McBadgere: Gotta admit, I had a lot of fun writing that scen, and no suprise you like Ripley; two of you have a lot in common.

Malx:

Dammit!! You've seen my picture haven't you?... ...

...


Edit...I have to apologise for something in my post previous to this one...I got Ripley and Brutus confused in remembering the old Lap-Dance scene at Gomorrah...Chapter...Um...Earlier...

My apologies...I therefore wholeheartedly embrace my Ripley-ness... ...

GET AWAY FROM HER YOU B*TCH!!...Oh wait... ...No...Hang on...

This post has been edited by McBadgere: Jan 13 2012, 10:15 PM

Most droll, sir Badgere, most droll.

Also, I thought you meant Ripley's inclinations towards Ghoulettes, so no misunderstandings there (frankly, if you were inclined towards having your women slightly rotten, I'd be somewhat worried... )

Now this, this I like! I have not read a good Fallout Fic in a loong time! People have already beaten me to the punch by expressing their own opinions, which I agree with, so I can nay add much to the love. That said....


LOVE this guy. Mich is one helluva business man and I think him and my old char Aaron Blint would get all nicely, talk over some scotch and a cigar or two...

I have had an attachment to Ghouls since first picking up the Fallout games. Not sure why, though I suspect its that "Been there, Killed that" Attitude they have. I love ol' Ripley here and his nostalgia flashback. Pre War ghouls rock.

This post has been edited by Arcry: Jan 14 2012, 12:42 AM

Thanks very much, Arcry!

Got a feeling that Michael and this Blint character would, especially if Michael's not paying for the scotch or cigars. Though he'd get a little tetchy over being called Mich; only Brutus has the privelige of shortening his name, and the guy had to earn that.

Got to thank my dad for that flashback there, who was young in the 50s and thus is useful for research. If, at times, a little rambling. Bless...

Thanks again, and glad you're enjoying reading!

This post has been edited by Colonel Mustard: Jan 14 2012, 11:37 AM

Lol !! Couldn't resist, lol.

Author’s Note: The tusker that appears in this chapter is, yes, my own creation (I’m a sexy genius, I know). But if you want to use it, just ask nicely, give some credit and you’re welcome to it.

And now, on with the show!

Chapter 7

“You Anston and Co.?”

Michael looked up from the old ticket desk that now served as a greeting point for any would-be customers into the ‘cinema’ they’d occupied to see who was asking, tipping the chair he was leaning on forwards. The man in question looked like most of the drifters and guns for hire out there on the wasteland, a shotgun of some kind slung over his shoulder and wearing armour stitched together from tanned leather and metal plating. There was a girl behind him, in a fairly similar gear, a submachine gun and a pistol at her belt.

“That’s what the sign over the door says,” he said. “What can I do for you two?”

“My sister and I are looking for a job,” was the answer Michael received. “We were hoping you were hiring.”

“That so?” he asked. “What’re your names?”

“I’m Ed Heltzer, and this my sister, Abby,” he said, gesturing to the girl behind him.

Michael nodded, before he said; “Good to meet you two, then. So, what can you bring to my company?”

“I’m a good shot, and we’ve both got combat experience,” Ed said. “That’s got to be useful, right?”

“Oh, it’s useful, yeah,” Michael said. “But to be honest I could drag anyone from wasteland into here and they could say exactly the same thing. I mean, you two going through an army of super mutants single handed or something, that’s slightly different, but this is the Mojave; everyone fights everyone out there. So what else can you do to make me consider hiring you?”

“I can hack computers,” Abby suddenly said. “Any kind of system, I can get into it for you.”

Michael raised an eyebrow, and he said; “Sounds pretty good.”

He tapped the computer console next to him, and said; “Okay, there’s a password on this thing, and nobody in here can get into it. You break it open, and you’re hired.”

Abby nodded, before she said; “Lemme take a look.”

Michael wheeled the chair he was sitting on out of the way as she went round the desk, leaning over the computer. She tapped a few buttons on it, peering at it intensely for a few moments before her fingers flew into life, hitting each key with a rapid clicking. It was only a minute before she said; “Alright, I’m done.”

She swivelled the computer console over in Michael’s direction to prove her claim, and he raised an eyebrow.

“That was pretty impressive,” he said after a moment. “You’re on board, kid.”

He turned back to Ed.

“So, why should I hire you, then?” he asked.

“Because if you don’t, then I’m not joining and you’ll have to find someone else who’s as good with computers as I am,” Abby replied from beside him.

Michael was quiet for a moment, giving her a careful, contemplative look, before his face split into a grin.

“Y’know, I like you kids already,” he said. “Alright, that’s fair. You’re on the team then, Ed; make yourself useful, don’t make me regret taking you on board, and you might just find yourself making some pretty good money.”

“What’s the pay?” Ed asked.

“Pay’s an equal split between however much you get paid for each job, by each person who did it,” Michael said. “So we get paid seven hundred caps for an assignment and everyone here does it, you get paid one hundred, so on. You pay for your own ammo, stimpaks, food etcetera, but we’ve got plenty of room to spare in this place so find someplace that isn’t being already used and you can shack up there. You want to do some extra work out of the company like serving drinks somewhere or whatever, then that’s fine with me so long as it doesn’t get in the way of jobs for us, and if it does then you’re out. I’m the boss, CEO, God come to earth, and my orders are followed; you got ideas, I’m happy to hear ‘em, but my word is final. If I’m not around, then you take orders from Brutus, the big guy with the robot arm who looks like he can floor a bighorner with a punch, can’t miss ‘im, and if he’s not around, you take orders from Ripley, our resident Ghoul. Got it?”

