Once Upon a Time in New Vegas, Money? Money never changes... Options

[Colonel Mustard]

Greetings and salutations, good folk of Chorrol.com forums! I return once more to these fair forums bearing a tale I would add to your vaunted archive of work, a tale of the Mojave Wasteland, a story of intrigue, betrayal and greed, a prelude to the epic chronicle of the Courier. For who were the people who made the great changes wrought upon this place possible? Of course, we all know of the plotting of Mr. House, the ambition of Caesar and Benny, the hopes of the NCR, but what, I ask you, of the little people who made all of that possible? What of those who brought all of these grand plans together, the real unsung heroes of that great story?

Sit back and relax, my friends, and prepare to be told the tale of those who made everything possible, a true tale of the Mojave Wasteland and of New Vegas, first told by the Softworkers of Bethesda and related to you now, in the hope you might take pity on a traveller and grant him food and shelter for a night.

Prepare to hear the tale of Anston and Co.

"Lack of money is the root of all evil."-George Bernard Shaw

Chapter 1

"Oh god, please I'm begging you, please stop, just please stop, please, I-"

The length of wood thumped down and silenced the pleading, reducing it to nought but whimpering through broken teeth. The figure on the floor curled up in a ball, trying to shelter his head from the blows the two baseball bat wielding individuals standing above him would bring down. It did him little good, another slamming into the back of his skull with painful thud.

"What the hell are you doing?!" Michael exclaimed, snatching the bat away from Ripley's hand before he could hit him again. "We were paid to mess his face up, not kill him, idiot!"

He shook his head, before prodding the prone figure with the tip of the bat.

"He still alive?" he asked.

"He's still whining like a little kid, if that's what you want to know," Alex said, nudging his victim in the stomach with his boot.

"Good," Michael said as the pleading began once more.

"I've got caps," he sobbed desperately. "You want them, take them. Just please, damn it, please stop. I'm begging you here."

The nudge became a kick.

"Shut up, pal!" Alex snapped, snarling. "Jesus, some people don't get the hint, do they?"

"Way you've been hitting him, I'm betting he's not gonna be taking many hints all that easy now," Brutus remarked with a chuckle. "Mike, how come I can't have a go on him?"

"You're six and a half feet of muscle and steroids, that's why, idiot. You'll kill him with one damn hit," Michael replied with a dismissive shake of his head. He sat down on his victim's bed, smoothing down the lapel of the dirty suit he wore, before he said; "You know why we're here, George?"

From his place on the floor, George shook his head.

"Because you're a moron, that's why," Michael said. "Because you didn't think about who you slept with, and now you've got to pay for thinking with your damn loaf of bread."

All he got was a whimper of frightened pain, and he shook his head. He wasn't expecting much else anyway.

"Hey, boss, I was doing a little thinking of my own," Alex said, pushing George onto his back where he clutched at his ruined face. There was the same smile on his face that he always wore when he was thinking of something particularly nasty. "You know you've got that saying yours, about importance of the customer?"

"Oh yeah," Michael said. "'The customer is the most important part of the job,' that's the one."

"Yeah, right, well I was thinking, maybe we should do a little more on George here," Alex said, prodding his prone victim's crotch with the tip of his bat. "Y'know, going the extra mile for the customer? I mean, seeing as our friend here thought of this before anything else, maybe we could make sure that our, uh, offending article could be made to think twice."

Michael nodded, a slow grin crawling across his face.

"Of course," he said. "I mean, hey, what does Anston and Co. value more than its beloved customers? We're always willing to do a little extra for them, Alex, always. We've got a reputation to keep up, after all." Alex smiled, before the bat thudded down and George screamed.

"Hey, I think I just realised how good maintaining customer relations feels," he announced cheerfully.

"Value the customer, that's what I've always said," Michael said. "And speaking of which…"

He pressed a few buttons on the Pip-Boy 3000 on his wrist, tuning the inbuilt two-way radio, before he said into it; "That Mr Palson there?"

