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]

McBadgere: Thanks very much! I'm pretty pleased to have them back too, and the stuff I've got planned is looking to be a lot of fun.

Eva: And I would've gotten away with not writing this if it weren't for you kids and your darn meddlin' dog!

Wait a minute, that isn't right...




Also, go to page 1 to check out my awesome cover!


Chapter 11

“So here we are,” Michael said as they drew up to the imposing gates. “Camp McCarran, NCR-Central.”

The gates to the former airport were large, imposing things, heavily fortified with a guard tower on either side and sandbagged emplacements on the front, every position armed with a machine gun and bristling with barbed wire. On top of each tower was a searchlight, switched off in the daylight, their large round lenses facing towards the wasteland beyond it; Camp McCarran was right next door to Fiend and Great Khan territory, and the gate to the Mojave’s second most heavily guarded fortress was well kept.

As Anston and Co approached on horseback, the machine guns swivelled to face them, the soldiers standing sentry took aim with their rifles and even a few grenade launchers and a woman wearing the pips of a lieutenant picked up a microphone and called out; “Stop right there! One of you forward to identify yourselves, or head back the way you came now!”

Michael trotted his horse forwards ahead of the rest of his company, dismounting near the gate and approaching the lieutenant on foot. She had a carbine in her hands but she lowered it as he came close. The other soldiers kept their weapons raised.

“Your name, stranger?” she asked.

“Michael Anston, of Anston and Co,” Michael said. “We were asked here by Doctor Hildern, to do some work here.”

“I see,” the lieutenant said, pulling a walkie-talkie from the pocket of her fatigues and flicking it on. “Come in Terminus, this is Gatekeeper, come in Terminus, over.”

“Gatekeeper, this is Terminus, what can we do for you, over,” the small device crackled.

“We’ve got seven people here who claim to be part of a mercenary company, name of Anston and Co,” the lieutenant said. “They say they’ve got an appointment with Doctor Hildern. Please confirm, over.”

“That’s right, Gatekeeper, let them through. Terminus out.”

“Stand down!” the lieutenant ordered her troops. “Alright, Anston, your people are good to go. Somebody get this gate open, let ‘em through! Private Rheese!”

“Yes ma’am?” a young soldier with a baseball cap with a pair of goggles above its sunshade perched on his head asked.

“Escort these people to Doctor Hildern’s lab,” the lieutenant said. “Make sure they don’t get lost.”

“Yes ma’am,” Rheese nodded. “Follow me please, sir.”

The heavy gates swung open as Michael signalled the rest of the company to join him. They dismounted, Brutus getting a few suspicious glares from the soldiers at the gate, and made their way through. The area beyond them was a large, flat plain, occupied primarily by rows of tents, though here and there were larger buildings made from brick, scrap metal and concrete. A road surrounded the entire plain and a platoon of soldiers was jogging along it, being yelled at by an NCO as they went.

“You can put your horses here, sir, and then I’ll take you to the lab,” Rheese said, gesturing to a large building just by the gate. “It’s the patrol stable, but our cavalry troops are out at the minute so there’s room.”

The horses were stabled and Rheese led them around one of the rows of tents, past a wall of mesh boxes filled with rubble.

“What’re those things?” Michael asked, pointing at one of them.

“Mortar defences, sir,” Rheese said. “For when the Fiends send ordnance strikes our way; all that rubble catches the blast and shrapnel.”

“Good thinking,” Doris said.

“Yeah, that’s the NCR’s Fifth Engineering Division doing their work,” Rheese replied. “Those guys are full of bright ideas like that.”

“They fix this whole place up, then?” Michael asked as they went around the perimeter of basketball court, where a small group of off-duty NCR troopers were in the middle of a game.

“Just about,” Rheese said. “Turned this place from an airport surrounded by chainlink fence into a goddamn fortress.”

‘Fortress’ was the right word for McCarran, considering half the things you heard about the place; ask just about any NCR trooper about it and he’ll be happy to run his mouth about how great the five thousand personnel and vertibird wing they have there is. Credit where it’s due, they keep the Fiends and the Great Khans from overrunning the place, but the way they go on about it you’d almost think that President Tandi herself was buried there.

Abby gave a sudden yelp of shock, glancing around her before her gaze settled on a tall, rangy woman in NCR combat fatigues and a red beret. She lowered the sunglasses she was wearing to grin and wink at her before heading on her way.

