dead man's hand

[graveyardirt]

I'M NOT DEAD ☾ I'M LONG LOST

henry hino ☾ intro ☾ threads ☾ musings ☾ pinterest

bri ☾ twenty-seven ☾ cst ☾ she/her

[lireos]

Andrew Koji as Ah Sahm Warrior 1.03 | “John Chinaman”

[vcgasnights]

⸻ 𝐎𝐏𝐄𝐍 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐑

𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆 @newvegas-start

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐍𝐄𝐖 𝐕𝐄𝐆𝐀𝐒 𝐂𝐈𝐓𝐘 𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐄𝐔𝐌 rises from the heart of the city — polished stone, its façade washed in floodlights that try very hard to make it feel holy.

ari stands across the plaza, hands clasped behind their back.

new vegas — rebuilt, rewired, renamed a dozen times in a dozen systems — hums behind the museum in layers of neon and scaffolding. towers stitched together from casino bones. transit lines threaded like surgical sutures between structures that were never meant to touch. holographic advertisements drift lazily overhead, selling futures that feel secondhand.

ari is older than the myth being sold inside those walls. older than the committees that curated the museum. older than the narrative now projected as heritage.

they remember it all, not nostalgia — data.

“the architecture favors spectacle over longevity,” they murmur, almost to themselves. their voice carries without rising. smooth. frictionless. “reinforced at stress points visible to the public. structural compromises elsewhere.”

ari tilts their head a precise fraction, tracking the rotation pattern of the outer security detail. “cultural sanctity increases perceived value. perceived value increases risk tolerance.” a pause. “it also invites correction.”

they exhale once, slow. “they are telling a story,” ari says. “it is efficient. cohesive. but incomplete. wouldn't you agree?”

[graveyardirt]

He keeps away from The Westside out of principal. While he didn't used to be a lawless man, and perhaps still wouldn't consider himself lawless, The Peacekeepers who operate this side of New Vegas might think differently.

He prefers to stay out of their line of sight if possible.

And the New Vegas Museum felt like a beast in its own right. Isn't it where he belonged? A man stuck living in the past? A fossil in his own right? For all its knowledge, he didn't care much for the museum either, yet another reason to stay out of Westside.

Unfortunately, life had proven time and time again that it loved irony.

"...I don't know anything about architecture," He admits. His father had been a career military man. He no longer recalls his mother's employment, but cannot remember her ever wondering at the spectacle of sharp angles and wall trimmings. He'd offered to build Emily new bookshelves once, and she only laughed at his fool-hearted attempts at carpentry.

When he follows the line of gaze however, he realizes the architectural structure of the building may not be what is being discussed, and he finds himself confused all over again. "The security detail's telling a story of how this place has probably been robbed before," In fact, he was almost certain of that. Countless people wanted their hands on anything pre-fallout that could be even remotely of value. "Unless you meant the angles of the walls. Then I'm not following."

[lewyn-martell]

favorite lines from every song i like:

Work Song (Hozier)

[vcgasnights]

⸻ 𝐎𝐏𝐄𝐍 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐑

𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆 @newvegas-start

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐅𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐏𝐈𝐓𝐒 breathe like something living and alive.. hand-dug earth carved into a crude amphitheater, packed tight with bodies leaning over the rim, shouting odds and insults in equal measure. caps change hands faster than water in the mojave. guards linger at the perimeter — watchful, armed, ensuring the spectacle stays contained and profitable.

collette sits above it all.

spine straight. ankles crossed. gloved hands folded neatly in her lap as though she were attending an opera or ballet instead of sanctioned brutality. dust settles along the sharp lines of her coat, but she does not brush it away.

the scent reaches her first — toasted corn, cheap oil, something almost sweet — colliding violently with iron-rich blood and churned earth. popcorn cracks in paper sacks while below, a fighter is lowered by rope into the pit to meet a reaver already pacing.

the crowd surges. she does not.

then it happens — a clean right elbow. bone meeting bone with a sound too final to be mistaken. the reaver hits the ground snarling, spitting red into dirt already darkened by others before him.

collette flinches. it is small. nearly imperceptible. a tightening around the eyes. a fractional recoil of her shoulders. but it is there.

beside her, a patron laughs — loud, delighted, as though witnessing theater instead of fracture.

collette turns her head. “do you take pride in this?” she asks, voice smooth and edged with something like disdain. genuine inquiry. “or is it merely… distraction?”

[graveyardirt]

He doesn't like fighting. Not really. Not that many would believe him, anyway. Just how many fights had he ended? How many had he started? For pay, for work, or just because someone needed to be taught a lesson?

It isn't a number he wanted to count on, but its where his mind goes in the fighting pits. These were among his least favorite jobs to take. But work was work.