"It is," came a gruff reply. "Who is it?"

"It's Michael Anston, of Anston and Co." Michael answered. "About a certain individual you asked us to deal with."

"You got him?"

"Bleeding, rolling on the floor and crying like a damn baby," Michael said. "Hey, Brutus, pick him up and get him over here, will you?"

Brutus reached over with his massive robotic arm, the pincer at the end roughly picking up his victim by the shoulder and hauling him over to the bed.

"Georgey," Michael said to him warmly as he was dropped next to him. "I've got Mr Palson on the other end here. Y'know, the man whose daughter you dishonoured? I reckon you've got something to say to him, haven't you?"

George nodded slightly drunkenly, before he said; "I'm sorry for messing around with your daughter, Mr Palson sir. It won't happen again."

"It had better not," the voice of Mr Palson said. He chuckled. "Sounds like you did a real number on him there."

"Well, we take our job seriously," Michael replied. "But believe me, he won't be luring any decent young women into his clutches again any time soon, don't you worry about that."

"Glad to hear it," Palson said. "You head back here and I'll settle your payment."

"Just give it to Doris, she should still be around," Michael said. "Remember, redhead chick? She'll be picking it up for us."

"Oh, your young lady friend," Palson replied. "I'll get it to her, don't you worry about that. Thanks very much."

"The pleasure is all mine, Mr Palson," Michael said. "Be sure to hire out Anston and Co. for all your future violence-based needs."

"I think I might just," Palson said. "I'll have someone contact you again if I ever need your, ah, services. Palson out."

Michael grinned as he flicked it off, before he stood up and crouched next to George.

"Now, Georgey," Michael said cheerfully to his victim, who was near falling into unconsciousness. "What have we learned today, then?"

"Not to…not to mess around with…the wrong ladies," he managed to slur in reply, looking at Michael with unfocussed eyes.

"Very good," Michael replied patronisingly, patting him on the head. He grimaced as his hand caught a smear of blood from the hair, and wiped it off on George's shirt. "Now don't do it again, or we'll have to come back and finish the job, and we don't want, do we?"

George shook his head.

"Atta boy," Michael said. "Glad we've got an understanding, eh? Now you keep out of trouble, friend!"

He straightened up, adjusting his fedora before he strode out of the door, with a triumphant announcement of; "Gentlemen, our good deed for the day is complete. Now let's go and collect our well-earned reward, shall we?"

He led the way through the grimy corridors of Freeside's Weatherly Hotel, tipping his hat to the old woman who sat the ancient desk at the foyer of the hotel. She simply watched him go warily, the small sum of caps Michael had given her in exchange for George's room number already disappeared into a strongbox.

Being paid made everything look better, Michael said, even as he looked upon the dingy slum that was Freeside, baking in the heat of the Mojave summer. The sun shone down mercilessly, beating off tarmac and concrete, and most of the residents that could be indoors were hiding to escape the heat, while beggars and vagrants huddled in the shade afforded to them by the ruined buildings.

"How come I had to come along for this job?" Brutus asked as they made their way down the cracked and worn street.

"Freeside ain't safe, is it?" Michael said. "People would be trying to jump us all over the shop if you weren't here to scare them away." "I could," Alex said.

"Alex, you're a goddamn kid," Michael replied. "A baby molerat isn't gonna be scared by you. I mean, three guys going along here by themselves, they'll think we're not too hard a target. But if there's four of us, and one of them's some big guy with a giant pincery robot arm, then they're gonna think twice about it, aren't they?"

"But I like the Strip," Brutus protested.

"All you'd be doing is gambling your hard-earned caps away or spending it to get balls deep in some guy in Gomorrah," Michael said. "I'm doing you a favour, buddy."

"He's gonna be doing that anyway," Ripley pointed out. "I was planning on it."

"Since when were you into guys?" Alex asked.

"I meant with a ghoulette, idiot," Ripley snapped back. "God, you're stupid sometimes."

"Hey, shut up," Alex retorted.