They both nodded, and Michael smiled.

“Great!” he said. “Welcome to Anston and Co.”

#

“So what’s in this package, anyway?” Ed asked as their horses made their way along the dirt path, no more than a patch of clear earth made by feet kicking a way through the parched, scrubby bush on either side of it.

“No idea,” Michael replied from his place in the front. He shifted the small satchel that he carried it in as if to emphasise his point, and added; “We’re getting paid to deliver it to Nipton without tampering with it, so that’s what we’re going to do.”

“I get that,” Ed said. “It’s just kinda fishy, that’s all.”

“How so?” Brutus asked from behind him.

“Well, wouldn’t they usually get the Mojave Express or something to deliver it?” Ed asked.

“Hey, if they’re paying us to do it instead, then I’m not complaining,” Michael said. “A cap’s a cap, after all.”

“I know, but why are they getting mercs to do it instead of the usual couriers?” Ed said, pressing the subject.

“Why is it that big a deal?” Abby asked.

“Because what I’m saying is that if they want us to deliver it instead of a courier, maybe the guys paying us is expecting someone to try and take it, maybe,” Ed said. “So maybe we could keep an eye out.”

Michael nodded.

“That’s a good point,” he said. “Can’t say I thought of that.”

Well, it certainly didn’t sit right, now that Ed had pointed it out. Two days with the company, first ever job, and he was already making me paranoid. Who’d have guessed?

“Alright, keep sharp,” Michael said as his horse began to climb up a small hillock in the dry scrub they were walking through. “Now Ed mentions it, he might be right. Wished that she’d mentioned there was a risk someone might take it.”

“Just another job,” Brutus remarked. “You know what customers can be like.”

“Yeah,” Michael said. “I need to tell you two of the time some guy tried to scam…”

He trailed off as he saw what lay before them.

“Ah crap,” he muttered.

The pot-bellied animal that lay in the small valley below them had its back to them, curled tail raised. There was a grunting and a crunch as it chewed on the scrub before it, a trotter pulling up a few roots, and Michael inwardly cursed. Of all the things they had to run across on their journey, it had to be a goddamn tusker.

Now, for those of you who aren’t too familiar with the creatures of the Mojave, let me tell you now that running into a tusker is not good news. Believe me, those things are half a ton of muscle and bad attitude and their tusks that can gut anyone unlucky enough to get too close (why d’ya think they call them tuskers?). Seriously though, even Deathclaws avoid them if they can; those things are too stupid to feel pain, and if they smell anything they don’t like, which is everything, then they charge, no questions asked. Still, there’s good eating on the things, if you’re lucky enough to kill them, but frankly half the time they aren’t worth the trouble.

“Right,” Michael said quietly, looking at the valley around them. The path ran right through where the tusker was enjoying its meal. “We’ll go around it. No need to annoy that thing.”

The others nodded. Better to go through the scrub and maybe risk stepping on a rattlesnake than annoying a tusker.

They dismounted and stepped off the path, Michael leading his way and glancing at his feet occasionally, glancing over at the tusker as it uprooted a plant to feast on the juicy taproot below where it stored water away from the merciless kiss of the Mojave’s sun. Fortunately for them, the air was still, and the tusker was too focussed on its meal to hear the occasionally snap as they stepped on a bush. So long as there was no breeze, they should be alright; tuskers had a damn good nose, but they could only see a few feet around them and their ears weren’t up to that much. Their horse whickered nervously in the presence of the creature, but they had been reared by Caesar’s Legion and were trained to fear the consequences of bolting.

Michael’s horse suddenly reared in fright at the hiss of an angered serpent, and his grip on its bridle was thrown. Instinctively, he stepped back to avoid the animal’s flailing hooves, and stumbled, losing his footing and falling backwards into the small dip.

He landed on his back, upside down and with his hat rolling off his head, and his breath caught in his throat as he heard a snort, and the sound of large nostrils in a round snout sniffing the air.

On comically short legs, the huge bulk of the tusker, covered in tiny, bristle-like hairs, turned and Michael came face with it. A jaw filled with teeth and twisted, gnarled, razor-sharp tusks opened and it gave a squealing roar of fury. Michael scrambled away at the blast of stinking air, before desperately rolling out of its way as it barrelled towards him, snorting in blind, stupid fury.

He pulled himself to his feet as it passed him, thrashing through the scrub before it came to a halt, turning to face him for another charge, and Jack called down; “What do we do?”

“What do you think, you idiots?” Michael called back. “Goddamn help me!”

He grabbed his pistol from its holster and managed to unload three bullets into its thick hide, fourth round sticking in the chamber, but if anything that just seemed to make it angrier. It stampeded towards Michael once more, heedless of the trio of bleeding holes he had punched into its flank, and one of its warped tusks caught the fabric of his suit trousers as he dodged, ripping it off. Still, better that than his actual leg, he guessed.

He pulled himself up from where he lay on the ground as the tusker skidded to a halt, dashing for the hills as Ed’s shotgun boomed, the spray of buckshot kicking up a puff of dust. This was enough to get the tusker’s murderous attentions, and Michael took the opening to scramble up the side of the bowl as it searched for its new opponent, beady eyes glaring madly around as it snorted and snarled.

