna gurgled and spluttered briefly as she died on the ground. Moments later she and Dallen were staring at the business end of several weapons pointed directly at them. Her instincts screamed at her to run, to dive into cover, to do something or anything as the assassin’s words rang in her mind and she simply stood and stared.

‘King Krezzan’… her mind flashed back to the group of raiders that had killed her friends and that had nearly killed her too. It was like she was there again, the pressure of the disgusting man as he had straddled her and tried to squeeze the life from her ringing in her mind, the clammy sticky blood that had covered her. The smell of fear and death as they struggled desperately with each other. The sight of Selby, Carrie, Stevens and Doc Hadley…Tony… of all of their dead bodies – it was all suddenly flashing back in her head and she felt weak in the knees for a few seconds before the familiar anger filled its place and she glared at this assassin as she tried to push it back down and she was once more in the casino.

"We were just leaving." came Dallen’s cool response, Annelise hesitating very briefly as her hand had been slowly creeping towards her rifle. She thought better of it, deciding that it wouldn’t make sense to die in a hellhole like this, at least not without first filling this Krezzman with a metric fuckton of lasers n lead. Besides Dallen knew what he was doing and so she followed his lead despite her flaring temper and tried to maintain her composure.

Annelise remained silent as they quickly left the casino, the patrons apparently being oblivious to the change in management of their little establishment. Reaching the streets the ‘fresh’ air (or at least what passed for it) hit her and she fought back a wave of nausea. She could see Dallen was pissed and she was glad he wasn’t focused on her as she followed beside him with her hands in the pockets of the trench coat he had lent her as she listened to his explanations.

He mentioned a mission he had been given, he mentioned a group he had been working with and he also told her about whatever this ‘project Hamilton’ was and she realised that he was opening up to her even more, though truthfully she only half listened as she wondered about this King Krezzman and the implications of a takeover here. She missed the connection between this King and his Pagans, otherwise she may have had opposition to this ‘mission’. Before she could voice anything however she followed Dallen into an alley where he started handing out chems in exchange for the location of a big buyer of some sorts. The chem addicts were for lack of another word, disgusting and in her current foul mood she felt little pity for them and simply stood and watched with a flat expression. Normally she’d have considered voicing opposition to taking advantage of their obvious addictions, but with everything that was happening it was becoming clearer and clearer that to survive you needed to do whatever it took. This was undoubtedly a lesser evil amongst the shit-show that was the wasteland and so she simply stood with her arms folded as she glared and waited.

They got two names, Dallen dismissing one of them and opting for a ‘Mr Redding Schmidt’ – several of the junkies eagerly pointing them in the direction of his ‘business’ as they hungrily eyed his bag.

As they again set off he further explained "We need guns, since the Donna situation didn't work out, now we need caps to get those guns," .

Annelise nodded before she repeated the name in her head over and over, it seemed quite familiar. She paused as the thought clicked and she blurted “Redding Schmidt! That’s the guy from the Desperados… The one those raiders were gunning for, the one responsible for that firestorm I suppose”.

As they made their way back through the town she considered all that Dallen had told her and she again continued to make a better picture of him in her mind. He seemed to have a finger in every kind of pie, though she guessed a mercenary like he was would have to. He couldn’t afford to be picky with jobs and because of that it was likely that he wasn’t picky with his morals either. She wondered if it would even be possible to live in any other way out here… No, no it wouldn’t be she decided firmly. She would need to get on board with whatever it was they had to do, and quickly. She would get back to the vault with those parts even if she had to sell her soul in the process she decided as they approached the ‘The Cracked Glass’.

[Tsar Gatto]

Fimion slowly opened his eyes, his head was pounding and he felt like death. He rolled over slightly in the grotty cot he was lying on and puked over the floor before he slumped back and wiped the back of hand across his mouth.

“Ffffffuck…” he groaned as he tried to remember where he was and what had happened to him. His head was fuzzy and he could barely remember a thing… literally nothing sprang to mind as he tried to remember...

He gazed around and took in the shithole that surrounded him, some messy half ruined room filled with all manner of crap. He saw on the table beside him numerous empty bottles, needles and jet containers along with various bits of grime. He curled up into a fetal position and tried to wait for the pain that was wracking him to subside, but it didn’t. After what felt like hours he moved again and sat up, this time though he didn’t vomit, though he certainly felt like he would.

He didn’t remember his name, where he was or anything beyond the room he was currently in. He picked up the empty jet container and looked at it. Weird how he could remember what this was, but nothing about himself. He almost automatically brought it to his lips and tried to inhale, but it was empty. Moments later he instinctively started to search through the exhausted stash for anything that was still good, his hands trembling the whole while. He glanced up and across the room to where there was a filthy mirror and stared at his reflection. It was a little distorted but he could make out some rather unhinged individual glaring back at him. He had matted blondish brownish looking hair and a face and nose that showed the signs of being hit an awful lot, but underneath that he guessed he didn’t look quite so bad.

