To start reading IKROAH from the beginning, click here.
To find a specific issue, click here for the table of contents or click here for the blog archive.
IKROAH is also mirrored on Archive of Our Own.
Issues #1-12 were originally posted to my main blog. They are reblogged here with internal archive links attached at the very end. As of Issue #12, comics are posted directly to this blog, and transcripts are included with the production notes and original pencils beneath the “keep reading” cut. As of Issue #24, the size of IKROAH’s pages are increased.
Content warnings for It Keeps Right On a-Hurtin’ include but are not limited to graphic violence and gore, depictions of or references to homophobia and transphobia, depictions of or references to familial abuse, allusions or references to rape, allusions or references to suicide, and major character death. These warnings are purposefully broad because IKROAH is an ongoing work in-progress for which specific, detailed warnings cannot be easily provided. It therefore can and should be generally assumed that as a fanwork of a Rated-M video game, this comic will by and large contain content for mature readers. Please understand these warnings and read IKROAH at your own risk if they may upset you.
i cannot stress enough that absolutely no part of the above video is a joke or exaggeration. she's very much real and she's very much happening and she's very much Coming For You
When did I get, where did I,
why am I lost as a lamb?
When will I know, where will I,
how will I learn who I am?
—“(Theme from) Valley of the Dolls,” Dionne Warwick (1967)
It Keeps Right On A-Hurtin’
#29 - Dead Money I
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Notes / Original Pencils / Transcript:
Notes:
I know that it took just over a full calendar year to get to this issue after the Volume 3 cover, but the thing is that it was a pretty major year for me. After experiencing some significant and transformative life events, I replayed Dead Money and withstood levels of catharsis so powerful that it could have registered on the Richter scale. It also gave me a very vital refresher before I dove back into IKROAH. I mentioned it in the cover notes, but I've been looking forward to "the Dead Money arc" since I first put pencil to paper back in 2020. The scripts were written in 2021, and have underwent revisions here and there since, but for the most part have simply been loaded in the chamber for four years and counting. It's finally time to fire the bullets.
Original Pencils:
Well, it's obvious that there's another art shift. Originally, I wanted to keep doing it in the style of the last few issues of IKROAH and my Vol. 3 cover, but here's the thing: I've realized that I hate digital coloring. I want to do it as little as possible from now on. So I finally decided to learn, actually learn, how to ink worth a damn, using the Vol. 2 Omakes as a warm-up of sorts, and the result that you're getting is these stark and moody black-and-whites. I thought about tinting them red, but it just didn't look as crisp. I can certainly color them if I want to, but outside of single simple images, it's just such a timesink and a soulsuck for me as an artist. It took literally a whole day to draw the third page, I can't imagine needing to still color it on top of everything else.
My new approach to art means that there is very little distance between what's on my paper and what ends up on your screen, and that's how I like it. Still, there's a little trickery involved: to prevent misalignment with the digital blueprint (my panel borders and lettering are all still digital) or mistakes with inking that I can't undo, I've started drawing full bleed background images on their own piece of paper, and then drawing standalone panels and other elements on a separate one. Then it all gets Frankensteined together pretty easily without looking too incongruous or overly digital.
Below, you can see me experimenting with washi tape on the first page to try to get my panel outlines clean; it worked decently enough, but was just so much more trouble and finicky than just doing them separate. Still, it's been a great trick for when I need to prevent runoff from one drawing onto another. You can also see an unused variation of Agnes sprawled out in front of the fountain. While a good pose, I think it ultimately read better if the panels kept the same shot. There's also an inking test of the old man's hologram, because I wasn't sure how I'd represent the etherealness of it without color. But I think I did alright.
Due to production being divided across multiple pieces of paper and also due to just being absolutely in the zone, I didn't get scans of all the pencils before I started inking. If you're a really big fan of that sort of thing, sorry! I'll get it next time.
To my earlier point of realizing that I hated digital coloring, I actually tried working on this issue earlier this year, but I wound up scrapping my entire first attempt because I just straight up wasn't happy with it. The only thing that I still have saved is what would have been the first page of that version:
And while it's not... it's not bad, but I'm much happier as an artist that I changed direction.
Transcript
UNKNOWN LOCATION. It's dark.
???: Get up. Now.
EXT. SIERRA MADRE VILLA. AGNES SANDS is face-down on the ground, at the base of a FOUNTAIN.
???: Not sure why the mutant just dumped you there. Could have been picked apart by the villagers… or worse. Careless.
AGNES remains on the ground, immobile for a few more moments, until--
She begins to rise to her feet.
???: Ahh, you can still stand. Good. If you couldn’t… dead weight.
???: Listen to me.
AGNES has fully risen to her feet. Sweat drips down her face. Some stubble dusts her chin and jawline-- how long has she been out cold? As she stands, she realizes that--
???: There’s a bomb collar around your neck. Ensures compliance. Three others here, same as you. Collars connected... Radio.
AGNES's hand comes up to her collar instinctively. She can feel the metal thing around her neck, locked in place with a sturdy metal clasp. Her eye darts around in panic.
???: Listen.
AGNES looks toward the voice. It's a hologram of an OLD MAN, standing atop the long-dry fountain. The figure is bearded, wild-haired, and wearing tattered, heavily damaged robes of some kind.
OLD MAN (emphatic): If any of you die...
The OLD MAN stands with his back turned toward Agnes, hands clasped behind it. It leers at AGNES over its shoulder.
OLD MAN: ...then you all die.
AGNES SANDS IN: IT KEEPS RIGHT ON A-HURTIN'
VOLUME 3: LEFT MY HEART IN THE SIERRA MADRE
The FOUNTAIN is situated in the center of a dilapidated VILLA nestled beneath a plateau. Buildings surround AGNES and the OLD MAN in disrepair and mid-collapse. Dense CLOUDS both hang in the sky and wisp throughout the streets of the villa.
OLD MAN: You-- all of you-- will have to work together for this. Cooperate. Obey. It's, ah... it's a heist. The ultimate heist, and you're a part, now. You're all parts.
OLD MAN: The greatest technological treasures of the Old World, preserved for centuries beneath this Cloud-- all of its secrets and mechanisms, its controls--
OLD MAN: --they’re all somewhere in there.
The OLD MAN turns his gaze upwards, towards the plateau. Atop it sits a massive, monumental building.
OLD MAN (reverent): The Sierra Madre. You must get inside… you, and the others.
OLD MAN: Do as I say and you can go free. You can all go free. But refuse me, or fail me, or turn on each other… or if you try to take the treasure for yourself? ...Then there’s the collars.
The OLD MAN remains fixed on the SIERRA MADRE. AGNES, on the ground beneath and behind the hologram, follows its gaze, until the OLD MAN turns his head toward her again.
ELIJAH: I need you to find the others who are here, and quickly. Bring them back to this fountain. More instructions then.
The OLD MAN's gaze turns further downward.
OLD MAN: Your Pip-Boy, it can... track the other collars, pinpoint their signals. ...It’s fortunate that you have it. I've... I've had no way to communicate with others, here... for quite some time.
The OLD MAN's gaze suddenly softens.
OLD MAN: Everyone before you? Besides the others here now? They all died without my guidance. So many failed attempts, all such…such a waste, of preciously finite resources.
Then, the OLD MAN smiles again. Staring at AGNES. AGNES stares back, horror solidifying on her face.
OLD MAN: But you, heh-- you’re exactly what I need.
OLD MAN: : You've been given your task-- go. I will tolerate no more delays. No more greed, no more treachery, no more failures.
