<Snipped quote by MacabreFox>
Yep, lol. Sevine will probably also find herself with another fan. Solveig and Piper could start a club.
We found the third member to complete the Warrior-Woman Triumvirate: Solveig, Sevine, and Piper
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The Elder Scrolls: Fruits of Contention - Chapter 1 (Completed)
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10 yrs ago
Forum: Advanced Roleplay
We found the third member to complete the Warrior-Woman Triumvirate: Solveig, Sevine, and Piper
In
The Elder Scrolls: Fruits of Contention - Chapter 1 (Completed)
→
10 yrs ago
Forum: Advanced Roleplay
A tasty, tasty collab between @POOHEAD189, @Peik, and the Schaft
As the conversation between the magi continued, Daelin wasted no time in studying the room for firing positions. The raised walkways in the old mine were still mostly intact in this large chamber, branching out from the mouth of the passageway they took her like a horseshoe, crates and barrels stacked behind the wooden parapets for good concealment, and the shadow would help mask any movements the barrels couldn't. Daelin put a hand on Dax's shoulder, who'd already had an arrow nocked. When the Argonian looked at him, he pointed to the western side of the walkways, telling him to take up position there. While Dax slunk away nimbly, he turned to Jorwen and Marcel. “Stay behind cover at the barrels near the ramp that leads down there. Daixanos and I will keep watch from above, move only when the fighting starts.”
With that, Daelin turned from them and moved towards the eastern walkway, almost disappearing in the shadows. As Marcel and Jorwen moved to take their position, he took his own behind a stack of crates. It wasn't long until the sounds of magical combat was heard a large section on his side of the walkway's wooden infrastructure gave way after being charred. It came crashing down in a pile of crates and barrels. Some of the barrels broke open and began to leak something black out onto the floor. He squinted, and his scout's eyes made quick work of the twenty paces between him and the broken barrels. It was pitch. If they could set a flame, it might be able to suck enough of the oxygen out of the air to make the mage's flames less powerful.
He looked about the room for more things that could even field for them, pickaxes, hammers, various tools and some bits, baubles, books and scrolls the pyromancer had brought in with him. Nothing struck him other than the pitch barrels until he saw a small trickle of water coming through the wall down below, the small stream on the ground it was creating was running down into another passageway that probably led to an underground reservoir, or at least hoped so. If there was flowing water underground near this mine, there had to also be some body of water.
He peeked his head up and saw Marcel and Jorwen moving in, and two flame atronachs faded into existence on either side of the Pyromancer with a raise of his arms. They fanned out to attack, one for each of the warriors down below.
Daixanos had just been about to loose, but Daelin had halted him at the nick of time. He was pointed toward the western walkway, and though curious at first, he could see the logic in it and slipped away like the silent hunter he was. The fight began to commence just as he got into position, and Dax nocked and arrow once more, predatory eyes scanning the cave for a clean shot to make.
The magic unnerved him, but he had hesitated a moment earlier and was now steeled to what he needed to do. He was about to strike the mage before the Flame Atranochs appeared out of the air. He hissed quietly, but decided they were a fine distraction for the mage to stay still as Daixanos aimed carefully. The Hist guide me... he intoned, before loosing an arrow aimed at the Pyromancer's throat.
The sight of hostile magi in a cave made Marcel feel more at home, compared to fighting Spriggans amidst a desolate landscape. Realizing that he would have to get to business soon, he quietly sheathed his silver smallsword and unsheathed its larger, steel counterpart instead. The fact that he had to fight men and mer, however evil, compared to mindless beasts, made him feel somewhat sad - but this was his job, and to bear the sadness was also part of his job.
Adhering to Daelin's orders, Marcel moved alongside the old Nord quietly, his sword at the ready. He could overhear the conversation between the mages. Like dozens he had heard before - arrogance, stupidity. These had always been in the mages, there was no denying that.
When the chaos began, and the cave lit up in color with motley displays of searing flames, summoned Atronaches and cracks of electricity, Marcel jumped out of his spot, swinging his sword in a broad strike, aimed at the neck, against the Bosmer that seemed to be the center of attention. The first strike in the sundering of this cabal.
Jorwen steeled himself. There were only the four of them here to take on whoever these magi were. Of those four, it was him and the Breton. Only the two of them, he shook his head, but your Chief gives you an order, best to carry it out until it's finished. He readied himself, tightening his grip on his shield and seax. Before he could hop up and over the crates, howling for blood, the Breton did the same without so much as a sound. Jorwen followed him over, his shield raised as he followed Marcel, circling to the Breton's left to take the Bosmer at his back. Before anything could come of the maneuver, a ball of fire roared by and he turned to see one of the atronachs the mage had summoned. He bellowed, lashing out from behind his shield with his seax.
As the conversation between the magi continued, Daelin wasted no time in studying the room for firing positions. The raised walkways in the old mine were still mostly intact in this large chamber, branching out from the mouth of the passageway they took her like a horseshoe, crates and barrels stacked behind the wooden parapets for good concealment, and the shadow would help mask any movements the barrels couldn't. Daelin put a hand on Dax's shoulder, who'd already had an arrow nocked. When the Argonian looked at him, he pointed to the western side of the walkways, telling him to take up position there. While Dax slunk away nimbly, he turned to Jorwen and Marcel. “Stay behind cover at the barrels near the ramp that leads down there. Daixanos and I will keep watch from above, move only when the fighting starts.”