"Oh, both of you can it!" Michael exclaimed despairingly. "Y'know, sometimes I wonder why I even bother with you people,"

They drew up at the gate to the Strip, the mesh fencing and crude concrete barricade blocking their way to the jewel of the Mojave. As always, the small guard of Securitrons was manning it, and one of the machines wheeled towards Michael, the cartoonish policeman on the screen at the centre of the bulky blue robot's chassis scowling at him.

++State your business++ it demanded, its artificial voice harsh and grating.

"Just heading onto the Strip," Michael said.

++Credit check++ the Securitron said brusquely, in reply to which Michael held up a slip of paper.

"Corporate pass," he said. "Anston and Co."

There was a whirr, before the machine announced ++Pass verified. Carry on through++

The gate slid open as the Securitron wheeled aside, and four fifths of Aston and Co. stepped through into the most wondrous place on earth.

Even in the middle of the day, the New Vegas Strip glowed, neon ablaze even in the harsh glare of the sun. To their left rose the vacant Lucky 38 Casino, the sign advertising its famous revolving restaurant vandalised by some joker long ago to replace the second 'V' with a harsh black 'T'. On the other side of the street, bedecked in crackling flames of ionised gas, Gomorrah beckoned with the gaudy lure of debauchery and pleasure, while the Tops promised riches galore right down to the suited guards standing outside. Vault-22's unbecoming façade seemed to both hide and flaunt the potential hidden below, while the Ultra-Luxe sat apart and aloof from its base brethren.

Michael ignored these beguiling sights for one that he found standing before him. Sunlight glistened off red hair, pouting crimson lips smiled at him alluringly, and Doris stepped forward from the kerb to grab Michael in an embrace and kiss him. So what if that beauty was through the work of the expensive, rare commodity of makeup? She still looked damn good in Michael's eyes.

"Hey baby," he said after a moment, still holding her waist and grinning at her. "How you doing?"

"I'm not happy, hun," she said. "You know I don't like it when you go off for work when you're supposed to be having fun. And you dragged the others with you as well! That ain't fair on them, sweety."

"Told you," Brutus said slightly triumphantly. "Hey, I got an opportunity and I took it," Michael said defensively, kissing her again. "What's wrong with that?"

"Oh, honey, you shouldn't just waltz off like that," Doris protested half-heartedly. "You know I don't like being excluded from things."

"Hey, it was dirty work," Michael replied. "You know I don't like you getting involved in that stuff."

"So busting Raider dens, doing drug runs for the Khans and getting knee-deep in mirelurks and molerats ain't dirty work?" Doris asked.

"Ah, c'mon, you were having such a nice time at the Ultra-Luxe I thought it wouldn't be fair to drag you away," Michael said. "Besides, you know me; I take an opportunity when I get it. That's why you hooked up with me, baby. You said I was destined for great things, remember? I had the ambition you looked for in a guy."

He kissed her again, and she giggled slightly.

"Forgive me?" he asked.

"Alright, honey, you know I can't stay angry at you for long," she said. "And I suppose we've got the rewards of this little opportunity taking, ain't we?"

"'Xactly," Michael said. "Don't say I don't treat you nice, eh?"

"Hey, lovebirds," Alex interjected. "You gonna give us our caps any time soon?"

"Alright, alright," Michael said. "Doris, sweety, you got 'em? Don't want all my hard work being for nothing."

"Yeah, your hard work," Ripley muttered.

"Hey, I'm the brains of this operation," Michael retorted. "And delegation is part of leadership, isn't it? Besides, I ended up getting blood on my hands; you know how I hate it when that happens."

"Oh boohoo," Ripley said sarcastically. "Anyway, the caps?"

"Sure, sure," Doris said, pulling a pouch from her pocket. "Payment was two hundred and fifty caps, so fifty each."

"Ah c'mon, that's barely enough to get a lapdance or nothin'," Alex complained.

"Hey, they've got slot machines and roulette tables in Gomorrah, haven't they?" Michael asked. "Might get lucky and win big. Besides, what happened to the rest of your cash?"