AGNES turns away from the fountain, tracking one of the collar's signals on her Pip-Boy already.
OLD MAN: I have waited... far too long for what’s mine.
As AGNES leaves, the hologram on the fountain CHANGES, as the OLD MAN evidently signs off.
SFX: FWWSHZT
In his place is a hologram of a WOMAN in an elegant dress.
It Keeps Right On a-Hurtin’
Volume 2 Omake Collection
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Do these jokes make no sense to you? Better read IKROAH Vol. 2 if you haven't already! Or re-read it if you have, now, because it's the perfect time to catch up.
Remember the first omake collection? From Volume 1? From 2021?? Well they're back! And long overdue for Volume 2, which concluded in May of last year, and which hasn't been succeeded by anything except the covers to Volume 3 which were posted almost a whole year ago.
A big reason for the hiatus was that I once again had to try to completely relearn how to draw; the fact is that I am sick to death of digital coloring and post-processing and that meant I had to finally face my oldest artistic bugbear: inking. Real, actual inking with real, actual ink, and not just bullshitting it like I feel like I've been for years now. These omake strips provided the perfect opportunity to practice a new approach to inking with quick, dirty, simple strips, and I think the results speak for themselves.
Hand-lettering, however, was definitely a mere experiment and not one I think I'll stick with. My hands are too shaky to consistently write legibly, and fucking it up feels so much worse than fucking up anything else with a permanent marker. So that's the one thing I'll probably still have to figure out how to do digitally in a way that'll look good with these inks.
Anyway, Volume 3 kicks off soon, and I do mean soon. I know that IKROAH has been asleep for some time, but folks, I mean this sincerely: 2026 is gonna be the Year of Agnes. There's some real big things coming down the pipe. Stay tuned!
NOVEMBER 2022. ALMOST EXACTLY TWO YEARS AGO. THAT WAS WHEN I @memepipboy DREW THE VOLUME 3 VARIANT COVER FOR ME. AT THAT TIME, THE LAST PUBLISHED ISSUE OF IKROAH WAS #23. "SURELY," I THOUGHT THEN, "IT'S GOOD TO GIVE MY GUEST ARTISTS A HEAD START, BUT I'LL GET TO VOLUME THREE IN NO TIME!"
It is no exaggeration to say that I have been sitting on this commission for so long that it outlived not only my marriage, but the beginning and end of several other entire relationships since. I changed house. I got a cat. My life is completely different now than it was when I commissioned this variant cover from Pip (hell, so is her's: she gained a marriage!) but that's just how the cookie crumbles when you dare to invest yourself in a hobby that stretches itself over so much time. And in my defense, I have a very good excuse. I did get divorced, after all, and nowadays I'm enjoying my life a little too much to sit hunched at my desk like I used to.
Still! Despite the age of the commission, Pip did incredible work. Like my own cover for Volume 2, Pip's variant is an homage to a specific comic book cover. I wanted a parody of those melodramatic old romance comics, since it's such a stark contrast to the tone of my own cover this time around.
And according to my computer, the "Last Modified" date on the thumbnails I made for all of IKROAH's planned covers is June 11, 2021. Christ alive. I don't want to think about this single cover piece technically taking even longer.
Volume 3, "the Dead Money arc," is something that I have very specifically been looking forward too since I started making this comic in 2020. As it creeps toward half a decade of life, if any of you have any worries about how much gas I have left in the tank, know this: I basically wrote the first two volumes of this comic just to get to this one.
I pushed my soul in a deep dark hole,
and then I followed it in,
I watched myself crawling out
as I was a-crawling in.
I got up so tight, I couldn't unwind,
I saw so much, I broke my mind…
—“Just Dropped In (to See What Condition
My Condition Was In),” The First Edition (1968)
It Keeps Right On A-Hurtin’
#28 - Ring-a-Ding-Ding VII
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Bonus: Volume 2 Omake Collection (also on AO3)
Notes / Original Pencils / Transcript:
Notes
Do you have any idea how long I've wanted to type those words? "End of Volume 2?" We have been on Volume 2 for just over three years. Obviously it's unfair to compare it to the breakneck pace of Volume 1, because... I got burned out (I got better), I got divorced (I got better), and most importantly, I've spent all three of these years overhauling my approach to art, which is to say, I got better. My canvas size doubled because my initial naive approach of "smaller pages means less art, which means faster art" was holding me back: I wanted more art, and the subjects of too many panels had gotten flubbed due to what was basically a pathetically low rendering distance. I revamped my approach to coloring entirely, leaning into a vibrant, saturated, and faux-comic halftone style that I vastly prefer to my more grounded, gradient-driven work beforehand. I changed IKROAH's font (Unmasked!), I changed Agnes's appearance slightly (she's far less gaunt, which was an early design choice I've thrown away, plus I think I'm much better at drawing her consistently now), and so much more. Comics are a time-consuming artform and while a lot of what made this volume take so long was out of my control, and well worth not pushing myself through, the total reinvention of how I actually make comics was the single best thing to come out of Volume 2.
It's a lot of lessons and groundwork that I'm very eager to take into Volume 3, which I have spent every single one of these years viciously impatient for. Now, it's finally here. See you at the cover reveal.
Original Pencils
Something that I have been working a lot harder on with my art lately is inking: actual inking, not merely "outlining" and figuring out the rest by the seat of my pants digitally. I've come to realize that the fewer steps of my production process that I try to do digitally, the more fun it is to make art as a whole, and inking was something that I was very intimidated by for the longest time. What happens if I mess up! It's permanent marker, after all! But after all the practice that I've done, I'm really happy with how bold and confident the shadows are on this issue, and they're perfect for how moody and dramatically lit the whole thing is. You can compare the pencils to the inks to the final products and really see how I planned out the overall composition.
Transcript
INT. LUCKY 38 PRESIDENTIAL SUITE, VERY LATE AT NIGHT. The lights are all off in this luxurious, distinctly pre-war abode. It is almost empty.
RADIO: Welcome back to the program, folks. This is Mr. New Vegas—and I hope I'm not coming on too strong. We've got some news for you, coming right up.
The only real light in the suite comes from the glowing screen of the Securitron VICTOR, standing in front of the private elevator.
RADIO: Tops Hotel owner Benny has been killed by an unidentified assailant. According to his fellow Chairmen, shots were heard in his private suite, and his body was found inside. They are urging all visitors to please keep an eye out for suspicious individuals and behavior on the New Vegas Strip. The new head of the Chairmen, Benny's former right-hand man Swank, consoled mourners: "If I know my pal Benny, he's swinging with the Big Cat Upstairs as we speak. Or he's chasing some angel broad with cans as big as her halo!"
RADIO: In other news—
In a guest bedroom off to the side, ROSE OF SHARON CASSIDY is sound asleep. Her belongings are neatly folded on the dresser, except for the cocktail dress that she was wearing, which has been thrown onto the ground.
RADIO: —refugees at Bitter Springs are giving startling accounts of the legate known as Lanius, who is said to be Caesar's top field commander. One refugee told us the legate took over an underperforming squad of troops by beating its commander to death in full viw of everyone. The legate then ordered a tenth of his own force be killed by the other nine tenths. And you thought your boss was a pain!
RADIO: You know, I think all news, whether it's good or bad, brings us closer together. Don't you?
Directly across from the elevator, across from VICTOR, are the shut doors to the master bedroom.
RADIO: These headlines, brought to you by Vault 21...Vault 21! Everything is better when you experience it...in a vault.
Inside the master bedroom, AGNES SANDS sits on the edge of the bed, wide awake. The RADIO plays from her PIP-BOY, which provides a slight amount of light in the dark room.