“Hey, porkchop!” Brutus called as Michael managed to reach the top. “Over here!”

The ex-legionary waved his machete in the air as Michael pulled the slide of his pistol back to try and clear the jam, hissing; “What are you doing?” at him as he did so.

“Gonna kill it,” Brutus replied simply as the tusker finally noticed him and pawed at the ground in preparation to charge.

He raised the weapon as it thundered towards him in mad fury, while Michael yelled at him to get the hell out of its way. Brutus ignored his calls, and instead swung down just as the tusker came into reach.

The heavy blade slammed into its skull with a wet thump, and the animal gave a squeal of pain before it tumbled, machete embedded in its head. It barrelled into Brutus, flooring him, and he gave a bellow of pain as its weight rolled onto his stomach. Lying on its side, it thrashed wildly before Brutus’ clenched claw shoved it off.

Both of them managed to pull each other to their feet, and it swiped its tusks at him viciously. He managed to deflect them with his claw, cursing as it tore a chunk of its armoured casing off, and he backed away as it squealed in fury, mad rage in its tiny, bloodshot eyes. Somehow, a machete being dug into its skull had served only to make it angrier.

It looked as if it were about to charge again, when a series of rapid, chattering claps sounded out. Both knees on it right legs suddenly folded under its weight as bullets shredded the bone and tendons, and it rolled onto its broad flank, screaming with a sound that almost sounded human and thrashing wildly. Abby simply trained the smoking barrel of her submachine gun on the soft flesh under its jaw and fired off another short burst, a group of rounds pulverising its diminutive brain.

Michael glanced at the massive corpse, Brutus bracing a boot on its head as he wrenched his machete out of its skull, and then back at Abby, before he said; “Good thinking, there.”

“Seemed like common sense to me,” Abby replied. “Didn’t any of you come up with that?”

“Well the thing was trying to gut me,” Michael pointed out. “Didn’t have time to.”

Abby shrugged as Brutus wrenched his machete free of the tusker’s skull with a wet sucking noise. He took an old oilcloth that he kept tucked into his belt and wiped the blood off it, looking disapprovingly at the dent that the impact with bone had managed to hammer into the blade.

“So,” he said after a moment. “Who wants pork for dinner?”










Oink oink...

This post has been edited by Colonel Mustard: Jan 22 2012, 11:29 PM

*Sighs contentedly*... ...

Aw hell yeah!!...

Good fight...Good mutant...Awful punchline...But I'll forgive you that... ...

I love Abby already...May be my NCIS obsession... ...*Shrugs* who cares?!!...Excellent character...

Robert loves kick-a$s girls with brains...*Goes to see if he missed that she happens to be a red-head too *...

Great chapter btw... ...

Didst love it muchly...

Nice one!!...

*Applauds heartily*... ...


EDIT: Kick-Boat?...Really?...*Shakes head*...

This post has been edited by McBadgere: Jan 22 2012, 07:50 PM

That was one helluva Mutant! Great fight, like the new additions to Anston and Co. Abby is intriguing and I want to see more of what Eddy can do.

McBadgere: Well, punchlines aren't really Brutus speciality. Punches on the other hand...

And I can't say I've watched much of NCIS, so I can't comment on similarities, but I'll have to make sure that she isn't a redhead so nobody says I'm ripping her off...

And the filter is silly, yeah.

Arcry: Got an interesting idea or two up my sleeve for those two, just you see. Was also quite proud of the Tusker idea, myself; always though that if there was anything that could survive in a nuclear wasteland, it would be pigs. Which would then become bigger, meaner pigs that would happily eat anything.

Also, I don't suppose I would look too cheeky if I were to commission your rather skilful artistic talents for a sketch of one or two of the cast members (namely Brutus, possibly Michael), would I? If you'd rather not, then that's fine, but as you're here and as I'd like someone who can actually draw (as opposed to desperately flail around with a pencil like me), I feel I may as well ask.

I will do my best to put Brutus to paper (Namely because I am a fan of Caesar's Legion) and then work down the line. Finished a preliminary of Brutus and sent him off to ya.

Hoping the PM system works as it does not say I have sent any messages.... Anyway he is on my Deviant if the PM failed.

I really like that arm....

I got a kick out of Abby earning the hiring and then blackmailing them to hire Ed, lol. Loved your invention of the "tusker" - and the (urk) detailed killing of it, but especially the "oink oink" at the end, lol. Great Write !!

Thanks very much, Malx!

Already getting a soft spot for Abby, and I'm quite proud of the tuskers (I'm going to need to feature them again, some time). Can think of a few places I can put them...

You really should be proud of the tuskers. I love coming across examples of a writer's own world-building like that (and modders that create something out of their own imagination) - and I agree, Abby is a very interesting and likable character so far.

Malx: Ah, now you're making me want to make a tusker mod for New Vegas. Yeesh, imagine coming across one of those in the Thorn...

Anyway, more is hnyah


Chapter 8

“And this next song is brought to you by Anston and Co.; people hurt and things broken. Find them on Freeside, in old cinema by the Strip Gate.”