He didn’t know quite why, but he needed to get his hands on something, anything. Suddenly there was a series of heavy knocks on the door to the room and the angry sound of someone’s voice reached him.

“Fimion you filthy no good piece of deathclaw shit! Open this mothafuckin door right now!”

He groaned inwardly, already knowing somehow that he was this Fimion character. The real question was who the fuck was at the door, and what had he done to piss them off. He stood up and swayed on his feet for a few moments and feeling far from steady he took a step or two towards the doorway before he almost stumbled and fell.

The knocking came again followed by several more lines of abuse, something about being late and a fight he was due to be at….

“Yeah yeah I’m coming…” he grumbled as he took the last few steps and pulled the door open and came face to face with what he initially thought was a rather large molerat in a dirty three-piece suit, but quickly realised was in fact just a very angry and very ugly man who was glaring at him. Moments later the man had grabbed Fimion and was pulling him through the doorway as he spoke to him very quickly. Far too quickly in fact for Fimion to hear or understand and so he simply stared at the molerat man before he asked "Got any jet buddy?”

The man’s face bulged and Fimion could see he was holding in his temper as he rooted inside his jacket and pulled out a Jet inhaler which he trust aggressively into Fimion’s eager hands. He wasted little time in taking the hit as he felt the familiar rush as the groggy feelings left him and he felt somewhat better, in fact a whoooole lot better.

“Now you beat the shit out of that bitch and you do it good” he spat as he continued to lead Fimion closer to the sounds of cheering and chanting “She’s taken down three of our best n yous all that’s left. We can’t afford another lost for the house you hear? Earn your keep or fuck off permanently.”

Fimion gazed blankly at him for a few moments, his memories slowly returning slightly before he realised what he was missing and asked ”Got any Psycho buddy?” He was starting to remember what it was his ritual was, and that was to take chems, lots and lots of chems.

The man practically tore out a chunk of what little hair he had as he went bright red and stormed over to a locker and opened it with a key he pulled from his pocket before he tossed the heavy set needle to him.

“No fucking more until you win!” he screeched, his voice cracking as he did before he pointed a stubby finger towards the doorway.

Fimion went to inject the vain into the inside of his elbow, but hesitated as he glanced down at the mess of puncture marks and scars that covered his dirty flesh. Shamelessly he slipped down the ragged boxing shorts he wore and plunged the needle into the vain just above his groin and injected the drug into his system. Moments later the combination of chems coursing through his system not only renewed but increased his energy and desire. He remembered now exactly where he was, what it was that he did at the moment. He was one of the house fighters from the Jungle Gym – one of the best at that. He beat the shit out of anyone they told him to and they kept him rolling in the chems in exchange. It was a good system most of the time, that was unless they made him throw a fight whilst making it ‘convincing’.

Feeling suddenly fantastic and like he wanted to hit something many times Fimion strode towards the ring from the back area. He paused for a split second as he saw the woman he would be facing in the ring. She was short, slim and blonde and was hopping back and forth energetically as she punched at the air as she waited. Her slightly bloodied face showed that she had mostly come through the last few fights unscathed. With the psycho and jet coursing through his system he immediately found himself aroused as he stared at her form, the blood only adding to her overall appearance of desirability in Fimion’s mind. Maybe once he’d knocked her out they’d let him take her back to his room for some post-fight relief. Yeah that’d be real good.

With that thought in his mind he grinned and stepped out into the ring. The announcer yelled over the crowd that was admittedly bigger than usual, introducing her as ‘Dusty’ and him as ‘Raging Fist’ to which the spectators whipped themselves into even more of a frenzy as they anticipated the upcoming battle. He spared a brief moment to consider how stupid his new nickname was.

As the match started the pair of them both lunged towards each other, Fimion high and Dusty low as the crowd screamed. The fighters paid little attention as the woman ducked under his swing and buried her fist in his gut. Fimion grunted but took the hit as he swung his elbow down with force into her back before she grappled him and slammed him into the cage behind him winding him further.

Gasping for air Fimion recovered as best he could but not before he took a pair of jabs to the face which sent his vision swimming. With a surge of strength fuelled by both the psycho and the pain to his face he twisted and threw her off as he scrabbled to gain the upper hand. He may have been stronger and bigger but damn she was fast. By the time he’d stood she too had already recovered and was once more moving towards him with her guard up as he stood and again noted how desirable she looked. The split second was all it took for her to once more lunge in and deliver a punch to his face followed by an uppercut that he only narrowly just stepped back to avoid. She lunged forwards again but this time he was ready and he delivered a wild haymaker, aiming vaguely for her face he grunted as she blocked it with her arms still up before he followed up with numerous strikes before he finally got past her guard and landed a hit which sent her sprawling. Moments later he lunged at her and pinned her with his knees as he followed up with a few more direct punches to her face.