“What she do?” Ed asked, casting a suspicious look her way.

“Pinched my a$s,” Abby murmured.

Up ahead, Rheese pushed open the doors of a larger building, and gestured for Michael and the others to follow. They were lead into the atrium of a large building, one that had been refurbished into a command centre of some kind, bustling with personnel who were examining maps and models of the Mojave detailing troop movements, talking into long-range radios or working with computers, the scene overlooked by a the NCR’s flag. Anston and Co got a few glances as they headed through, the eclectic company of mercenaries sticking out in the sea of khaki.

The private knocked on a door covered with a plethora of warning notices, and it was opened a few moments later by a young woman in a labcoat. She shot Rheese a curious look, and the trooper replied; “These are the mercs Doctor Hildern asked for.”

“Ah, I see. Which one of you is in charge?” she asked.

“That’s me,” Michael said.

“Good,” the scientist said. “I’m afraid it’ll just have to be you who comes in; there isn’t enough room in the lab for your entire company.”

“Sure,” Michael replied, and the young woman stepped back from the doorway, into a room occupied by small plants growing in pots along shelves. There were sensors of some kind sticking into the soil, running back to a computer terminal, and a chemistry set on a desk off to one side.

“Doctor Hildern?” the young woman called through a doorway. “That mercenary you hired is here to speak to you.”

“What? Ah, very good.”

A man with greying hair took Michael’s hand and shook it.

“Doctor Thomas Hildern,” he said. “Office of Science and Industry.”

“Michael Anston, Anston and Co. Good to meet you, Doc.”

“The pleasure is all mine, Mr Anston,” Hildern said. “Now, I suppose you must be wondering what I’ve asked you here for.”

“Details on a job are always useful,” Michael nodded, leaning on the doorframe.

“Of course, of course,” Hildern said. “The work I am asking you to do is one of utmost importance, one that could help improve all human civilisation for the better.”

He gestured to the plants on the shelf, and said; “We get almost all of our food via agriculture, but even though we’re able to provide enough food to support our population, demand is constant and in this climate, it’s difficult to grow enough to meet it; the soil here is dry and not particularly fertile, and in order to keep plants growing at the NCR’s sharecropper farms we need a great deal of water and artificial nutrients to be shipped in. But I believe that we might be near finding a solution to such a problem, a means to let plants grow in almost any climate imaginable. To turn the Mojave from the barren wasteland we know today into a series of green fields that provide enough food to feed the entire NCR.”

“That certainly sounds interesting,” Michael said, deciding to not comment on the fact that the speech sounded rehearsed. “But what’s that got to do with my company?”

“Simple,” Hildern said. “Not far from here, to the northwest, there is an old Vault, one where plant are spilling from the entrance and are growing in abundance even though they are not being tended or watered. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you of the sort of technology that’s stored away in those places, and I believe that there is something down there which holds the solution to this food issue. Get to the Vault’s server room, download any research data that is there and return it to me.”

“What’s the pay?” Michael asked.

“Your company will be given three thousand caps for the job,” Hildern said. “And any technology you can salvage down there is yours to keep; all I’m interested in is the data.”

Michael was quiet for a moment, a look of indecision flitting across his face.

“Is there a problem, Mr Anston?” Hildern asked.

“Yeah, I’m just thinking of something,” Michael said. “I mean, you’ve heard stories of most of those Vaults, right? Some of them are crazy dangerous, aren’t they? Full of ghouls, mutants, mad robots, radiation, all sorts of things, and the safe ones have already been picked clean. This place has been sitting wide open for, what, two hundred years with nobody going in there to scavenge from there or live in it, so what does that say to you?”

“You’re afraid of going in there?” Hildern asked.

“Of course not,” Michael said. “What I’m saying is that right now the current fee doesn’t reflect the inherent risk of this job.”

Okay, that’s a lie; three thousand caps plus all the fancy Vault-Tec loot we can take isn’t to be sniffed at, even when split between the company, but Hildern didn’t need to know that.

“Perhaps you’re right,” Hildren said. “I suppose I can stretch the budget to another thousand caps; it’ll certainly be worth it in the long run. How does that sound?”