RADIO: Gonna play a song for you right now—it's about that special someone, that you can only find once...in a "Blue Moon."
"Blue Moon" begins to play from the radio. AGNES's head remains lowered in rumination.
Suddenly, the radio broadcast cuts out.
SFX: KZZRRRSSHHTTZ
RADIO: Has your life taken a turn?
A NEW VOICE speaks on the radio. It's dreamy, seductive.
RADIO: Do troubles beset you? Has fortune left you behind?
AGNES remains in thought.
But then: she lifts her head.
And she looks over at the radio.
RADIO: If so, then the Sierra Madre Casino,
The PIP-BOY displays: 11.09.81, 4:13. <<Signal Unknown>>
RADIO: in all its glory, invites you
AGNES listens.
RADIO: to begin again.
AGNES is now somewhere else.
EXT. MOJAVE DESERT. At sunrise, AGNES SANDS is perched atop a ridge somewhere in the desert. Her overcoat billows behind her, and her shoulder-mounted flashlight beams straight ahead. She looks manic. In one hand, she clutches her duffel bag, full of every belonging she has. Her other hand is wearing her PIP-BOY, and the radio broadcast continues:
RADIO: Come to a place where wealth, excitement, and intrigue await around every corner. Stroll along the winding streets of our beautiful resort. Make new friends...or rekindle old flames. Let your eyes take in the luxurious expanse of the open desert, under clear starlit skies. Gaze straight on into the sunset from our scenic Villa rooftops. Countless diversions await. Gamble in our casino, take in the theater, or stay in one of our exclusive executive suites that will shelter you...and cater to your every whim.
Below the ridge is a pile-up of wrecked shipping containers. One of them opens up toward the surface like a gaping throat of metal. It leads somewhere, deeper into the earth.
RADIO: So if life's worries have weighed you down—if you need an escape from your troubles—or if you just need an opportunity to begin again—
The source of the broadcast signal is coming from INSIDE.
RADIO: —then join us.
AGNES descends into the container, revealing a makeshift staircase of sheet metal that leads into darkness.
RADIO: Join us, let go, and leave the world behind...
The signal from inside the tunnel is now audible. It overlaps with AGNES's PIP-BOY...
RADIO: Join us, let go, and leave the world behind...
Until she sees it.
RADIO: ...at the Sierra Madre Grand Opening.
A pre-war, art deco type radio, sitting on a metal pedestal. It speaks to her.
RADIO: ...at the Sierra Madre Grand Opening.
AGNES stares at the radio, bewildered.
She barely notices the HULKING FIGURE about to grab her from behind.
I have reached the breaking point, the point of no return,
it’s very clear to see a fool like me will never, ever learn.
I have reached the breaking point, I hear the drums of doom,
I’m gonna flip my wig in one great big atomic boom!
—“The Breaking Point,” Bobby Darin (1966)
It Keeps Right On a-Hurtin’
#27 - Ring-a-Ding-Ding VI
Collaborative Issue!
Guest Artist: @sas-afras
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Notes / Transcript:
Notes
Huge thanks to Monty over at @sas-afras for getting this one done! I handled the original layout and lettering, but the rest was all them. Layouts like this can seem simple and easy because of how straight-forward and repetitive they are, but when all you've got are a dozen and one reaction shots, every single one of those reaction shots needs to be as perfect as you can get them. And Monty did a hell of a job. Especially on the coloring! Monty, if you're reading this, you're a hell of a good colorist (on top of everything else). Thanks again!
Another note about this issue is that it, along with the previous one, were some of the most difficult to write in this whole damn comic so far. I really hate repeating in-game dialogue verbatim without good reason, but there's really not much else I could do here. It's a very necessary part of the story that is also literally a part in the game where your character is fixed in place listening to a monologue. I took some liberties, did some punch-up, not just for its own sake but to really drive home what I find most interesting and vital here about Mr. House as a character.
Anyway, Agnes is in trouble. And there's only one issue left in Volume 2! The next one closes out this arc of the story, at long last. Stay tuned.
Transcript
INT. LUCKY 38 BASEMENT. From an observation deck of sorts, AGNES SANDS watches several SECURITRON robots position themselves in a testing area, containing several sandbags, dummies, and makeshift fortifications. A voice booms from an unseen speaker.
MR. HOUSE: You're well familiar with my Securitron police force. But have you ever wondered: what exactly makes them the marquee option in perimeter security and pacification?
AGNES glances in the direction of the voice, uncomfortable.
MR. HOUSE: Well to start, the reinforced titanium alloy housing of each unit, which protects its electronic core, easily deflects small arms and shrapnel.
MR. HOUSE: As for its offensive capabilities, its X-25 gatling laser—produced to spec by Glastinghouse, Inc.—is deadly against soft targets at medium range.
SFX: BZZTZZTZZTZZTZZT
AGNES recoils as a red glow washes over her from the testing area.
MR. HOUSE: And then for close-range suppression or crowd control, the Securitron is also armed with a 9mm sub-machinegun.
SFX: DAKKA DAKKA DAKKA DAKKA DAKKA DAKKA
AGNES shuts her eyes, wincing from the crack of gunfire.
MR. HOUSE: These features have been sufficient for keeping the peace within Vegas, but with the NCR and Legion closing in on Hoover Dam, and sizing up my city like a piece of prize cake, more than ever we need to be prepared for, well...external conflict. Policing is one thing, but when geopolitical powers are involved, my Securitrons can only pose so much of a threat.
MR. HOUSE: That is...if they're forced to rely exclusively on their secondary weapons--as they have been, all this time!
AGNES looks upward, surprised.
MR. HOUSE: Remember, the Great War interrupted a pivotal moment for RobCo's work. Consequently, all extant Securitrons have been stuck, running on a mere Mark I operating system—the first production version of the OS—which has simply lacked the software drivers for the use of their primary weapons all this time!
AGNES looks around, as if HOUSE were in the room somewhere and she could find him, in a panic.
MR. HOUSE: The platinum chip, you see, was never just a token. At a time when industrial espionage ran rampant, it was minted as a high capacity, proprietary, and uniquely irreplicable data storage device. In a way, it's more like a computer chip. And now—with the data from the platinum chip finally installed onto my nextwork—it's time for a very crucial software update. Behold: the new Mark II Securitrons!
AGNES gawks downward at the testing area, eyes wide. Oh no.
MR. HOUSE: Their newly accessible M-235 Missile Launcher gives them the ability to engage ground and air targets at significantly longer ranges...
SFX: PSSSSSHHH KTHOOM THOOM THOOM THOOM
AGNES flinches, covering her face for protecting, and screams as explosions rip apart the testing area below.
MR. HOUSE: ...and their rapid-fire G-28 grenade launching system, another part of the Mark II, makes them much more powerful in close-range engagements as well.
SFX: THMP THMP THMP KRRSSH KRAKTK KABOOM
AGNES, nearly frozen, watches the bombardment with horror.
MR. HOUSE: It also includes rewritten drivers for the Securitrons' auto-repair systems—although always sophisticated, the new optimizations render them inexhaustible in even the most protracted and attritious of engagements. Altogether, the Mark II upgrade confers a 235% total increase in combat effectiveness per unit—and it's all because of you!
AGNES lowers her arm slowly, jaw slack, mortified.
MR. HOUSE: Vegas finally has an army—worthy to protect not just the city itself, but the best interests of all of mankind, at home and abroad. Which is to say: this simple display of might remains a mere teaser for what I can, and what I will, accomplish, in an illustrious new epoch.