“You hear that?” Michael asked, as Mr New Vegas’ husky tones were replaced by cheerful guitar chords and male voices singing in quite a pleasant harmony of what they could do with a little bit of money and you. “That’s the sound of business coming in; music to my ears.”

“Nice lullaby for you, then,” Brutus remarked from his place by the fire, comment accompanied by a regular scraping as he ran a whetstone along the blade of his machete. He had been trying to get at least something resembling an edge on the dented part, but so far it seemed that he’d need to hammer it back into shape first. Not that it really needed to be all that sharp, Michael thought; that weapon was less a sword and more a club with an edge.

“Yep,” Michael said, as he lay the parts of his disassembled pistol on the lining of his shrugged-off jacket. “Sweetest tune I’ve ever heard.”

He opened the cleaning kit he’d taken from his satchel, and began to clean the chamber of the small firearm in the light of the fire. That jam with the tusker earlier in the day hadn’t been helpful, and last thing he wanted was a repeat incident with some radscorpions or cazadores or anything else equally nasty.

“Mike, I don’t get something,” Ed said suddenly.

“Don’t call me Mike, I’m your boss,” Michael replied simply.

“What? Brutus does?” Ed said.

“That’s because Brutus earned the privilege to call me Mike,” Michael replied. “You haven’t yet. So it’s Michael, got it?”

“Alright, fine,” Ed said. “Anyway, can I ask that question?”

“Go nuts,” Michael replied as he flicked some stray dust particles out of the chamber of his stripped down pistol with a brush.

“You said you were a pacifist, right? So how come you were shooting at that tusker?”

“It’s a tusker,” Michael replied dismissively. “Besides, the thing didn’t care.”

“That’s not really an answer though, is it?” Ed pressed.

“Look, it’s just some dumb animal,” Michael said. “It’s only really with people that I have that rule.”

“Why is that?” Ed asked. “I mean, this is the Mojave; people kill each other all the time out here.”

“I know,” Michael said. “I just always felt that killing people is, I don’t know, messy. Unprofessional.”

Ed frowned, before he said; “You’re the boss of a merc company, though. I mean, you kill people for money.”

“That’s different,” Michael said. “I coordinate the killing of other people for money.”

“How’s that different? I mean, that seems the same as just killing them, to me,” Ed said.

“It’s just…it’s just how I do things, alright?” Michael said. “I never said it’s a perfect system, but it works for me.”

Ed shrugged.

“Alright,” he said. “Just wondering, that’s all.”

“Fine,” Michael said. “Abby, how’s that food going?”

“Gimme a minute,” she replied. She pulled the old frying pan on which the porkchops and tubers they were cooking sizzled on, and poked one of them with a slightly rusty fork. “Think they’re good.”

“Great,” Brutus said. “I’m hungry.”

“Then chow down,” Michael said, as Abby slid the food onto a few battered tin plates. She just had hers right in the pan, and Michael couldn’t help but notice it was the biggest of them there, but he let it slide. He supposed she’d earned it by making sure Brutus’ innards stayed inside him. “You’ve got first watch, big guy.”

Brutus shrugged, before he said; “Fine.”

Michael nodded as he chewed. He swallowed the mouthful of pork and said; “Anyway, get some sleep after we’re done eating; we’re on our way to Nipton tomorrow.”

#

“Goddamn dust,” Michael muttered resentfully as he wiped the fine powder off the lenses of his sunglasses. “Last leg of the journey and we get hit by a dust storm. Typical.”

“This one isn’t too bad,” Brutus said. “I mean, we can still see ahead of us, can’t we? We’ve been hit by worse.”

Michael nodded as he squinted through the ochre haze, one hand held on the bridle of his horse. He checked the compass on his Pip Boy to make sure they were going the right way through the dust once more, and was relieved that they were; getting lost in one of these things wasn’t life threatening, but it certainly was irritating.

“I guess,” he said. “Jeez, you remember that time the weather got so bad that that arm of yours seized up?”

“How could I forget?” Brutus said. “Now that was a dust storm.”

“Hey!” Ed called from his place a few metres ahead, voice slightly muffled by the scarf he was using to cover his face. “I think I see Nipton up ahead.”

“Well thank god for that,” Michael remarked. “Be good to get out of this dust.”

The storm began to slack off as they approached, moving into the lee of the arid, rocky hills on the west side of town that sheltered it from the wind. They climbed up a bank of earth that lead up from the cracked, parched expanse of flat ground they had just traversed, the crude barricade of scrap metal, old wood and debris that surrounded Nipton coming into view.

“Is that smoke?” Ed asked as he looked at a pillar of the stuff that was gently drifting skywards.

“Looks like it,” Michael said, still heading forwards. “Hope there ain’t anything wrong; might not get paid if there is.”

Brutus nodded as they approached, but it was only a few minutes later that they saw the two banners of Caesar’s Legion standing right outside the entrance of the gate.

“Ah crap,” Michael muttered as he saw them.

They drew to a halt, and Abby asked; “Well, what do we do?”

“We’re getting paid on delivery,” Michael said. “We’ll need to check it out.”

They were about to enter the town, when there was a whooping noise, someone cheering. The small band paused as they saw someone running towards them, hands going to weapons before they saw he was the one laughing.

Michael frowned, before he called; “You alright, pal?”

“Alright? Alright? I’m great!” came the reply. “I won the lottery! I’m okay! I wont the lottery!”