"Lost it all in poker," Alex mumbled, blushing slightly.

"Typical," Ripley muttered, the ghoul shaking his head.

"Ah, just blush like that around a couple of rich-looking ladies and they'll probably take pity on you," Brutus said. "It's what you always seem to do, anyway."

"Hey, I'm a charmer," Alex said. "What can I say?"

"Whatever works for ya," Michael said, handing out the caps. "You guys go and enjoy your night."

"You not coming with?" Brutus asked.

"I'm not letting my Michael into that place with you people," Doris declared. "I'd be a single woman before the morning."

"And be with some moneyed up Chairman by the next," Ripley remarked disparagingly, getting a vicious glare from Doris.

"We'll be at the Tops," Michael said. "You want to meet us tomorrow?"

"Sure, outside the Lucky 38," Brutus said.

"Great," Michael grinned, clapping his hands together. "Go have a little fun, fellas."

The three turned towards the hive of sin to drink and gamble the day away, and as Michael and Doris began to wend their way to the tops the redhead laid a hand on his arm and said; "Hey, sweetie…"

"I know that voice," Michael said, an edge of humorous weariness to his voice. "You're gonna ask me for something, aren't you?"

"You know me too well, hun," Doris said. "I was wondering though; could I borrow a few caps?"

"What? What happened to the ones you had when we came here?"

"Oh, come on, it's the Strip," Doris protested. "What do you think happened to them?"

Michael shook his head despairingly.

"God dammit, did you lose them on the slots again?" he asked.

"What? I like those," Doris protested. "You can win real big."

"Doris, I've told you a thousand times, the slots are a goddamn scam," Michael said. "The odds against you are way too high."

"Hey, people win on them," Doris protested as the couple stepped back onto the curb towards the spacious driveway of the Tops.

"Well yeah, a couple of people win on them so they can fool everyone else like the gullible suckers they are," Michael said, before hastily adding; "Not saying you're one though, baby. But we're using these caps on the poker table, alright? That's how we'll win big."

"Whatever you say, sweety," Doris replied somewhat half-heartedly, but as they approached the doors of the Tops, one of the suited guards pulling it open for them, Michael wasn't listening.

He could already feel the money flowing into his pockets.

This post has been edited by Colonel Mustard: Feb 28 2013, 01:59 PM

[Colonel Mustard]

Author’s Note: As of a couple of recent ideas, the original idea I had for this story’s plot has changed drastically. The original plan, a prequel for Fallout: New Vegas where Anston and Co. get the Platinum chip (no, it’s not a spoiler if it doesn’t actually happen, be quiet. Especially you, Clive, I don’t care what you think, shut up, shut up, this is why you don’t have friends) has now been scrapped in favour what I can only call a wildly different approach to the Fallout: New Vegas storyline. Though it’s not really the storyline at all. It’s complicated.

Long story short, what I have planned will be both extremely different to what you know from the tale of the Courier (who doesn’t look set to feature, though that’s open to negotiation) and at times rather familiar. Basically, different story, same time period. And, of course, the same recourse of betrayal, brutality and dark humour. Because that stuff’s fun.

And now, ladies and gentlemen, on with the show!

P.S. Also, I’ve added horses into the story from this chapter onwards. They always struck me as fairly practical for getting around the wasteland with, so I figured I’d include them.

P.P.S. The Latin in this chapter was taken from an online translator, so if you’re a Latin buff and you find the grammar’s terrible then it’s not my fault. But feel free to call me up on it anyway, and I’ll fix it.

Chapter 4

“Why am I even here?” Feyman whined as he stumbled on a pothole in the parched, hard earth of the Mojave desert.

“Because,” Michael said. “We don’t trust you enough to just send us to the wrong rock and get the hell out of town before we get back to kick your head in, that’s why.”

