[color=00aeef][u]Chez Nathan –Freeside, New Vegas[/u][/color]


It was a cool October night in Freeside. Chez had been called out late to help some new Followers deal with an addict in crisis. The patient had somehow gotten his hands on a Nuka Cola bottle, smashed it, and used its jagged edge to almost gouge out a junior Follower’s eye. The Followers guards had sent a runner to get Chez from the clinic - they hadn’t forgotten the last time Chez had screamed at them for fatally shooting a junkie in the chest.

[i]Thank God that new kid was quick on her feet,[/i] Chez thought. [i]She’ll only have a scar on her face for the rest of her life. She could’ve died. I can’t wait for Lettie to find out about this. I know what she’ll say - and the others will agree with her.[/i] If we have to choose between a Follower’s life or a junkie’s, we choose ours! We can’t replace our numbers, meanwhile the addicts are multiplying like radroaches! Or do you think we haven’t bled enough for the Mojave? Do you think we haven’t traded enough of our lives for other people’s? 

The invocation of the Old Mormon Fort's loss would silence any further discussion. The tragedy lay heavy over everything - a reminder of their near-annihilation, a promise of their coming destruction. 

The streets were washed in pale moonlight, dyed with neon patches from the Strip lights. Night was beautiful in Freeside, especially after a couple of glasses of whiskey. Vague memories of coming to Vegas with his father stirred in the shadows of Chez’s mind. He remembered a different city, not this warren of filthy concrete and human degradation, but a fairytale castle filled with rainbow lights, velvet-smooth music, and revellers dressed in fashions from an Old World dream… had that Vegas existed? Or was it the childhood fantasy of some kid from a mining town, getting his first glimpse of a city out of Pre-War legend?

[i]So what if it was a dream,[/i] thought Chez stubbornly, his mind sluggish from the drink. [i]Mr House was allowed to have a dream, and people respect him for it. So why can’t I? I just need a hundred killer robots and a billion caps, and I could do something real neat. I could’ve built this city too. And with fewer chem-pushers and more public health initiatives besides.[/i]

He and Ronnie, a bodyguard from the Kings, made their way down the street outside Mick and Ralph’s - or rather, Ronnie led the way and Chez followed close behind, slightly unsteady on his feet.

Chez half hummed, half sang as he walked: [i]“Stars shinin’ bright above you… night breezes seem to whisper I love you… ”[/i]

Ronnie joined in with enthusiasm. He couldn’t carry a tune, bless him, but then again he [i]could [/i]hit a man with a submachine gun at fifty paces with his eyes shut, and swing a bat hard enough to stop a Super Mutant in its tracks, and the Good Lord in his wisdom had given each man different talents for a reason. 

They were almost at the gates to the outskirts of the city when they heard it: a sudden babble of raised voices, the crack of gunfire. 

Chez had his pistol in hand and was off in the direction of the commotion, his unsteadiness gone. For a long time he had been reluctant to draw his weapon unless his life was in danger, but the days when he could rely on a Followers coat to protect him in Freeside were long since past. 

Chez heard loud swearing from somewhere behind him, and then a moment later, soft footsteps told him Ronnie was on his tail, moving with unnerving quietness for such a large man.