"Pride?" That's what he really wants to laugh at, though he shakes his head. Any pride that he'd had died a long time ago. Pride would not bring him to the ring where bloodied fists break skin and bone. For some, maybe; they wanted to prove they were the biggest and baddest around. Others needed money. Or to be distracted from their life or the world around them all. He could understand the distraction. Or needing the money.

"This is the only way half the people in New Vegas can speak to one another," He answers to her. It was a lesson that took years for him to learn. "This might be an argument at who gets the best Brahmin. Or a business deal." Truthfully, he didn't care who the winner was or why they were fighting. He does frown as fists fly and skin breaks and blood drips onto the mat below.

"I'm sure it's...entertainment for some," He looks at those laughing in awe of the spilled blood.

[whiskeyhorizon-deactivated20260]

she oughta shoot him. should've the moment she had a clear shot. now her eyes were training on that longing in his. that murky, watery brown color the shade of desert sand and muddy clay. she judges it. wants it gone. wants it far away from here, because what good does longing do in a house that's no longer his? and what was she supposed to do, just roll over and give it to him.

then without warning goes the shot- buzzes sloppily, right past his ear and missing him completely. her emotions shuffle around with her intentions and she grows madder than a wet hen at the sight. angry about the shit day she had, angry about his longing, and angry about him calling her anything but nice, because she tried so damn hard all the time to be nice!

then the wind chime, handmade by her mother, above her head rattles a pretty little tune. she grits her teeth, the old woman is dead. been dead." for almost four years. but her spirit was steady, protecting that house and unfortunately for hel, protecting the ghoul in front of her. telling her daughter to put her weapon down, and to show some compassion.

"how do i know a plague like you didn't bring in all that dust and smoke."

[graveyardirt]

He doesn't flinch, but the shot rings through his ears. She isn’t the first person to shoot at him and is far from the last to. Another warning, which came as a surprise from a New Vegas resident. If she’d wanted him bleeding out dead, he’d already be on the ground before he could blink.

He can’t really blame her. He’d shoot someone too if they reminded him on the regular of the deaths of his loved ones. Now that he’s been reminded, he recalls the conversations. Dead. Of course. How had he not remembered sooner? His ears continue to ring, only half hearing her, but he only nods like a wise sage. Which, in another life, he may have been considered - an otherworldly man with ancient knowledge. But he lives in this world, and New Vegas only sees him as another ghost wandering the plains.

“A plague. I think that’s a new one,” Having been called all series of names under the sun, only a fraction of which he understood, he finds he doesn’t mind adding a new descriptor to his collection, though perhaps not one he would have chosen for himself. “If I had done all that, I wouldn’t be out here right now,” While he’d done a lot he couldn’t remember, his brain wasn’t so melted that he was unable to recall moments from the same few days. He didn’t know what caused the quakes or the smoke. It seemed that, most days, his mind could only long for a life that no longer existed. “I just wanted to remember. If only for a little while. Is she buried nearby? Your mother, I mean,” The old woman’s smile pushes away any current events. The smoke on the horizon becomes a distant dream.

[foreignnble]

Closed starter for the world ender(@graveyardirt) Where: Wasteland, heading South

The storm wasn’t right. Phi felt it before the radio ever spat its warning. It had been a low, crawling static beneath her skin, like the desert itself was tuning into something it shouldn’t. The wind came in sideways, thick with grit and electricity, cracking against exposed metal and pulling the sky apart in violent streaks of ochre and ash. Around her, Dust Runners fanned out across the broken terrain, laying markers, as her eyes scanned the area in preparation for setting the required diversions meant to fracture pursuit lines and scatter attention. She did not know who she should expect out here. Any sane soul knew better than to go out in this weather, but then were there any of those types roaming the streets of New Vegas.

Phi moved with the others, but not among them. Circling wider, scouting higher ground and blind angles, mapping the chaos before it had a chance to become real. She hated work like this: rushed, reactive, tangled with too many unknowns. Her methods thrived on precision. This was mess, and mess was where people died. She paused atop a fractured ridge, eyes scanning the shifting horizon. That was when she saw him. A lone figure cutting through the storm like he had nothing left to lose. The World Ender. She knew him more by name, from whispers at the bar and half drunk stories. They’d crossed paths once or twice, exchanging little more than glances and silence, but she recognized the shape of him.

The wind tore at her coat as she turned, boots grinding against loose shale. “You’re real lost, real stupid, or you’re standing exactly where you mean to be...” Phi called out, voice carrying sharper than it should have through the roar. One hand hovered near her belt, fingers brushing the cool casing of a detonator as her gaze swept him, scanning weapon, posture, breath, intent. Threat or fool. Survivor or liability. -- She took a pause, brief and measuring. “Which one should I be betting on?”