He looked at the great expanse of dry, compacted earth, bordered by distant mountains to the north and the Colorado to very east, the direction they were headed now. If Freeside was hot, it was worse out here, the sun beating on dead earth mercilessly. The only breaks in the terrain were a few rocky outcrops and the half-collapsed skeleton of a house, while New Vegas lounged opulently behind them to the West.

“God, I hate the desert,” he muttered, tugging at his collar, sticky with sweat.

“Maybe if you didn’t wear a suit all the damn time that wouldn’t be a problem,” Ripley said in his usual hoarsely disparagingly tone.

“Hey, my suit is a damn fine piece of tailoring,” Michael said. “Besides, I’m a businessman. I’ve got to look the part.”

“We’re in the middle of the desert,” Ripley said. “Who the hell’s gonna care?”

“I’ll care, that’s who,” Michael replied defiantly, taking a swig of water from the canteen he had in his pocket.

Not really listening to their conversation, Feyman broke in; “And why am I paying you people to do this to me?”

“You’re employing us as bodyguards to protect your person in the dangerous area of the eastern Mojave,” Michael said, slightly exasperated. “We went over this in Freeside, remember?”

“And what are you supposed to be protecting me from?” Feyman challenged.

“Us putting a bullet in you and leaving you for the coyotes, that’s what,” Ripley said.

“Exactly!” Feyman exclaimed. “This isn’t bodyguarding, it’s blackmail!”

Michael shook his head, before he glanced over his shoulder at Doris, a few metres behind them and said; “Doris, can you have a turn looking after the idiot here? I’m getting bored of hearing him talk.”

“Fine,” Doris said reluctantly, trudging forwards a little faster as Ripley and Michael dropped back.

“Look, boss, in all seriousness, I’m kind of worried about the big guy here,” Ripley said, nodding to Brutus at his place in the front, the giant ex-legionary’s bionic left arm whining rhythmically as he walked. “For all we know, this job could end up with us shooting at these Legion guys that Feyman’s supposed to be meeting, and I’m not sure whose side he’s going to be on.”

“Brutus has got my back,” Michael replied. His usual hyperactively flippant tone had gone for a moment, his high-pitched, slightly nasal voice more serious for a moment. “We can trust him.”

“Look, I know he’s been with you for a while, but you know how loyal Legion folks are supposed to be to their Caesar guy,” Ripley replied.

“I said we can trust him,” Michael said. “And we’re gonna trust him.”

Ripley shrugged.

“Fine,” he grated. “But if we end up having to put a bullet in his head then don’t say I didn’t warn you, boss.”

Michael shrugged, and continued to trudge onwards through the desert.

#

I suppose a bit of an explanation is in order before I get any further; most of you are probably wondering why Caesar’s Legion were stooping so low as to nick weapons from the Gun Runners, ain’t ya?

Basically, turned out those weapons were going to the NCR’s armouries through the Gun Runners. A Legion scouting party heard about it and decided to steal them all instead, deny supplies to the enemy, and then, so they had some way to get rid of them somewhere where the NCR couldn’t just find them and pick them up, sell them off to various merchants around the Mojave to make them pretty much impossible to get back. So they contacted Feyman somehow and he agreed to sell them on for them, dispose of them quietly. Only problem for them was us. Still, the guys aren’t Fiends; I was hoping we might be able to negotiate a deal with them. Do things nice and civilised.

“I can see people coming,” Ripley announced, sighting through his scope.

“How many?” Michael asked.

“I count ten,” the ghoul replied. “All on horseback, Legion gear.”

“That must be them,” Feyman said.

“Yeah, wonder what gave you that clue?” Michael muttered. “Alright everyone, let’s keep nice and calm. No need for things to turn into a shootout.”

Alex made himself scarce, Ripley moving up to a firing better position, while Doris made sure her lighter and a few sticks of dynamite were in easy reach. Michael remained standing next to his unwilling client, while Brutus quietly watched the riders approach through the miniature canyons formed by the ridges of this part of the Mojave’s hillier region. Gap Tooth Rock was the biggest of the lot, more like a small hill than anything else, and from their position they could see the horsemen get closer, breaking free of the rocks and gently trotting towards the slope before them, machetes, rifles and machine pistols within easy reach should they choose to use them.