AGNES sinks further into a paralytic terror.
MR. HOUSE: What we will accomplish, Agnes—should you accept my offer, of employment. Ah—but I digress. I'm certain that you've had a long day. You can rejoin Miss Cassidy in the presidential suite for the night, if you'd like to, as they say, "sleep on it."
MR. In fact...say for as long as you'd like. However long you may need, to think everything over. And you'll be very well provided for in the meantime, consider it a taste of what could be...should you make the right choice before you.
MR. HOUSE: That reminds me—I've already sent Victor to collect your belongings from the Vault 22 Hotel, so no need to exhaust yourself further by making that trip on your own, hm? There's much about your future to consider, Agnes—and I would like you to think of it as our future.
AGNES stares straight ahead with a deadened expression.
The testing area in the basement has been reduced to smithereens. Fires rage on the rubble of obliterated structures, gnarled steel, and collapsed walkways. The dummies have been dismembered entirely.
MR. HOUSE: ...Goodness, what a mass. With friends like these, I sure wouldn't envy my enemies.
A girl can get somewhere in spite of stringy hair
or even just a bit bowed at the knees
if she can show a faultless…personality!
—“Personality,” Johnny Mercer and the Pied Pipers (1946)
It Keeps Right On a-Hurtin’
#26 - Ring-a-Ding-Ding V
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Notes / Original Pencils / Transcript:
Notes:
ohhhhh my god why did i make this script so long my hand hurts this took forever aaaaagh
Welcome to the Lucky 38! This is a script that has remained basically the same for a long time but went through COUNTLESS extremely small rewrites over the course of production just to really nail Mr. House's dialogue. He's a long-winded guy, this whole issue is basically just him doing monologues, and I wanted to make sure it was all interesting and non-repetitive. I think I took out at least three uses of "merely" from the first draft.
One of the biggest production decisions of this issue was whether or not to cut the scene with Agnes and Cass and Victor, which immediately follows the end of the previous issue. The reason to include it was because it very necessarily established the change in location from the Vegas Strip to the Lucky 38 penthouse, which would have been jarring otherwise; the reason to exclude it was that it the issue was already extremely long and I thought opening right on Mr. House would have been more impactful. Ultimately, I did keep it, which was a good decision, but only because of the literally issue-saving idea to convey it as closed-circuit television footage instead of actual panels. Every single attempt at overlaying them with the lead-in to Mr. House was way too busy, but that idea really tied the page together like a nice rug.
And lastly, the framing device of the tarantula and the tarantula hawk was actually an extremely late addition to the comic. I had already finished the first three pages when I thought of it. My problem was that Mr. House's constant monologuing and Agnes' sad expressions got pretty repetitive. I needed something to break the action up while adding thematic heft and artistic variety. I've become a real enthusiast for wasps and tarantulas over the last couple months, so this one really was just a stroke of luck. It took only minimal revisions to make room for the framing device, with the most dramatic change being the complete replacement of the last page (which was originally just a splash page of the Lucky 38 in Vegas; bookending the first and last pages is so much better). So you see, the only reason for weaving a scene into this issue of a skittish desert-wanderer getting paralyzed and dragged toward a certain demise by a predator almost perfectly evolved to destroy it was just that I like bugs a lot. That's the only reason, yep.
Original Pencils:
Due to all of the photo-collage in the final version of the comic, there's a lot of panels and details that I (thankfully!) didn't have to draw myself. Sorry that the pencil isn't blue on the last three pages, I've been on the move for the holidays so they got scanned in grayscale by accident.
I did experiment with drawing the tarantula framing device myself, but ultimately went with the photo-collage method because the artistic juxtaposition actually made it much more readable when interspersed with the proceedings in the Lucky 38.
Transcript:
EXT. DESERT OUTSIDE OF NEW VEGAS. The city glitters in the distance, nestled between the shadows of mountains, with the spire of the LUCKY 38 towering above all else.
In the wilderness, a TARANTULA emerges from its burrow.
EXT. THE NEW VEGAS STRIP. On closed-circuit television monitors, a SECURITRON ROBOT approaches AGNES SANDS and ROSE OF SHARON CASSIDY, saying
VICTOR: Well howdy, partner! Fancy meetin' again here in Vegas!
CASS: What the fuck?
AGNES: Victor?
Unlike the usual police units, VICTOR's robotic "face" is that of a cowboy.
VICTOR: And heck, ya clean up nice! Sure lookin' a lot better now than when I rustled ya outta the bone orchard back in Goodsprings*--
CAP: *As was explained to Agnes way back in IKROAH #2. --Lou
VICTOR: --so how's about ol' Vic skips the rigamarole, huh? 'Fore all my yappin' makes ya want to go back, heh-heh-heh! I'm the welcome wagon, see. I'm to come and collect ya.
CASS: Agnes--
VICTOR: Boss wants t'see you, is what I'm sayin'.
AGNES: Boss?
VICTOR: Only of all of Vegas, friend!
CASS: Agnes.
MEANWHILE, the TARANTULA crawls beneath the starlight.
VICTOR: So why don't we mosey on over to the Lucky 38? And your good pal can come along, too!
CASS: I need to know what the fuck is going on, right now.
AGNES: I...I don't know.
VICTOR: And y'know, boss ain't ever let a soul inside before, least for not as long as I've been rollin' around on my spurs, so this ain't just an everyday social call, mind...
On the closed-circuit television monitors, VICTOR escorts AGNES and CASS to the entryway of the LUCKY 38.
VICTOR: ...but heck, I reckon ya'll oughta get along like franks on a fire! So come on! Lift's in the lobby here, and up to the top floor--and we can get the formalities out of the way before ya'll get [cut off]
INT. THE LUCKY 38 PENTHOUSE.
AGNES stands awestruck, looking upward, bathed in electronic green light. With horror, she ekes out a single question.
AGNES: ...what are you?
???: A "Hello" would have been preferable, but it'll take more than a crude faux pas to tarnish this moment. Who I am, Agnes--
What AGNES is looking at is a gigantic SUPERCOMPUTER and terminal, flanked by closed-circuit television monitors and guarded on both sides by SECURITRON police units. On the supercomputer's massive screen is the green-lit image of a face. The face
MR. HOUSE: --is ROBERT EDWIN HOUSE. The President, CEO, and sole proprietor of New Vegas--and more to the point, the intended recipient of a long delayed package.
AGNES: Oh, you...you mean the platinum chip?
MR. HOUSE: Correct. It's a...very precious artifact of the old world.
MR. HOUSE: My world, once.
In the back of the room, beyond AGNES, is an oil painting of MR. HOUSE, standing outside in front of what must have been a very large robot.
MR. HOUSE: In that world, I was the founder of RobCo Industries--a titan of innovation. We created a litany of robotic solutions for diverse markets, such as the Securitrons that you see here, and even a line of consumer-grade devices like the wrist-mounted Pip-Boy. But the platinum chip was, more than any other, my design. It was my vision.
MR. HOUSE: But it never left the factory in which it was originally made. Before it could even cool off from its assembly...we had the Great War. An international, thermonuclear bombardment of unimaginable power that annihilated the world in all of two hours.
MR. HOUSE: But not the entire world. Not Vegas. Not my Paradise. From my fortress of the Lucky 38, I saw to that. But as for the rest of the world, and my platinum chip--it took generations.