With that, Daelin turned from them and moved towards the eastern walkway, almost disappearing in the shadows. As Marcel and Jorwen moved to take their position, he took his own behind a stack of crates. It wasn't long until the sounds of magical combat was heard a large section on his side of the walkway's wooden infrastructure gave way after being charred. It came crashing down in a pile of crates and barrels. Some of the barrels broke open and began to leak something black out onto the floor. He squinted, and his scout's eyes made quick work of the twenty paces between him and the broken barrels. It was pitch. If they could set a flame, it might be able to suck enough of the oxygen out of the air to make the mage's flames less powerful.
He looked about the room for more things that could even field for them, pickaxes, hammers, various tools and some bits, baubles, books and scrolls the pyromancer had brought in with him. Nothing struck him other than the pitch barrels until he saw a small trickle of water coming through the wall down below, the small stream on the ground it was creating was running down into another passageway that probably led to an underground reservoir, or at least hoped so. If there was flowing water underground near this mine, there had to also be some body of water.
He peeked his head up and saw Marcel and Jorwen moving in, and two flame atronachs faded into existence on either side of the Pyromancer with a raise of his arms. They fanned out to attack, one for each of the warriors down below.
Daixanos had just been about to loose, but Daelin had halted him at the nick of time. He was pointed toward the western walkway, and though curious at first, he could see the logic in it and slipped away like the silent hunter he was. The fight began to commence just as he got into position, and Dax nocked and arrow once more, predatory eyes scanning the cave for a clean shot to make.
The magic unnerved him, but he had hesitated a moment earlier and was now steeled to what he needed to do. He was about to strike the mage before the Flame Atranochs appeared out of the air. He hissed quietly, but decided they were a fine distraction for the mage to stay still as Daixanos aimed carefully. The Hist guide me... he intoned, before loosing an arrow aimed at the Pyromancer's throat.
The sight of hostile magi in a cave made Marcel feel more at home, compared to fighting Spriggans amidst a desolate landscape. Realizing that he would have to get to business soon, he quietly sheathed his silver smallsword and unsheathed its larger, steel counterpart instead. The fact that he had to fight men and mer, however evil, compared to mindless beasts, made him feel somewhat sad - but this was his job, and to bear the sadness was also part of his job.
Adhering to Daelin's orders, Marcel moved alongside the old Nord quietly, his sword at the ready. He could overhear the conversation between the mages. Like dozens he had heard before - arrogance, stupidity. These had always been in the mages, there was no denying that.
When the chaos began, and the cave lit up in color with motley displays of searing flames, summoned Atronaches and cracks of electricity, Marcel jumped out of his spot, swinging his sword in a broad strike, aimed at the neck, against the Bosmer that seemed to be the center of attention. The first strike in the sundering of this cabal.
Jorwen steeled himself. There were only the four of them here to take on whoever these magi were. Of those four, it was him and the Breton. Only the two of them, he shook his head, but your Chief gives you an order, best to carry it out until it's finished. He readied himself, tightening his grip on his shield and seax. Before he could hop up and over the crates, howling for blood, the Breton did the same without so much as a sound. Jorwen followed him over, his shield raised as he followed Marcel, circling to the Breton's left to take the Bosmer at his back. Before anything could come of the maneuver, a ball of fire roared by and he turned to see one of the atronachs the mage had summoned. He bellowed, lashing out from behind his shield with his seax.
“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.”
“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.”
Redding's there now, could have them meet in the IC-morning, whenever that is.
Redding frequents a small dive bar near his apartments called the Cracked Glass. The owner, Ryan, likes him and is his middle man for most cleaning jobs he gets. Reckon Joel would be in touch with the guy too.
As it is heavily implied in my last post and the posts thereafter, his prostitutes are actually treated well by him. Francine, the one he'd found dead at the beginning from a forced overdose, was a very good friend of his and I think there was a bit of something more with their relationship. She was completely chem-free as stated in Redding's intro post and she chose to stick around with Redding because most of the clientele Redding let her go with were very high-paying and clean looking locals and tourists. Redding doesn't kidnap girls or force them into anything, he's done some fucked up shit for cash but a man like him has his morals, for the most part.
So, would Joel be averse to going back into business with Redding? He needs someone watching his back while he goes to see Mancini and hopefully they can find out where the rest of the Fiends are hanging around and figure out who wants him dead. In between Joel's other endeavors, if need be.
<Snipped quote by Sol Grim>
Yup, that's cool. :)
@Leidenschaft @Stitches
That was a great damn post.
I really like the moments where I can force some inner-conflict and cognitive dissonance from my characters. Redding's had a shit day, saved someone who he think is ungrateful(but is only shit scared of him, with good reason to be), and he's craving the med-x bad, a few days from now IC is his daughter's birthday. She would've been ten.
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.
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.
<Snipped quote by Leidenschaft>
You would hope not, but that would be one hell of a fall from love. To cause THAT amount of hate, she'd have had to have his baby but have it died due to being born addicted to psycho or some dark shit.
Well, that's close to what happened.
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