“Feyman,” the one at the front called out, the distinctive feathers around his headdress marking him out as Decanus, the leader of the group. He glanced at the members of Anston and Co. who were visible. “Who are these people?”

“These are-” Feyman began, before the Decanus held up a hand for him to be quiet, looking over at Brutus and asking; “An tu, Brute?”

“Etiam,” Brutus replied. “Non novi vos diu, Calidius.”

“The hell are they saying?” Doris asked Michael while the one Brutus had addressed as Calidius dismounted to talk to his gigantic former comrade.

“It’s Latin,” Michael said as the two continued their conversation in their foreign tongue. “Just let him do the talking for now, alright.”

He frowned after a moment, and then said; “He’d better not tell them about the job we’re doing here.”

Calidius broke off his conversation with Brutus before he headed to Michael and said; “I understand that you’re currently Brutus’ employer.”

“That I am,” Michael said warmly. “Michael Anston, C.E.O of Anston and Co.”

“Indeed,” Calidius said. “Decanus Calidius of Caesar’s Legion. Brutus tells me that you’re currently accompanying Mr Feyman here in the capacity of bodyguards.”

“That’s right,” Michael replied. “Something about a weapons pickup.”

“Yeah, about that-” Feyman began, before Calidius interrupted with; “Later. It’s fortunate you’re here, Michael Anston. We might be in need of some help.”

“Help’s what Anston and Co. do best,” Michael replied. “For a price, of course.”

“Decanus,” one of the mounted Legionaries behind Calidius asked. “You aren’t going to be employing…mercenaries?”

The last word was spat out, layered with contempt.

“The Legion has employed auxiliaurii before,” Calidius replied. “Besides, we have good grounds to.”

“What’s your problem?” Michael asked.

“There’s an NCR patrol that has been tracking us for the past day,” Calidius said. “We need your help with dealing with them.”

“What’s in it for us?” Michael asked.

“The Legion’s coffers should be able to spare you five aureii, if you’re willing to help us,” Calidius said.

“Sounds fair,” Michael said. “But I’ll want half up front.”

“What?” Calidius asked.

“Company policy, in case you try to rip us off,” Michael said. “All contracts have a fifty percent down payment for expenses and as a deposit. No up-front pay, no job, and you’re dealing with those NCR on your own.”

Calidius glowered at him, before he fished into a coin-purse at his belt and produced a handful of gold and silver coins.

“Two aureii and twelve denarii,” he said, passing them to Michael, who quickly counted them before pocketing them in the inner pocket of his suit. “That should be the right sum.”

“Seems good to me,” Michael said. “So, whaddya want us to do for you?”

#

“So we’re just gonna lead these NCR people into a trap?” Alex asked. “What if they don’t buy it?”

“They probably won’t,” Michael said. “So we’re gonna work for them instead. Tell them where the Legion ambush is, surround that and deal with those guys, then get the guns and return them to the Runners. It’s perfect.”

“What about the guns?” Doris pointed out. “We don’t know where they are.”

“We’ll leave a Legion guy or two alive to grill,” Michael replied. “No problem.”

“Still sounds risky,” Alex said.

“Look, it ain’t perfect but unless you can think of anything better it’s what we’re doing,” Michael replied. He surveyed the parched, scrubby plains before him, watching for anything approaching, noting a small group of riders rounding a small hillock. “Looks like someone’s coming. Could be the NCR.”

“Or Fiends,” Ripley said.

“The Fiends are out west, idiot,” Michael said. “Take a look at them through your scope or something, will you?”

Ripley glanced down it after a moment, before he said; “Yeah, looks like NCR.”

“Alright, good,” Michael said. “Alright everyone, just let me do the talking.”

The riders got closer, khaki NCR uniform visible for all to see, and Michael waved at them, their steady canter slowing to a halt as they drew near.

“What can I do for you?” their leader asked, a sergeant’s chevrons on each shoulder.