MR. HOUSE: First for the scarce remnants of humanity to crawl out from under their rocks, and for the world to at least resemble a functioning society again in which to do trade. And then for the work itself--of countless scavengers, treasure-seekers, and the like, all contracted to comb over the wreckage of Sunnyvale. It cost millions of caps, and later, New California dollars. And a not insignificant piece of my pre-war fortune as well. I, quite literally, moved mountains.
MR. HOUSE: I do not believe in providence, Agnes, but I do believe in destiny. How else to explain it? It was pristine when it was found. Neither the bombs nor the passage of time had so much as scuffed its sheen. But still...its value far transcended the mere market price of pure platinum.
MR. HOUSE: Amusingly, despite the discovery, I was still only as close to acquiring the chip as I had been originally in 2077. A final ordeal remained for me: how to ensure the safety of the platinum chip en route to its destination, from Sunnyvale to Vegas, without broadcasting its preciousness to thieves, armies, and raiders--or worse, to heavily armed fetishists for pre-war technology like the Brotherhood of Steel?
MR. HOUSE: Misdirection. Through a network of anonymous liaisons, I contracted the Mojave Express for a batch of deliveries, all superficially similar knick-knacks, to various intermediaries of myself. All but one of the orders were totally worthless decoys. But your identity as the carrier of the one genuine item was somehow compromised, leading to you getting attacked, and to the second disappearance of the chip.
MR. HOUSE: But look around you. Look where you are. You've made it, haven't you?
AGNES, still staring up at the visage of MR. HOUSE on-screen, doesn't respond. She frowns, nervous. The SECURITRONS guarding MR. HOUSE observe her stoically.
MR. HOUSE: Let me clarify: I had nothing to do with Benny's ambush. Heavens no! It goes completely against my interests. It would have been a perfectly quotidian day's work for you if not for his, and I stress, unexpected involvement. The platinum chip...belies its significance. For Benny to have not only discovered its delivery route but possibly enough of that significance to motivate such an act, this constituted a very troubling breach of my security. And I had been looking into it...but in a way, the issue seems to have resolved itself. Hm?
MR. HOUSE: A wild card. Now removed from the deck.
AGNES' gaze sinks to the floor.
MEANWHILE, a small shadow blots out the starlight in the desert outside of Vegas. It flies over the exploring TARANTULA.
AGNES looks back up at MR. HOUSE.
AGNES: I killed him.
HOUSE: So you did. I only wish that we could have spoken before you went rogue on my former protégé: if this story breaks, I can grant you amnesty, but not without controversy. And your infamy as an assassin could make our further arrangements quite difficult.
AGNES: Um...I didn't think there would be more to it than delivering the--
MR. HOUSE: Oh! Of course, of course! My apologies. Two hundred years of anticipation and yet I'm still getting ahead of myself. Well--would you mind? I've been waiting a long time for my mail.
The SECURITRON closest to AGNES wheels forward with its claw outstretched. AGNES reaches her fingers into a pocket beneath the belt of her dress to produce it: the PLATINUM CHIP. She holds it in her hand for a brief moment.
MEANWHILE, the shadow descends; the TARANTULA HAWK engages the TARANTULA.
AGNES relinquishes the PLATINUM CHIP to the SECURITRON.
MR. HOUSE: Thank you--it's a relief to pay for this chip for the final time.
The SECURITRON inserts the PLATINUM CHIP into a slot in MR. HOUSE'S supercomputer, feeding it into the drive with a CLIK.
MEANWHILE, the TARANTULA is fighting the TARANTULA HAWK.
From behind AGNES, another SECURITRON presents her with a stack of NEW CALIFORNIA REPUBLIC DOLLARS, which she gingerly takes in her hand and looks over.
MR. HOUSE: And I trust that you're satisfied with the agreed-upon compensation from the delivery contract, yes?
AGNES: Yeah, it's...it's fine...I'll be going now. Thanks.
MR. HOUSE: Oh? But you've only just arrived. I insist that you make yourself at home.
SFX: KZZSZZZTTT
The faces on the screens of the SECURITRONS in MR. HOUSE'S penthouse suddenly change from policemen to soldiers. AGNES recoils and tries to step away.
AGNES: H-hey, uh--
MEANWHILE, the TARANTULA HAWK pierces the underbelly of the TARANTULA with its stinger.
SECURITRONS surround AGNES.
MR. HOUSE: You are the first guest ever through the doors of the Lucky 38, you know. Nobody has so much as checked a coat inside since the war, so this meeting confers you a significant level of privilege...and inevitable celebrity. The people of Vegas have always gossiped, after all. Many have even clawed at the door desperately with dreams of being where you now stand. Surely you can comprehend how this compulsion to leave after such a deliberate and remarkable invitation risks considerable insult--to both myself and my citizenry? And very deliberate this invitation was. Don't you realize: if handing off my package was all for which you were needed, why wouldn't I have just had Victor relieve you of the chip outside? No, no, you see, as necessary as its acquisition was, the chip is ultimately just a key, for unlocking a new frontier...of possibilities.
MR. HOUSE: Possibilities for prosperity, peace, and technological advancement that haven't been seen in two hundred years. Possibilities greater than anything the New California Republic or Caesar's Legion could dream of, let alone achieve, by playing pretend in the clothes of their forebearers and convincing everyone else that it's statecraft. Possibilities--which if they key is turned by human hands--become certainties.
AGNES (a whisper): Are you not human?
MR. HOUSE: Don't let the video screens and computer terminals fool you: I am a living human. No less so than you. I just live with a particular set of, well...handicaps.
AGNES: You said you'd waited hundreds of years to--
MR. HOUSE: One could argue that the world has been waiting hundreds of years for this moment. Waiting for me. For the chip. For the long-dormant doors of the Lucky 38 to finally open, to a single and specially ordained individual: you, Agnes. And there are tremendous things waiting for us, waiting for us to accomplish them, together. I certainly couldn't do them with Benny. What do you say?
MEANWHILE, the TARANTULA has become completely paralyzed by the TARANTULA HAWK'S venom. The TARANTULA HAWK seizes its prey.
AGNES: ...no.
MR. HOUSE: I'm sorry--"No?"
AGNES: Yes--I mean, no. No! I don't want to help you! I...
Tears well in AGNES' eye.
AGNES: ...I just want to go back home.
MR. HOUSE: ...I see. Hmm.
MR. HOUSE: How do I put this in a way you'll understand?
MR. HOUSE: The die is cast.
AGNES, crying, looks up at MR. HOUSE again. Fear bulges on her face.
MR. HOUSE: Throughout the long delivery of this chip, several precise plans and fortuitous coincidences have aligned in just such a way as to make you, you specifically at this exact juncture, an irreplaceable asset in the ongoing endeavor of this wounded world's recovery from otherwise hopeless ruin.
MR. HOUSE: Your cooperation going forward is not merely crucial to this endeavor's success, but it's utterly non-negotiable. Should you entertain the moral issue of what's at stake, it's obligatory, even. It's why your refusal comes as such a...genuine surprise. Can't you see?
MR. HOUSE: I'm not a fascist, Agnes--I would never force you. But given the circumstances, I'm entitled, wouldn't you agree, to at least a brief demonstration of my vision? The vision that the platinum chip promises? Victor has surely seen your companion to the presidential suite by now--my other Securitrons can escort you to the basement, where I'm sure you can make a...properly informed decision.
The SECURITRONS close in on AGNES, who screams in protest.
AGNES: No! I said no! I already delivered your chip, I--I killed Benny! I-- I-- ...what do you want with me!?
MR. HOUSE: Haven't you been listening? I want what's best for you--for us. I know it's a lot, but bear with me for one moment longer, and I can assure you--that this is the beginning of something very incredible.