“What lottery?” Michael asked as the man drew to a halt by them. He was dressed in some kind of stained denim coverall, and was there was a crude bandage made from a strip of cloth around his upper arm.

“The lottery!” the winner replied. “And I won it! Hah, I’m free!”

He pushed past them, jumping in the air in exultant joy with a cry of “Winner!” before he disappeared into the haze.

“Goddamn lunatic,” Michael remarked disparagingly as they watched him go. “C’mon, let’s go check this out.”

Nipton was in a bad state as they entered it. A lot of the small, one-storey wooden prewar houses that made up the majority of its architecture had been burned and were nothing more than collapsed piled of scorched timber, ash and embers, the smell of smoke and death causing their horses to whicker and whinny nervously. Those that had been fortunate to remain upright had had windows smashed and their doors kicked in, and there were more than a few bodies scattered around. They rounded a corner, and froze for a moment, briefly stunned by the crosses that lined the street, men and women alike lashed to them.

“Eesh,” Michael muttered. “This ain’t pretty.”

Now, I’m no saint, and I won’t pretend that I am. I’ve had people do some pretty nasty things on my behalf, and had more than a few beaten up and even killed, but even I have my limits and crucifixion is beyond those. I mean, there’s sending a message and then there’s being just plain old nasty for no good reason, and that’s definitely in the second category.

They advanced along the road cautiously, and Michael noticed that Abby wasn’t trying to look at the unfortunates lashed to the rebar crosses, shuffling closer to Ed. Brutus looked to be completely impassive, and Michael realised that he was probably used to this sort of sight; he was formerly of the Legion, after all. The far end of the street was occupied by a grand building, one wing slightly scorched, and there were several figures waiting outside it.

Michael and his small cohort drew to a halt as they were noticed, Legionaries gathering in front of the building, and for a moment a tense silence reigned. Michael’s gaze flickered across the group they were facing; there were ten of them, against just four. If they decided to attack, there was no way they would get out in one piece.

“Who are you people?” one of them suddenly challenged. He wore dark goggles, and there was the head of an animal, a fox, growling over his own, worn like a helmet. “And what are you doing here?”

“My name’s Michael Anston,” Michael answered. “I’m in charge of Anston and Co. We’re here to deliver a package.”

He looked around at the massacred town, and added; “Or at least, we were going to.”

A Legionary suddenly emerged from a house, a young man with a strange dent in the left side of his shaven head, before he said; “Frumentarii, we searched the house. It wasn’t in there.”

The one in the fox helmet glanced over at him, and said; “Did you check everywhere, Nuncius?”

“I did, Frumentarii,” the one called Nuncius replied. “It wasn’t there.”

Fox Helmet shook his head, before he turned back to Michael. “What were you delivering and to whom?”

“We weren’t to tamper with the package, so I’ve got no idea,” Michael replied. “Said we had to deliver it to some old guy called…lemme see…”

He flicked his Pip Boy on and read out from his wrist; “Give to a John Payne.”

This seemed to get their interest, Michael noted, before Fox Helmet said; “I’ll have that package, Michael Anston.”

“Whoa, hey, not so fast here,” Michael said. “I can’t just go handing it out to anyone. That’s not what I was paid for.”

He noticed the change in the body language of the Legionaries surrounding Fox Helmet, hands resting on the grips of weaponry, leaning forwards slightly and he stepped back, before eh said; “Hey, look, let’s take things from the top here, alright? What about some proper introductions, huh? You know me, so can I ask what your name is?”

“Vulpes Inculta,” Fox Helmet replied. “Frumentarii of Caesar’s Legion.”

“Vulpes Inculta, right,” Michael said, nodding. “You mind if I call you Vulpes?”

Michael guessed that he was being frowned at, but beneath the goggles and the outlandish helmet that Vulpes Inculta wore it was impossible to tell.

“If you really have to,” the Frumentarii replied slightly icily.

“OK, great,” Michael said. “Look, Vulpes, I’m not gonna lie; you try and jump us and take this package, then, well, it’s eleven on four; you’re gonna get it. But, we’re all armed, we’ve all fought people before; we aren’t just some townies who just rely on walls to keep us safe. So, you try and take it, it’s yours, but we’re going to do some damage, aren’t we, you’re going to lose people. But, and here I am guessing that this package of yours is important, if you go back to Caesar with a full-strength raiding party as well as whatever it is you’re looking for like when you came out, then that’s going to make you look good.”

Vulpes Inculta was quiet for a moment, before he said; “What do you suggest?”

“Well, we were being paid on delivery,” Michael said. “So you give us the fee for it, we give you whatever’s in this package and then we part ways amicably like civilised people.”

“How much was the delivery?” Vulpes Inculta asked.

“Five hundred caps,” Michael said, pulling up the highest plausible figure he could.

“I’ll give you two aureii for it,” Vulpes Inculta replied.

Michael was about to press it, before he looked at the Legionaries that had him and his small group surrounded and decided against that course of action.

“Alright,” he said. “Can’t really argue with that, can I?”

He withdrew the small cardboard-wrapped package from the satchel he carried it in, and passed it over to Vulpes Inculta, who handed over a few small golden coins in return. Michael bit one of them to check if it was genuine, before he nodded.

“Alright,” he said. “Good doing business with you, Vulpes.”