“You’ve been tracking a bunch of Caesar’s Legion, right?” Michael asked them, getting a frown from the Sergeant.

“How did you know that?” he asked.

“I got paid by them to lead all you guys into an ambush of theirs up the road,” Michael said. “But I figured I wouldn’t do it.”

Their leader nodded.

“Thanks for the tip,” he said. “Where is this ambush?”

Michael held a hand, shaking his head.

“Ahuhuh,” he said. “Not so fast, sarge. There’s gonna be a price involved.”

“It’s not NCR policy to pay mercs, I’m afraid,” the sergeant replied.

“Then just think of it as rewarding a good citizen for his contribution to local security,” Michael said. “Alternatively, you could just walk on not knowing exactly where this ambush is. Maybe you’ll all make it out alive, maybe not.”

The NCR sergeant looked thoughtfully at him for a moment, before he said; “How does one thousand NCR dollars sound?”

Michael quickly did the maths in his head, before he said; “Sounds fair.”

“So where are they?” the sergeant asked, throwing a bundle of the dollars held together with an old elastic band to Michael, who flicked through them quickly.

“Camped out over Broken Tooth Rock,” Michael replied. “Waiting for us to lead you to them. You loop round to the east and then move up behind it from the north and you can beat them at their own game.”

“Sounds like a plan,” he said, before nodding to the Pip-Boy on Michael’s wrist. “That thing got a working radio on it?”

“Sure does,” Michael said, flicking on Radio New Vegas for a moment to demonstrate, a brief snippet of a saxophone solo playing sounding through before he snapped it off for a moment.

“Good,” the NCR sergeant replied. “Set it to frequency nine three point two. I’ll give you a few clicks on it when we’re in position. Distract them until then, got it?”

“Understood,” Michael said. “We’ll be heading back. Oh, yeah, we need one of them alive, if you can do that. Got some info want to grill them for.”

The sergeant nodded, pulling the reins of his horse out to east and cantering away, followed by the other seven troopers with him.

“That went well,” Michael said, flicking through the bundle of notes once more before pocketing them. “Good work everybody.”

“We didn’t do anything,” Ripley pointed out. “We just let you do the talking.”

“’xactly,” Michael said. “You did good work doing nothing and letting me do the talking. That’s teamwork, ain’t it? And you kept Feyman there nice and quiet.”

I didn’t really want to drag that crapsack around with us, but I was worried he’d blab to the Legion about us, so I didn’t have much choice. I couldn’t really gag him without the NCR asking questions, so I just had Ripley hit him whenever he opened his damn mouth to say something. It worked, and Ripley seemed to like that job.

As they turned back, Alex suddenly said; “Hey boss, I thought you said that you didn’t want us to rip off customers. That it was bad for business.”

“I said it was bad for business if you don’t get away with ripping off customers,” Michael countered. “I mean, a Legion patrol disappears in the middle of enemy territory; who the hell is gonna question that? We, on the other hand, look good for helping out the NCR.”

Alex shrugged, before he said; “Makes sense.”

Anston and Co. headed back to defraud one of their customers.

#

The radio had clicked twice just as they were nearing Broken Tooth Rock, stepping into the bowl just by the outcrop where the Legion had wanted them to lure the NCR forces. There was silence, before Michael called out; “Bad news, fellas!”

After a moment, Calidius stood, and called; “What happened?”

“NCR didn’t take the bait,” Michael said. “Went off somewhere else.”

The Legionary shook his head, and Michael added; “And you’re not getting the down payment back.”

That got him a vicious glare, before Calidius asked; “Do you at least know where they went?”

“Yeah,” Michael replied. “Right behind you.”

To his credit, Calidius didn’t hesitate as he turned to see the rifle-holding NCR trooper who had emerged from where he was creeping up behind him. The Decanus’ submachine gun chattered as he emptied the magazine into the soldier’s chest, bullets punching crimson holes into the man’s torso as the rest of the ridge erupted into gunfire. Anston and Co. scattered, diving to what little cover they had as the Legion tried to fire upon them and the NCR forces who had crept up behind them at the same time. Michael grabbed Feyman and dragged him behind a rock, his nine-millimetre pistol in hand, and growled; “Don’t try anything, got it?”

