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]

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