Vulpes Inculta nodded, before he said; “A final question for you, mercenary; one of our long-range patrols out here disappeared a few weeks ago, one lead by a Decanus called Calidius. Do you have any idea what happened to them?”

“Afraid not,” Michael said, thrown for a moment. “Must have run into the NCR or something.”

Vulpes Inculta shrugged.

“I thought as much,” he said. “We’ll be returning to the Fort now that we have this.”

Michael nodded.

“Anything worth taking here?” he asked, gesturing to the stricken town around them.

“We haven’t looted much, no,” Vulpes Inculta replied. “You’re welcome to help yourselves.”

He nodded to the Legionaries under his command, and they headed for the town’s gate past the rest of Michael’s small group.

“Ave, Brutus,” he said to the massive man as he passed him, the mercenary returning the greeting, and with that they left.

Michael looked around the half-destroyed town, before he shook his head.

“Well, we definitely got the short straw there,” he said. “Damn, can’t believe it.”

“We got paid, didn’t we?” Ed asked. “And we got out alive.”

“I suppose,” Michael said, eyeing the two coins he’d bee given. “Not as well as we could have been.”

He shrugged, before we said; “We’ll split this once we get back to the strip. Might as well see what we can take while we’re here.”

This post has been edited by Colonel Mustard: Jan 26 2012, 08:16 PM

...Why no shootee head off?...Arnaud shootie Vulpes' head off...So why no shootie head off?...

...

The first time I got to Nipton...My Fallout Farn character walked up to Vulpes, suffered his waffle (not a euphamism) and then blew his head off...and while yes, he barely made it out in one piece, took all of the rest out...Arnaud was well unimpressed...

But that's just me... ...

As for yer story...Oh-ho-ho yes!!... ...

Loved it...

Nipton was brilliantly realised, not a pretty place...

The indoor campfire scene was excellent... ...

Loved this...



That made me laugh...Brilliant characters...Brilliant scenes...

Needs more Ripley... ...

But that's just me... ...

Nice one!!!... ...

*Applauds heartily*...

Awesome story man, i realy like that. You should publish somewhere in blogs or something you are good writer.

McBadgere: In answer to your question, well,from what I'm guessing, this Arnaud fella of yours is a heroic badas$. Michael, on the other hand, is a cowardly, greedy, self-serving swine; there's a big difference.

I'm having a lot of fun working Michael's rather odd form of pacificism into the story, and it does make for some interesting dilemmas in a world as violent as the Mojave. And Ripley should poke his ugly face into proceedings in the next chapter, don't worry.

Gerun: Thanks very much! I never really considered blog publishing before, but I might well give it some consideration now that you mention it. Cheers!

*

Ooh, you should make the mod! Urk, I hate Cazadores! Oh no, Nipton! I've got memories of guard dogs there, lol.

Awesome meeting with Vulpes Inculta, (loved his character in game!) really loved the interchange the trio had with him! Great Write!

*

Malx: But I don't have the ub3r 1337 skillz to do that. Or New Vegas on my PC. So how would I do so? HOW?!

Vulpes sequence was rather fun, even if it was simply because it went for the rather unusual approach of bargaining with him and then, instead of telling him to mend his Wicked Ways ™ just asked nicely if there's any loot. It's surprisingly fun to write a character as amoral as Michael.


Anyway, more is here. As of this chapter, I have decided that I hate both the King and the Kings for having such confusing interchangable names. Damn them. Damn them all…

Also, before anyone yells at me for getting it wrong, I’ve taken a bit of creative license with the King and made him a little older than he appears in the game. He always just felt like he should be slightly older than he is with his voice, so I figured I’d just roll with that idea. Whatever, it’s creative license and art and stuff. So, y’know, complaining about it actually means you’re oppressing art and freedom of speech, which probably means you’re a Communist or something.

Commie…

Chapter 9

All in all, I guess Nipton wasn’t a complete train wreck. Hardly our biggest success, but we got out of it with our hides in one piece and with a bit of cash as well. As for the loot, well, Nipton was a hole in the ground even before the Legion came, and all that we found that was worth any caps was a laser rifle that Abby picked up which she decided to keep. So with that done, we saddled up and headed back to base. I wasn’t too worried about taking flak for giving the package to the wrong person; oh, we delivered the package, yeah, picked up some supplies and headed back here. Really? The Legion raided the place and burnt it to the ground? Jesus, what are the chances?

The walls of concrete chunks and detritus that surrounded Freeside and New Vegas finally hove into view, the buildings within spearing skywards, and Michael grinned as they approached.

“Good to be back home, eh?” he asked as they made their way along the cracked road they were travelling along, in the shadow of an ancient and crumbling raised freeway.

“I’ll be feeling better once I’ve had a nice cold beer or something,” Ed remarked.

“I’ll drink to that,” Brutus remarked with a chuckle.

Michael nodded as they trotted further onwards. The journey wasn’t long, and the most major hazards that they had to deal with were a few potholes, and soon enough they’d reached the east gate of Freeside. The gate’s infamous sign, a massive construction of ramshackle scrap metal with ‘Freesid’ spelt out on it in flickering neon letters, was still intact, and they guided their horses to the base of it where Freeman Ike’s stables were.

There was a trio of Kings hanging out by the metal gates to the stables, the place’s security, wearing their usual uniform of leather jackets and jeans, and Michael and his small party suddenly got their attention as they approached. One of the stepped forwards as they reached it, flicking his burnt-down cigarette into the dust, and said; “You’re Michael Anston, aren’t you?”