Calidius did not bother reloading his weapon, dropping it and scrambling over the rocky slope toward Brutus, a look of pure fury on his face as he charged. A bullet from Ripley’s rifle scraped against the metal plate that he wore as armour for his shoulder, but he kept going, unslinging a fire axe from his belt. Brutus simply stood there quite calmly, machete in one hand, his claw raised and ready.

The metal pincers closed round the haft of the axe and pulled it away, stumbling Calidius before the blade of his machete sunk between the vulnerable, unarmoured join between his shoulder and neck, forcing the Legionary to his knees. The blade was not particularly sharp, but with its sheer weight and the power behind it that point was purely academic, and crimson trails already began to leak from the wound.

Calidius snarled at Brutus, even as bloody foam began to leak from the corner of his mouth, and with his dying breath he managed to choke; “Lanius should have killed you instead of just chopping your precious arm off, traitor.”

He collapsed as Brutus wrenched the gore-spattered blade free, the brief but furious firefight already over, the outnumbered and surprised Legionaries no match for their opponents, half of them already dead before they knew combat had even begun.

The NCR sergeant headed down the sloping sides of the hill, towards Michael, a fairly young looking Legionary with his hands bound by coarse twine in tow, the kid looking abjectly miserable.

“Good work there,” he said. “Saved a lot of good lives there, and we couldn’t have done it without you.”

“No problem,” Michael said. “Besides, we had a job to do.”

The sergeant nodded, and said; “I won’t intrude. Still, on the behalf of the NCR I’d like to thank you.”

“Just be sure to consider Anston and Co. for any future violence you want inflicted on people you don’t like,” Michael replied with a grin. “See you round, sarge.”

The sergeant nodded, pushing his captive to his knees before turning round to the other NCR troopers who were on the ridge, searching the bodies of the dead.

“Got two minutes to finish grabbing any ammo or weapons you need from these guys, then we’re mounting up!” the sergeant called as he headed back up the slope with a final nod to Michael.

“Alright,” Michael said, turning to the Legionary and clapping his hands together with a malicious grin as Brutus approached, wiping blood off his machete. “So, buddy, what do you know?”

“I won’t tell you anything,” the kid replied defiantly.

“Yeah you will,” Michael said. “Kid, we just massacred your friends and we don’t have any reservations about hurting you real bad to get what we want. Don’t be a hero; just tell us what we want to know and we’ll let you go.”

“You don’t scare me,” the young Legionary replied, but there was an edge of uncertain fright to his voice.

“We should,” Alex said from behind him, resting the razor tip of one of his knives on the top of his head. “Whaddya want me to take off, boss? An ear? Both?”

“Don’t hurt him too bad,” Michael said. “Yet.”

The blade ran along the top of his skull, drawing a trail of blood that gently welled up around the blade, stopping just above the spinal cord. The Legionary hissed in pain, gritting his teeth, before Alex withdrew the blade. Michael leant down on one knee to be at eye-level with him.

“We’re good at hurting people, kid,” Michael said. “You don’t want to find out just how good, do you?”

His nerve broke.

“Alright, want to do you want to know?” he asked in terror.

“Your people stole a whole load of weapons,” Michael said. “We want to know where they are.”

“With the horses!” the kid blurted. “Just south, only a hundred metres or something that way!”

Michael nodded, before he said to Alex; “He’s no use. Kill ‘im, will ya?”

One of his knives stabbed into the back of his neck and the Legionary slumped forwards onto the dusty, stony ground, limp and helpless as a ragdoll.

“Come on,” Michael said. “Let’s go get those weapons, shall we?”

He grinned.

“And hey,” he added. “Free horses!”

This post has been edited by Colonel Mustard: Dec 13 2011, 08:23 PM