[graveyardirt]

There were few who knew the wastelands better than the man who had spent two hundred years roaming them, even with his radiation logged brain and muffled memory. While he couldn’t always remember where something was, he’d learned to read the land itself. An abandoned ranch to the south, venomous viper pits, the droppings of a mutated animal too big for any one person to handle. The smoke was new. The quakes were new, and if this was another Vault Tec ploy, he’d be the first one to handle it.

But the smoke drifted in the wind and mixed with more dirt and the entire desert turned brown, like it were raining sand and smog while the earth raged under their feet.

He knew the Dust Runners would be out here too, and while he’d always maintained good terms with them, he wouldn’t let them ( or anyone, for that matter ) stand in his way.

A beat passes before he realizes that one of the Dusters called out to him amist the smoke and wind and dirt. His walk halts and his gaze meets a lone woman in the distance. “You shouldn’t be betting on me,” His scowl answers. “Unless you like betting on losing dogs,” Lost, stupid, or intentional - wasn’t he all three in one sense or another? “The Dust Runners send you out here for me?” It’s almost in disbelief. He typically stayed on their radar, but not in a capacity that would require someone to pull him back. She had to be up to something else. “What do they have you doin’ out here?”

[flamboyantly-understated]

Sorry kitten, daddy fucked with the forces that our eyes can't see and now the darkness has a hold on me

[petrashappyplace]

[facinaoris]

Our Men Do Not Belong to Us, Warsan Shire

[graveyardirt]

HENRY HINO ☾ ARCHER YEON

Although he'd stopped counting the years since pulling himself free from the dirt, he knew he'd been wandering the wastelands and New Vegas for two hundred-something, only evident by the occasional news broadcast from a radio that didn't work half the time. You'd think in two hundred years, he'd have found someone of note on his quest for revenge. New Vegas, unfortunately, was too big a place, and his mind too muffled to be of much use. The dust clouds and shaking earth beneath his feet have colored him intrigued. For the first time in what little he can remember, something seems to be coming, for better or worse. And the man known as Archer stands before him, as if hand delivered by the desert herself. He pulls his weapon before he speaks, which has become his own personal form of greeting for most he comes across. "You have somethin' to do with all this?" He asks. "Or, at the very least, you know what's caused all this?" From what he can recall, he knows he's met Archer before, but not when or where. Deep rooted hatred boils in his belly when he sees the man, but without much reason as to why. Maybe a bad job gone wrong in the past, or just a crass remark. Either way, he doesn't trust Archer - and expects some connection between him and the earthquakes. Why else show up out of nowhere?

@sleeperwound

[veinrxt]

                  DESPITE   HOW   SHE   MAY   HAVE   APPEARED   TO   OTHERS   ,   CLEM   WASN'T   FRAGILE   .   she   didn't   really   need   anyone   to   tell   her   what   to   do   ,   or   how   to   do   things   .   she   had   made   it   this   long   on   her   own   ,   away   from   her   family   and   everything   she   had   grown   up   around   ,   and   she   wished   that   people   could   see   that   truth   for   what   it   was   .   in   much   the   same   way   she   wasn't   looking   for   pity   ,   she   also   wasn't   looking   for   random   strangers   to   accost   her   about   what   she   was   (   or   wasn't   )   after.   cactus   flowers   or   otherwise   .

                  ❝   guess   it's   a   good   thing   that   i   don't   need   permission   to   look   for   it   ,   either   ,   ❞   she   pointed   out.   that   flower   was   supposed   to   save   her   life   .   it   was   going   to   save   her   life   ,   come   hell   or   high   water   .   ❝   that's   not   somethin'   you're   gonna   change   my   mind   about   ,   so   you   might   as   well   give   up   .   i'm   getting   that   flower   one   way   or   another   -   it   can't   possibly   get   any   worse   for   me   than   this   .   ❞

[graveyardirt]

"No," He unfortunately agrees. "You don't need permission for nothin'. But you do need someone to go lookin for you, right?" It would be impossible for him to contact every Dust Runner or Freelancer that explored the wastes to pull in a favor to stop one person from getting the flower, but he could start more rumors to its effects. Scare the girl enough away from it that whatever life she had would be better than sharing his own curse.

"What do you want it for, anyhow?" As a younger man, the worst thing he thought could happen would be dying a painful death, except he'd done that already and lived to tell the tale. Not much scared him anymore. He did little out of the goodness of his heart, there wasn't much goodness even left in his heart. But if he could stop someone from following down his own damned path to hell - especially someone who'd be chewed up and spit out by the wasteland, maybe his next life would be given some grace. "I've tasted what it can do. Ain't nothin worth what it takes from you.”

