[color=00aeef]FRIEDA RICHTER[/color] - the weapon's shop! -- mid-afternoon

Waylon smiled, “Sure, c’mon in,” he held open the door for her as she stepped inside. He closed and locked it, flipping the sign to closed, “Hell, with all that's happened I doubt I'll have many, if any customers today anyways. Lemme see if I still have some in my desk drawer.”

"Thanks," she breathed in response.  Frieda found herself gawking around the shop.  There was a vast array of firearms and other sharp objects mounted to the walls, a selection she had never seen in her life.  The Enclave had a stockpile, to be certain, but the majority of the weapons were energy based, or explosives.  She'd found herself in wasteland gun shops before, but nothing like this.  Those other shops were selling hack jobs on junk in comparison to what Waylon, and presumably Shelby, were doing.

Waylon pulled a chair over, “You've had one hell of a day too, have a seat.” 

"Huh?  Oh, uh, thanks," she repeated, lowering herself into the chair, pulling her attention back to the handsome man behind the desk.  How hadn't she noticed how good looking he was, before?  Frieda leaned over just slightly to admire his backside.  "Well, what can I say...a day in the life, is it not?"

[i]Is that how surface dwellers talk?  Do you even hear yourself?  You sound like an idiot.[/i]

Waylon straightened, producing a handful of cigarette packs, picked one and tore open the cellophane handing Frieda the whole pack, “Here ya go, that way you'll have some for later,” he winked. 

Frieda fumbled the pack, not at all expecting that level of generosity.  First Brandy, now Waylon..."Thank you," she said for the third time.  "I mean -- really -- thanks.  I need to start getting Barney to pay me for this town guard gig so I can start trading for my smokes, like a regular...settler."  She caught herself before saying something derogatory.  "I'll owe ya something for this."  She popped up one of the pretty little tubes and felt her mouth begin to water at the sight of it.  In her mind, her brother frowned and shook his head.  She pushed the image away.

He pulled out a second pack and opened it up, then he held out an antique Zippo and lit Frieda’s cigarette before lighting his and sitting down. “So how's Brandy doing? She didn't look to good at all.” 

"The doc does good work.  He's got her comfortable and patched up.  She seems all shaken up, keeps mumbling 'they're real.'  I guess she's talking about the deathclaws?"  Frieda shrugged.  "I thought they were common to these...ah, to the wasteland.  The whole wasteland."

[i]Idiot, idiot, idiot.[/i]

He sighed, “This has kicked Shelby into a hot mess, she's off and about. I hope she keeps her head on straight.” He caught himself and changed the subject, “I'm sorry about that. So, what do you feel like for dinner tonight? I'll cook it up, or at least try.” He laughed a little, “I just want this day to turn into evening and get to dinner."

"Mm," Frieda began carefully, tapping off some ashes, "seems like deathclaws make everyone get a little squirrelly.  As for dinner, I'm...not picky," she lied.  Or was she really lying?  It's not like the various cuisines of the wasteland was a topic that she knew anything about.  "Brandy cooked up some fried chicken last night that was really good.  But," she smiled, trying to lighten herself up some, "I can't cook for shit, so I doubt you could really do much worse."

That part wasn't a lie.  The last time they ever put her on kitchen duty was when she was sixteen.  The fire called for an evac of several dozen personnel and a sector quarantine for weeks as crews cleaned up the mess.

She started to feel calmer as she worked on her cigarette.  It was quiet, but comfortable in the little weapon's shop.  "Is Shelby okay, though?  Do you think we should go looking for her?"