It wasn’t so much a question as it was a statement, and Michael pulled his horse to halt.

“Who wants to know?” he asked.

“The King wants to see you,” was the answer he got. “Now.”

“OK,” Michael said. “I’ll go see him once we’ve got our horses stabled.”

“No, he wants to see you right now.”

“And you expect me to take horses into Freeside?” Michael said. “Someone’d steal and eat the damn things before I could blink.”

“Not my problem.”

“Well,” Michael said, dismounting and approaching the King who’d challenged him. “Tell his majesty I’ll be right over once I’m done with the horses.”

The King stared at him for a moment, before he said; “Fine.”

“Good,” Michael said, patting him gently on the cheek. “Go on, off ya go.”

He turned away from the ganger, heading through the open gates of the stables as the others dismounted and followed him into the dusty yard. There were a few horses tethered in place underneath a corrugated iron shelter, out of the sun as a stablehand groomed them, and there was the sound of whinnying and whickering from the barn that dominated the far corner.

“Hey, Freeman!” Michael called. “Freeman!”

There was no reply, though the stablehand gave them a glance, and Michael said; “Go fetch your boss, kid.”

He got a nod, and the kid hurried to the wooden building that sat next to the barn. He knocked on the door, and it was pulled open by a rotund, flabby man in a vest and stained trousers.

“What is it?” he growled past a smoking cigar.

“It’s me, that’s what,” Michael called over with a grin. Freeman saw him and smiled with stained teeth, before he said; “Michael! Good to see you back in town already.”

He glared irritably at the stablehand and added; “Go get their horses already.”

“Good to be back,” Michael said as the kid took the bridle from him and lead it away. “Though I was getting lip from the guys at your gate just a minute ago. What was that about?”

“Oh, yeah,” Freeman replied, taking a puff from his cigar. “King was getting antsy about that little base of operations you’ve got set up in Freeside. Apparently he had some people knocking on your door just yesterday only to find you were out of town.”

Michael frowned.

“You know what he wants?” he enquired.

“No idea,” Freeman answered with a shrug. “All I know is he wants to see you.”

“Eh, fine,” Michael said. “Oh yeah, how are those horses I sold you?”

“Those Legion ones?” Freeman asked. “Managed to flog ‘em off for a pretty good price to some Chairman in a fancy suit and some Khan bodyguards; going on some trip to Goodsprings or somewhere around there, I think he mentioned. Anyway, it was good of you to send ‘em my way on the cheap.”

“No problem,” Michael, a man who knew the value of an unreturned favour, said. “Hell, they’d have been more trouble for us if we’d kept them.”

He shrugged, and said; “Anyway, I should probably go find out what the King wants with me. Probably isn’t anything good.”

“Well, best of luck, then,” Freeman replied. “Try not to wind up dead, will ya? You’re a good customer.”

“Believe me, I’ll be doing my best not to,” Michael said with a grin.

They made their way into Freeside, heading towards their old cinema through the dilapidated half-ruin that was New Vegas’ outer slum. The streets seemed quieter at the moment, more subdued; you didn’t last long in Freeside if you couldn’t smell trouble, and there was tension in the air.

“Lot of Kings about,” Brutus remarked quietly.

Michael nodded, seeing members of Freeside’s impromptu law enforcement lounging on street corners or old lampposts. They weren’t doing anything and there didn’t seem to be more than usual, but Michael couldn’t shake the feeling that they were being surrounded. The King believed in the rule of law and the rights of man, he told himself, and if there was anyone who’d at least let him speak his peace it would be him; the Kings wouldn’t just surround them and shoot them down, that wasn’t his style.

They reached the final run of the Strip, where the King’s School of Impersonation was as well as their own base, the tinny music that played from the School echoing across the street emptily. Michael slung the satchel that he carried off his shoulder and handed it to Brutus.

“Go head back to the base,” he said to the ex Legionary.

“You sure you don’t want me in there?” Brutus asked,

“Nah, I need to look like I’m willing to play nice and, no offence, but you’re not gonna make that kind of impression,” Michael said. “Besides, if the Kings decide to jump us then I doubt there’s all that much you could do about it anyway.”

“Alright,” Brutus said. “I’ll see you later.”

Michael nodded, and headed towards the King’s School of Impersonation.

I’m not gonna lie; I was pretty damn nervous about this whole meeting. The Kings had one hell of a lot more muscle than Anston and Co., and if they decided to kick down our door then we were done for. But if I could talk him round, then we should be good. Of course, this was the second time I had to negotiate from a weak position in the last couple of days, and believe me when I say it isn’t a fun situation.

“Hold up,” one of the Kings said with a raised hand as Michael entered the main theatre hall of the King’s School of Impersonation. “Any weapons?”

Michael pulled out his pistol and handed it to him without argument. The King nodded, and quickly patted his pockets down.

“He’s clean,” he called over his shoulder.

“Send him through,” another voice ordered, and the King who had just searched him nodded.

Michael stepped past the ganger and sat down in the chair proffered to him, next to the King of Freeside.

For a man who carried such authority in the slum, he was a rather unimpressive sight in many ways. His thinning hair, styled in a quiff, was streaked with grey, and more than a little belly protruded over his belt, but Michael knew from the way that the Kings that surrounded him looked at him with respect proved him their undisputed leader. He was in the presence of someone powerful, and if he didn’t tread carefully then he would invite that power to come crashing down on his head.