MEANWHILE, the TARANTULA HAWK has dragged the paralyzed TARANTULA back to the entrance of its own burrow.
The TARANTULA HAWK shoves its helpless prey into the hole, and then crawls in after it.
I've given everything I have,
didn't know I'd run up such a tab,
Oh, Lord, ain't the reapin' ever done?
—“Ain’t the Reapin’ Ever Done,” Eddie Noack (1972)
It Keeps Right On a-Hurtin’
#25 - Ring-a-Ding-Ding IV
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Notes / Original Pencils / Transcript:
Notes:
At long last! As I've mentioned a few times, this issue got...delayed because I spent 2023 getting divorced, falling in love again, going outside, touching grass, laughing, playing, et cetera. But even if you toss all that aside this issue would still have been a doozy because I've been wanting to try an issue in this artstyle, and with a much large page size, for...well, for over a year now, ha. The thumbnails for this issue are nearly a whole year old!
Usually I have a lot of fun commentary about how a script changes over the course of working on an issue, or how the production panned out, but the making of this issue has been stretched over such a long time that I can't even begin to really describe it. Lemme just show you the original pencils so we can get out of here and move onto the next one, which will hopefully take far less than the time it takes to carry a pregnancy to term.
Oh, actually, there is one thing! If you spotted this happy couple on the first page, then check out @memepipboy's comics too.
Also, here's Vulpes in the dead Yamcha pose.
Which is also about how I feel after going on a bender of productivity last week to get the whole issue colored before it slipped away again.
Original Pencils:
Transcript:
EXT. NEW VEGAS STRIP. A small plaza outside the casinos is flushed with lights and people, all coming and going, even at such a late hour. The crowd is monitored by the Strip's POLICE SECURITRONS. Two people are exiting a casino: ROSE OF SHARON CASSIDY, and
MESSENGER: AGNES SANDS!
AGNES: Oh God, I'm--
AGNES: --wait, are you NCR?
The MESSENGER that has called out AGNES' name is a surly and middle-aged man in uniform.
MESSENGER: Correct, ma'am. I'm a messenger.
AGNES: Courier, huh.
CASS: Hell do you want, boot boy? We're busy.
MESSENGER: Your presence is requested at the embassy on the south side of the Strip.
The exchange has caught the eye of a BYSTANDER READING A NEWSPAPER.
AGNES: You said requested, as opposed to, um, required?
MESSENGER: Yes. I'll be blunt with you, Sands: the incident near Gecko and your subsequent desertion have made you a fugitive of military police since 2269. I'm sure you know that--but this is not an arrest.
MESSENGER: This isn't even about your personal case, necessarily. It's only from chance reports at the Mojave Outpost and Boulder City that intelligence was made aware of your presence here at all. The NCR merely wants to let you know that you--as well as your companion--are persons of interest to us in two of our other open investigations: the Legion raid on Nipton, and recent terrorist attacks on merchants in the area such as Crimson Caravan.*
CAPTION: *Various events of IKROAH #7-16. -Lou.
MESSENGER: There's also some other matters, which are classified.
CASS, at AGNES' side, listens intently. Then she glares at AGNES, who is grimacing but avoiding her eye contact.
MESSENGER: Now, our intelligence officers only want to speak to you, not arrest you. So there should be no cause for alarm or any worry on your part. It's your choice to come to us willingly--and on your own time. But--
AGNES sweats nervously.
MESSENGER: My orders are to make this next part very clear. This is merely the current state of our interest in you and your companion. If your presence does become required, as opposed to merely requested, by the NCR--and it very well may--
MESSENGER: --consider this a nice, friendly notice. I'm here because the NCR knows where you are. And the NCR wanted you to know that, because it wants you to keep it in mind as you mull over whether--and when--you might be feeling co-operative. That is all. We'll be in touch, Miss Sands.
The MESSENGER departs. The BYSTANDER READING A NEWSPAPER observed the entire exchange. The moment that the MESSENGER is gone, he speaks:
BYSTANDER: Ahh...I must admit, it does make me glad when people discuss my work.
AGNES: W-what?
CASS: Pardon?
BYSTANDER: And it was fortunate, as it turns out, that you were spared that night in Nipton.
AGNES: Oh...oh no--
CASS: --YOU?
BYSTANDER: Very fortunate indeed--
The BYSTANDER grins.
BYSTANDER: --that you were spared from the burning tires, spared from the teeth of the dogs, spared even from the cross and stake--all of this, there, was the finest work yet of VULPES INCULTA--against the profligates of the west, and for the glory and the might of CAESAR'S LEGION.*
CAPTION:*IKROAH #9. -Lou.
AGNES and CASS are transfixed where they stand, taken aback by the reveal. CASS scowls while AGNES squirms with terror. She remembers:
The raging fires and the horror show of NIPTON. Crucified bodies and dogs to eat the corpses.
VULPES: During our talk in Nipton, I admittedly became quite curious about you, Agnes. You had intrigued me for some reason, and I wanted to know what it was. Only later did I finally place it.
Her hands up in front of her face, a futile barrier between herself and three men. Benny. His gun, pointed at her, shining in the light from the moon and the lantern.
VULPES: A tabloid story from the news on the radio. A courier shot in the head near Goodsprings Cemetery.
The SECURITRON with the cowboy face, VICTOR, carried her out of her grave. Or so she was told.
VULPES: --who miraculously returned from the grave. It was you.
There were three men. Two besides Benny. She found them later, one was dead and the other had two more with him.
VULPES: It was also you, as I would later discover...who slaughtered that pack of Great Khans in Boulder City. Clearly no ordinary courier.
VULPES: Why, even now, you assassinate the leader of the Chairmen in his own casino--in his own bedroom, no less. Very impressive.
AGNES: But how did you--
VULPES: Know? From one saboteur to another, I do have to commend you, Agnes. You're quite covert...for someone who had no reason to realize that she was already being watched, that is. Just as we have been watching Benny, the dearly departed.
VULPES grins wider.
VULPES: My network of frumentarii have detected something of a conspiracy in Vegas...something about a certain piece of platinum, I hear. Which reminds me--the mail has gotten so unreliable lately, don't you think?
AGNES is visibly panicked as VULPES continues.
VULPES: The NCR'S interest in you is not misplaced, Agnes Sands, given your recent exploits.
CASS is suddenly going down the casino steps--
VULPES: But I doubt that they are as quite aware of the bigger picture as--
--and raising her fist, and--
VULPES: the--
--punching VULPES in the face.
SFX: WHAM!
VULPES is flung to the ground, his nose bloodied. One of his teeth have been knocked clean from his mouth. He stares upward, in disbelief, up at the furious woman who's laid him out.
VULPES: Ah...yes. Rose of Sharon Cassidy. I've--
PTOOEY. A wad of spit splats against VULPES' cheek. CASS points a finger at him as he shuffles back onto his feet.
CASS: Get my name out of your mouth right now. I'm not afraid of you. You just piss me off. And unless you get lost I'll deck you so hard that you forget my name. Hopefully how to form complete sentences, too.
CASS: I think we've heard enough, you goddamn dogfucker, and whatever you're selling, we don't fucking want any.
VULPES: Ah...so no less impudent than last time, despite...well.
VULPES wipes the blood from his face with the back of his hand, muttering from behind his palm in LATIN.
VULPES: Sī cognōscere nōn vīs canis senex tum nēquam praeter futuendum eris.
VULPES reaches his bloody hand toward his dislodged hat.
VULPES: Agnes--the Legion has a particular use for you, a use which comes with certain courtesies that are not extended to your companion.