[whiskeyhorizon-deactivated20260]

hel considered herself to be a very agreeable person. she had to be with the types of characters that wound up at her doorstep looking for a free meal, a couple of stitches or a place to sleep for the night. she was fair, considerate and respectful, so long as you didn’t mistake her kindness for weakness. ask anyone who did and you’d hear crickets. they made themselves scarce, of course.

that’s the thought that’s running in that fiery little head of hers, when she is the first to draw her weapon.  “listen here, hino.” – well, that and how much of a shit day she had, with the earthquakes and all. on a regular, less shaking earth, though, she doesn’t think she would be hesitant to threaten henry for trespassing again. “that’s close enough. now take your sorry ass out of here. we’re not doing this again.” 

[graveyardirt]

Guns don't frighten him anymore. At least, not in the way they used to. The wastelands and inhabitants of New Vegas spoke the language of violence. If he wanted to communicate with anyone, he'd had to learn it too. The weapon was no more than a warning - and he wouldn't expect her to hesitate to use it neither.

Hino. Right. He recalls the two characters that make up his family name. He looks over the woman - if she were really angry with him, she would have shot first and threatened him second. The fact alone he still stands with longing behind his eyes is just enough for him to continue doing so. "Where's the older woman?" He asks instead, recalling the pair. "She's much nicer." She'd invite him in for water, at least. He'd apologize for the old scorch marks that were undoubtably a cause for concern for the new inhabitants. He'd ask to see the baby's old room - which had been painted a boring eggshell white, not the soft green he'd promised Emily, and then he'd be on his way like always. "I don't have anything to do with that dust or...smoke in the air, if that's what you're wondering."

[kojiandrew]

Unreleased stills of Andrew Koji as Ah Sahm & Jason Tobin as Young Jun in WARRIOR Season 2 (2020)

[amyccarrow]

who: james & open || @newvegas-start where: el cortez hotel & casino

James came in coughing and spluttering. It was just his luck, to be almost done on a job and get caught in a dust storm like nothing he'd ever seen before. He'd managed to get out, somehow kept his head and navigated his way to safety, despite barely being able to see his own feet, but he'd lost his haul in the process.

Now he just needed something, anything to drink. "Y' got any water?' He rasped, approaching the first person he saw. Wincing at the scratchiness of his voice. "or anything else that can help me shift this damn cough..."

Stopping talking would probably do him a world of good, but as he slowly got more oxygen in his lounges, his mind was starting to boot back up and ask questions, "Y' have any idea what's going on out there? Seems like the whole sky's turned to muck...."

[graveyardirt]

He didn't care for casinos. Too many people lost their lives at the rise and fall of card decks. No one seemed to learn there was no winning for anyone but the house. He stayed away, unless business drew him there. Or smoke, it seemed. If there was a smell, he hadn't noticed. Not until those around him began tucking indoors, not for relief from the sun, but out of concern of the darkening skies.

No. He didn't have any water. At least none he was yet willing to share. He only shakes his head - answering both questions in one. "They got a radio in here?" He asks. Best way to hear at least someone talking about something that might explain the sudden change.

[veinrxt]

                  WORD   GOT   AROUND   TOWN   FASTER   THAN   SHE   WOULD   HAVE   LIKED   .   it   was   one   of   those   things   that   you   had   to   get   accustomed   to   .   whispers   in   hallowed   halls   about   who   was   seen   where   doing   what   ;   people   who   wanted   to   know   everything   about   each   newcomer   that   blew   into   town   .   and   ,   of   course   ,   if   you   looked   different   ?   well   ,   that   was   tenfold   .

                    those   who   were   good   at   sneaking   around   ,   being   quiet   ,   shouldn't   have   been   a   surprise   to   her   -   yet   they   always   were   .   ❝   damn   .   why   doesn't   anybody   ever   knock   ?   ❞   she   asked   ;   not   to   the   stranger   in   particular   .   rather   ,   just   in   general   .   ❝   i'm   not   looking   for   advice.   you   here   outta   the   goodness   of   your   heart   ,   or   what   ?   ❞   she   continued   ,   not   sure   she'd   buy   it   if   he   said   that   he   was   .   no   one   did   stuff   for   that   reason   alone   .

[graveyardirt]

"Knocking implies asking for permission," He counters, as if the answer were obvious. Knocking meant a warning, but his presence was already just that. He isn't the type to make house calls, not unless the circumstances call for it. But talks of the wastes and flowers...well...that did get personal. To his home, his life string. "I'm not asking permission. Stop looking for it," He feels like a father disciplining a child. Stop dating that boy. Don't stay out so late. Don't bite the hand that feeds.

"It hurts more than it helps," That, and he didn't particularly want anyone sniffing too close to his home, or curse anyone to share his same fate. "Whatever you need it for, it's not worth it."

[soundofbloom]

GHOST RIDER, 2007