“You’re worrying me, Mr Anston,” the King said as Michael sat down. He had a deep, rich velvety voice, one that would probably be able to sing one hell of a song if he put his mind to it. “I can’t say I like that.”

“That so?” Michael asked carefully. “Might I ask why that is, Mr, uh.”

He paused for a moment, and said; “Actually, before we go any further, what do I call you? King, Mr King, Your Majesty?”

“King will do just fine,” the King replied. “And as for why I wanted to speak to you, well, as I said; you’re worrying me. You’re throwing your weight around Freeside, and there are quite a few concerned citizens out there who asked me to have a word with you and ask what the hell you’re doing.”

Michael nodded, before he said; “OK. Throwing our weight around how, exactly?”

“I would have thought that, all things considered, that would be pretty obvious,” the King said. “You seem to have beaten a lot of people up, and I had Mick over from Mick and Ralphs and some merchant named Feyman complaining to me that you full on threatened to kill them. Now, back then I thought you might be some run-of-the-mill gang of thugs, but then you put on a radio ad, and suddenly you’ve got yourself a little base of operations just down the road. That stinks of ambition, and there are a good number concerned citizens here in Freeside who are worried that this place isn’t going to be big enough for you people as well.”

“Who’re these concerned citizens, then?” Michael asked, deciding it would probably be good for him to find out exactly who it was that he could find himself up against.

“Well, Julie Farkas from the over in the old Mormon Fort mentioned you people just a few days ago,” the King said. “And Gloria Van Graff was all for busting the doors of your base and letting you know what’s wrong with threatening her business. You should be thanking me, you know; I was the only person who managed to talk her out of it.”

Michael managed to control his expression for the moment, but that was worrying; the Van Graffs, a merchant family armed to the teeth with energy weaponry and with their own small, but elite, group of guards in their employ, were hoping to go after them. He wouldn’t stand a chance if they decided to.

“The Van Graffs?” he asked, injecting his tone with confused concern. “Why the hell are they going after us? We’re not a threat to their business.”

“Gloria didn’t seem to think of it that way,” the King replied. “She thinks you’re dangerous, too ambitious.”

Michael was quiet, nodding slowly, before he said; “Well, I guess I can’t say I blame her. I won’t lie to you, King, I am an ambitious guy. I dream big, and I want to make those dreams real some day. But if she thinks we’re a threat to her business then I’d tell her myself that we’re not interested in selling energy weapons.”

“I think she was more worried about the number of heads you were breaking,” the King replied, leaning back in his chair.

Michael shrugged.

“Look,” he said. “We’re mercs. Breaking heads is what we do. If you wanted us to stop that then we’d have to find some whole new way to make caps and, frankly, I’m not too interested in stopping. And I’ll admit it; we’re not exactly saints around here. But, if you’re worried about our modes of operation, then don’t be. We’re concerned with doing business in a nice, civilised manner, and we’re not the sort who’re dumb enough to crap on our own doorstep.”

“So what’s that mean, exactly?” the King asked.

“Simple,” Michael said. “We carry on doing our work, but when we do jobs in Freeside we don’t touch anyone important to business, none of the Van Graffs or the Followers or anyone like that. I can’t say our work isn’t going to involve us killing people here, because that’s what it’s about, at the end of the day, but to be honest most of our work isn’t going to be in Freeside anyway, so you don’t need to worry.”

The King was quiet for a moment, and Michael took that as a cue to continue.

“Look,” he said. “I can appreciate that you’re concerned, but you don’t need to be. I’m not here to turf everyone out of Freeside and burn the place to the ground. I’m here to do business, first and foremost, and if that means playing nice, then fine, I’ll play nice.”

The King nodded at this.

“Alright,” he said. “That’s fair. But I’ll be keeping an eye on you, Michael Anston, and I reckon there’ll be other people in Freeside doing the same. Just keep that in mind, son.”

“I’ll be sure to,” Michael said, standing up and extending a hand, which the King shook. “Was a pleasure talking to you, King, and I’m glad we got this little misunderstanding straightened out.”

I paid a little visit to the Silver Rush and talked things over with Gloria Van Graff (something that was even more nerve-wracking than speaking to the King; he’s a reasonable guy, but the Van Graffs are armed with some of the most powerful weapons in the Mojave and that harpy’s on a hair trigger even at the best of times). Anyway, I explained to her that I wasn’t out to get the Van Graffs or anyone else in Freeside, and as a token of my goodwill I bought a nice new plasma pistol from there and offered her a discount on any jobs she’d want us to take up on. I don’t think I made her actually like me, but she doesn’t like anyone much and so long as I don’t have them trying to kill me I’d probably be alright.

Of course, the real lesson in all this was that I wasn’t playing this game carefully enough. The others had been willing to let stuff slide now I’d explained it, on account of me being a new player without a full understanding of the rules, but now that I was in the know I knew that they wouldn’t be so willing to do so again. I’d have to play nice and careful and, God forbid, might even have to turn down jobs if they meant I started treading on people’s toes. Because if the Kings or the Van Graffs decided they wanted us out of town we were done for. Maybe some time in the future, things would change, but until then I’d have to be careful.

But I wasn’t going to quit just yet.