VULPES: ...she would do well to keep this in mind.
VULPES returns his hat to his head. AGNES has rejoined CASS at the base of the steps.
AGNES: "Use?" What use? I don't have anything--I mean, I'm not--whatever you--whatever the Legion wants with me, I don't know anything. About this, or about Benny. If you want the chip, I--
VULPES: Agnes, Agnes--you're a terrible liar. Or else just terribly naive.
VULPES turns to leave.
VULPES: If the NCR is interested in you, and they are, then seizing you for ourselves is certainly useful enough on its own. But truthfully, this isn't about the NCR. The Legion is interested in you--I am interested in you--because Mr. House is interested in you. You and that chip.
AGNES: Mr. House!? But I...no, no, I just thought the chip--
VULPES: Vale, courier. And vale, Rose of Sharon Cassidy. And be safe in your travels, if you can help it--you never know when somebody might be watching.
As VULPES departs, a SECURITRON approaches behind AGNES and CASS, casting a shadow over the both of them.
Pistol packin' mama,
lay that thing down before it goes off
and hurts somebody!
—“Pistol Packin’ Mama,” Bing Crosby (1943)
It Keeps Right On a-Hurtin’
#24 - Ring-a-Ding-Ding III
Collaborative Issue!
Guest Artist: @yesjejunus
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Notes / Original Pencils / Transcript:
Notes:
Oh noooooooooooo :(
These pages might get shrunken a little by Tumblr for some reason so either right-click to view at full-size or just read it on AO3 at the link above. And give a round of applause to my wonderful and wonderfully talented friend @yesjejunus who returns to guest art duty with this new issue, which is just another car crashing into the pile-up that is happening to Agnes in the closing half of Volume 2. Issue #25 will be all of my own art again, and I've been working for a long time on reinventing the look, feel, and production of IKROAH's artstyle so I hope you'll all be as excited as I am. Some really big things are about to happen.
Original Pencils
Here's another reason why mr. jejunus deserves a round of applause: patience. I talk often about how IKROAH is a very long-term project but this issue marks the longest collaboration in the history of the comic: the original pencils for this issue were drawn in August 2021. This was also when yesjejunus and I first discussed him doing guest art for this issue, and it would have been a lot sooner, of course, but you know, things (like months of burnout) can just happen. By the time this issue was finally next in the queue, I had committed to increasing the resolution of IKROAH's pages just to ease my own production, but these pencils were still formatted for the old size. I had to reformat these pencils for the new size and aspect ratio.
The tumblr editor keeps crashing every time I try to include them, so here's links instead: [1] [2] [3].
The thing about working with yesjejunus on comic issues like this is that at this point we're so deep in each other's heads that I barely even need to give him feedback. He understands the assignment completely because we're both sickos pressed against each other's brain-windows going "Yes…ha ha ha…yes!" and drooling. It's the kind of friendship as well as creative partnership that you really just treasure.
Transcript
INT. BENNY'S BEDROOM, THE TOPS CASINO, NEW VEGAS.
AGNES SANDS stares down, exhausted, at BENNY, the leader of the Chairmen and the man who shot her in the head.
BENNY does not stare back. He is dead. His eyes have rolled up lifelessly and blood is oozing from the gruesome wound in his skull.
AGNES looks away.
Suddenly—
SFX: KNOCK KNOCK
VOICE FROM OUTSIDE (off): Hey, Ben-man! Everything alright in there?
AGNES jerks up in surprise. She searches her surroundings frantically, looking for a way out. The gun that she shot BENNY with—the gun that BENNY shot her with—is still in her hand. She sees a side door, barely ajar, leading out of BENNY'S BEDROOM with a dim light coming from behind it.
AGNES sprints forward, her arm outstretched to shove open the door, and barges in. Then she freezes in her tracks. In front of her is a large and ambulatory machine, with claw-like arms and a computer monitor in its center. The monitor displays an unchanging vector of a happily smiling face. It speaks.
THE MACHINE: Hello! I'm Yes Ma—
AGNES raises the gun with both hands and fires repeatedly, her eyes wide and mouth agape in terror. She empties it of every single other bullet that was left in it.
THE MACHINE (shorting out): I-I'm sorry…!!
THE MACHINE crumples from the repeated shots, which shatter its monitor-face like a glass window and send it falling backwards. Its robotic corpse snaps and cracks with electricity and malfunctioning hardware as AGNES remains stunned in the doorway.
SFX: KNOCK KNOCK
AGNES looks up as BENNY'S men pound harder on the door to the suite.
VOICE FROM OUTSIDE (off): Benny! We heard shots! We're coming in!
AGNES drops the gun and flees through the hallway's secret private elevator.
VOICE FROM OUTSIDE (off): Oh, shit, somebody iced 'im! Get security!
Wherever I have gone,
wherever I've been and gone,
wherever I have gone,
the blues are all the same
—“Blues Run the Game,” Jackson C. Frank (1965)
It Keeps Right On a-Hurtin’
#23 - Ring-a-Ding-Ding II
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Notes / Original Pencils / Transcript:
Notes:
Let’s talk about two things.
The first thing is burnout. It’s hilarious in retrospect that the notes on the previous issue open with an apology that it’s been three months since the preceding issue, which given that this current hiatus lasted six months, lmao. As I’ve mentioned before and elsewhere, shortly after completing the previous issue of IKROAH, the toll of working on it and other projects so industrially for two years finally caught up with me, and by May I basically had a kind of flip turn where suddenly, I could not stand my own art. More than that, I was repulsed by the very act of drawing, of making. Too many self-imposed deadlines, too many long nights churning comics out in as few sessions of work as possible, too many other things that I wasn’t giving myself enough time for. Something had to give, and when it did, I could barely hold a pencil for months without just getting really angry. I wish that I could say that there was something specific that I did to overcome this feeling, but there wasn’t: I can only attribute wanting to draw again to spending a long time not drawing at all, a time in which I tried to basically forget through disuse all of the bad habits that I’d ingrained about making myself make art. Art is an important hobby and creative outlet to me, but sometimes, you really just need to step away from something for a relatively long time so that you can come back to it with a much healthier mindset. And that’s what I’ve done. Thank you all for being so patient with me during IKROAH’s first real hiatus. There have been “hiatuses” in the past but, for example, one thing that I definitely had to strip out of myself was the anxiety and the guilt that I would feel when IKROAH would go on “hiatus” because more than three weeks or so passed between issues. I had myself on an absolutely insane production schedule for no reason except believing that getting every issue out as fast as possible was paramount. When I first began this comic with issue #1, I thought I could do one issue every two weeks. This was colossally stupid and going in as naive as I did with this mindset was like ingesting a slow-acting poison. IKROAH issues come out whenever they come out and that’s that from now on, and I feel silly because no reader of the comic has ever acted entitled to anything but that anyway.
The second thing I want to talk about is my art itself. My burnout had a point, especially with IKROAH, which is that there are some things about my art that is very frustrating. Did you know that the reason that IKROAH pages are the size that they are (1080 x 1678 px) is because I draw them two-per-sheet-of-paper at 13cm x 21cm each, and 1080 pixels is twice the width of the (possibly outdated) maximum display width of an inline image on the dashboard, and a height of 1678 pixels matches the aspect ratio of the best way that I could digitize my images at the time, which was by taking a picture of my art the best that I could with my phone in good lighting? This was the standard that I set for myself in summer of 2020 and for some reason I decided that it was etched in stone. I made some small improvements over time, such as finally buying a scanner sometime around IKROAH #12, and then changing IKROAH’s dialogue font and switching to digital paneling in #22, but this is going to be the final issue that abides by that old, absurdly small page size. I have finally reached my breaking point in this issue with how it completely prevents me from drawing fine or distant detail, so this is the final issue that is going to be at this size. Were it not for the fact that pre-burnout I hadn’t already drawn the first two pages of this issue and had formatted the paneling and lettering already for this specific size, I probably would have gone bigger already!