Suddenly there was a series of gunshots and screams that erupted, Dusty using the opportunity to punch him squarely in the jaw before she wriggled free as they both stared towards the doorway to see what the hell was happening.

The gunshots and screams continued and it became clear no-one was watching their fight any-longer, a group of gunmen having shot the doormen before forcing their way in. Both Fimion and Dusty glanced at each other unsure if they should keep fighting or not.

The mole-rat man came out of the back and approached them, a seemingly rather heated conversation taking place before one of the newcomers pointed a gun at his head. He raised his hands before he gestured behind him towards the bosses office and Fimion caught “…Jeshua Baum owns this joint, not me!”

Seconds later there was a gunshot and Moley hit the ground with chunks of his skull and brain joining him. “Well there go my chems…” mumbled Fimion glumly as he stared at the unmoving body. The group stormed their way through as the majority of the patrons panicked and started to flee past them. ‘There go the adoring fans with their caps…’ he thought as he watched them go.

Suddenly he and Dusty found themselves practically alone and with very little reason to continue their fight and so he stood and without really knowing what to do he exited the ring and made his way over to the body of mole-face and nudged him with his foot. One of the thugs that had burst in had remained near the doorway, he eyed Fimion up and down as he did this but after a few moments he obviously realised that Fimion didn’t care about the aggressive change in management that was happening and so continued to keep watch occasionally glancing back.

Fimion rummaged through his pockets looking for any chems he may still have but after an exhaustive search he had only found the little key which caused him to have a brainwave. He made his way back into the shabby locker room to find Dusty already having picked the lock and now in the process of emptying the chems into a bag. Instantly all of his more ‘romantic’ feelings towards her faded and were replaced by a burning hot white rage. So this bitch thought she could take the chems he had already decided were his? Oh fuck no.

He charged forwards and without particularly thinking grabbed her from behind and smashed her face into the metal locker beside the open one. Once, twice, three times he lifted and smashed her head down as hard as he could using her rather lovely hair as a convenient hand-hold before he threw her backwards where she crashed into a pile of rags and boxes and remained slumped down. He looked at his hand and realised he had a few strands of her hair still clutched there which he’d ripped out. Glancing over she seemed to be bleeding profusely from a large split on her head and was unconscious or dead, he toyed briefly with the idea of going over a using her to ‘relieve himself’. He took a step towards the unconscious woman but a gunshot from the boss’s office made him think otherwise. Maybe it’d be better to get his chems and get the fuck out before they decided that they were their chems instead of his. He continued Dusty’s work of filling the duffel bag with the chem stash that had been used to supply the fighters at the Jungle and stared at the bag in glee. It was pretty full with buffout, pshycho, med-x and jet and he felt so excited that as he zipped it up and made his way towards the exit he only barley glanced back at the woman one more time. He paused and snatched a dose of jet and once more indulged himself before he made his way out tossing the empty container to the floor.

As he walked towards the exit the guard turned his head and watched him, particularly when he stopped at the bookie’s lockbox and tried to open it. It was stuck and he didn’t know where the key was so he picked it up before he continued towards the exit trying to look as nonchalant as possible – which was difficult as his heart was pounding and he felt like he wanted to sprint and scream and kill something.

“Wats dat?” the man grunted at the bag and lockbox as he raised his sawn-off shotgun and turned it towards Fimion.

“Mine” replied Fimion as he rapidly lunged into range and swung the heavy lockbox into the man’s face suddenly. He went down like a sack and Fimion wasted little time in delivering several follow up smashes with the rather weighty box. He was pleasantly surprised at how quickly it reduced the man’s head to a pulp, and not even with a shot off. “Damn I am good” he said praising himself happily.

“Huh” he mused as he looked down at the man’s jacket. It was some kind of black leather thing and to Fimion it looked rather badass. Ratty but otherwise quite nice he thought as he took another few moments to slip it off the corpse, paying no heed to the slight bloodstains that came with it. A few wipes later and it was as good as new (at least in Fimion’s eyes) and he slipped it on before he too grabbed the man’s shotgun. ‘Fuck’ he thought to himself in bewilderment ‘why doesn’t this happen more often?’

He strolled out of the Jungle gym alive and better equipped than he ever remembered being. In fact he felt like he needed to celebrate. He had what he considered a fuckload of chems, caps (although locked away beyond his ability to access) and now a sweet gun. There was only one man that he could think of who would have exactly what he needed. That man of course was Redding Schmidt, and so Fimion turned and headed towards the ‘The Cracked Glass’.