“Sounds good to me,” Michael said. “So we get to the server room, wherever that is, download the data and get it back here. Nice and simple, I like it.”

He stepped away from the doorframe.

“I’ll see you when I’ve got that data for you,” he said.

“Actually, wait a moment,” Hildern said. “I do have somebody with you who might be useful; he’s an expert on pre-war technology, and considering the nature of Vaults he could be helpful, and he’d like to come along.”

“Who’s that?” Michael asked.

“Nick!” Hildern called. “Come in here, would you?”

A young man with dark hair and a small, thin moustache poked his head around the door. He glanced at Michael with a look of uncertainty and asked; “What do you need, Doctor Hildern?”

“Nick, this is Michael Anston,” Hildern said. “He’s going to Vault Twenty-Two, and I was thinking that you could come with him.”

“Oh, is, er, is that so,” Nick said. “I see. Er, hello.”

Michael extended a hand. Nick hesitated for a moment, unsure of what to do, before he shook it.

“Michael Anston,” Michael said. “Good to meet ya, kid.”

“Nicholas Telsen,” Nick replied. “It’s nice to meet you too, Mr Anston.”

Hildern pressed a hand into Michael’s shoulder in the universal gesture to show that he wished to have a private word, and lead him to a corner.

“Nick’s an absolute savant,” the doctor said. “But he’s not so good with people. Trust me, though, he’ll be useful in the vault.”

“If you say so,” Michael said.

“Good, good,” Hildern proclaimed, smoothing down the lapels of his lab coat. “If there’s nothing else, then I suggest you head on your way to the Vault.”

Michael nodded, and said to Nick; “C’mon, kid, let’s be on our way.”

They left into the main body of the lab, and were about to head out of the door when the young woman who had greeted stepped in Michael’s way.

“Anything you need?” he asked.

“Yes, there is something,” she said. “I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation, and that Hildern didn’t mention Keely at all.”

“Who-ly?”

“She’s one of the OSI’s researchers; she went to the Vault a few days ago to take a look at it herself.”

“She did?” Michael said. “If it’s fine to send a scientist there, why does Hildern want a merc company going in there?”

“He didn’t mention the others? Dammit,” the young woman muttered. “Let’s start from top. I’m Angela Williams, assistant researcher for the OSI.”

“Good to meet you,” Michael said. “But what others?”

“Other mercenaries,” Nick said. Michael glanced at him, and the scientist looked embarrassed at speaking, but managed to scramble together some more resolve to speak. “You guys aren’t the first.”

“You’d be something like the third or fourth bunch that Doctor Hildern has sent, in fact,” Angela said. “You’re the biggest group he’s hired by far, but he’s sent other mercs the way of that vault; none of them have come back. Keely decided to go on her own initiative.”

“Would’ve appreciated it if Hildern had added that little detail in,” Michael said. “But let me guess, you want me to see if Keely’s alright and get her back?”

“That’s right,” Angela said. “There’ll be a reward for you if you can do it. I can’t spare much, but if you’re going there anyway, I’d appreciate it if you looked for her.”

“Yeah, of course,” Michael said. He glanced over at Nick. “Why do you want to come along on a high-risk mission like this, though?”

“I want to help find Keely,” Nick said. “She was always nice to me and Doctor Hildern…he isn’t that great as a boss.”

“By which he means to say he’s a bully who takes credit for the work everyone else here does,” Angela said. “Look after him, will you?”

“I’ll do my best,” Michael said. “But if he gets in the way, I’m sticking him up top to wait outside.”

“Fine by me,” Angela shrugged. “So long as he stays safe.”

Michael nodded.

“I’d best be on my way,” he said. “We’ve got a job to do, after all.”

Vault Twenty-Two. If there was ever a job that made this company what it was in our little golden age, it was that one; sure, it wasn’t the biggest job we did, it wasn’t the best connected one and it didn’t get us noticed by any big figures, though I’d say it was probably one of the most dangerous we ever did.

But Vault Twenty-Two was the job that made Anston and Co. It was the job that proved to us that we could actually take mercenary work somewhere. It was the job that showed us that we might actually have the balls and the brawn and the brains to make it big.

And all things considered, I guess that that was because Vault Twenty-Two was the job that nearly killed every last one us.

This post has been edited by Colonel Mustard: Feb 16 2013, 01:27 AM