IKROAH has been, for the most part, an artistic playground where I’ve honed my skills and experimented with the comic book form gleefully. Compare the art from the first few issues with the more recent ones to see that development in action. But for all of this development and experimentation, why have I felt like page size is unassailable? I can’t tell you for sure what the “new” page size is going to be, because while I have a larger size in mind, it’s another experiment, not a promise of consistency. I used to think that it was easier and faster to work small because smaller art meant less art, but I’m finally sure that it’s more trouble than it’s worth. Now, I’m extremely excited for what a much larger canvas will mean for the look of the comic, and for the rest of Volume 2, I’m sure that you’ll be able to see me experimenting artistically in some way with every issue.
Original Pencils
Unfortunately, due to the way in which this issue was inked, I don’t have the complete original pencils to share with you! I would draw and ink panels one-by-one instead of penciling the whole page first. This is because I my burnout was actually triggered, essentially, by fucking up the inks on the first page after penciling it and feeling sure that I would have to redraw it, and that making me so mad that I couldn’t bear to reapproach my art at all. I didn’t want to make that mistake again, so I went through the rest of the pages with a lot more caution. Still, I can show you some scans.
One major thing that made working on all but the first two pages was finally investing in real non-copy blue pencils instead of blue colored pencils. Real non-copy blue pencils lack the waxiness of colored pencils, making them draw much lighter, erase much cleaner, and generally behave much more like regular pencils that just happen to be blue. It’s been a godsend for my ability to ink more expressively, and I’m experimenting with inking and coloring styles are going to be my favorite part of the rest of Volume 2, because I think that that is something that I want to overhaul the most.
Also, one funny thing: if there was a significant reason why I made Benny’s suite number 1007, I have forgotten it. Just like how I must have forgotten in the writing and penciling of this issue that Benny’s suite is canonically on the thirteenth floor. Oops! Well, not in this canon it’s not.
I do have one complete pencil sketch to show you: IKROAH’s first ever two-page spread! Bang!
Transcript
EXT. THE TOPS CASINO, NEW VEGAS. The Tops’ signature sign shines brightly outside the entrance, brightly even for Vegas.
INT. THE TOPS CASINO, NEW VEGAS. Casino guests hustle and bustle around the main floor, checking in, heading to and from the cashier on the second floor, and mingling. Leaning against a rail overlooking the slightly sunken gaming area is AGNES SANDS. She stares intently and furiously toward the back of the room, where an older man is laughing with a younger man. The younger man is drinking a martini, wears a black-and-white checked suit jacket, and is oblivious to her presence.
AGNES thinks to herself as she watches him.
Hello, Benny.
Her eye narrows.
You’d think that getting shot in the head would be the worst thing to ever happen to somebody, but at this point in my life, I’m genuinely not sure.
On the casino floor, a RED-HAIRED WOMAN seems to accidentally bump into BENNY from behind, knocking his drink out of his hand. It shatters on the ground, and he turns angrily to face her.
When I was six years old, my father died from a bad fall. He was a caravaneer, so they never shipped his body home.
ROSE OF SHARON CASSIDY stands in front of Benny, clutching a nearly empty glass of whiskey. She raises her hand up to her faced, shocked and embarrassed. BENNY is just as surprised, and even more so when CASS takes his face in one hand and suggests that he come with her to refill her glass.
My mom was our town’s doctor, so after that, she decided to apprentice me as her nurse. I was still just a kid.
She was right to do it. It takes a long time to learn medicine, and it’s a useful skill. She knew it’d do me good.
CASS hurriedly leads BENNY by the hand toward the casino bar. As the pair brush past AGNES, she pickpockets BENNY’s key, and holds it up to glean the room number from its tag: 1007. Satisfied, she drops the key on the ground, and heads for the elevators. Just behind her, CASS points out that BENNY seems to have dropped his keys, and he reacts with relief.
But she was hard, as a teacher. Maybe even more so as a mother. Maybe she had to be.
AGNES’ elevator slowly ascends. First floor to the tenth.
Maybe I wouldn’t have started messing around with locks if I didn’t get it in my head to act so damn rebellious later on. I broke in somewhere I shouldn’t have. Found something I shouldn’t have. I was thirteen.
I had to put my own face back together right there on the concrete floor. Held it in place with duct tape, and two-hundred year old bandages. Pre-war.*
*As depicted in IKROAH #7 and the IKROAH Vol. 1 Special Delivery companion story, “Scar Tissue.”
Ding! The elevator arrives and the door opens.
I still can’t even shave without getting a cold sweat.
Back on the casino floor, CASS and BENNY have it it off. They’re smiling and laughing at the bar, several drinks deep.
Meanwhile, AGNES stalks toward Room 1007.
My mom was happy I was alive, but didn’t care whether I was okay, if that makes sense. She was always like that.
It’s why we fought when she found out about...me, when the changes from the hormones I’d been sneaking got...unignorable.
The lock is easy to pick for practiced hands. It opens with a CLICK. The door swings open and AGNES stands in the doorway, assessing the area.
I wonder what your mother would think of this. What she must have been like. Whether she’s even alive now. I wonder if she loved you, her baby boy, a killer in cold blood.
Eventually, we fought. Physically, I mean. It was a long time coming. I hit her hard, once, and that was it. It was over.
I don’t think I’ll ever forget what that felt like. Maybe I’m not one to talk.
Time passes.
BENNY returns to his suite and puts his keys in the lock.
I ran away to the NCR after that. I was an adult now, and had to start over. And I needed skills that my mom couldn’t have taught me. I thought I’d be a combat medic, out in the field. But no. No, no. Of course not.
BENNY opens his door, looking exhausted and covered in kiss marks. Looks like somebody really wore him out. He shuffles over to his bedroom.
They shipped me to some do-nothing recon station way up north in California, near Gecko. And from the minute I set foot there, my C.O. fucking hated me.
He abused me, berated me, blamed me, because I took his old friend’s position or something. Stupid petty bullshit like that.
I think that he was sabotaging my medical supplies. Messing with my work, trying to get me discharged.
There’s no other way he could have found my estrogen from home.
BENNY undresses in his bedroom, and then flops onto his bed.
Just another thing for him to scream at me about. Or it would have been.
AGNES enters the bedroom.
Never got any military police after me when I attacked him with a scalpel that night and ran.
Maybe he couldn’t cover up his own bullshit well enough, so he just kept his mouth shut. Doesn’t matter. Lucky me.
AGNES rifles through BENNY’s jacket, which he hung on a coatrack near the door.
I ran to New Reno. I’d deserted. The only job I could get was at a charity clinic run by one of the crime families there, and it was dismal. I couldn’t afford to live.
So I started picking locks again. Pockets, too. Got real good at it, too. You’d know.
AGNES’ eyes fixate on something. She’s pulled it out of his coat.
I was stealing to survive. Same dance, different song. Nevermind my hormones, I needed food and shelter. I’d never felt lower.
The Platium Chip.
I was casing one of the casinos there when I saw a man get glassed. I was still a doctor. Still had that oath. So I went to work, and saved the man’s life right there. His name was Yancy Bishop and he made my life a living hell for six long years.*
*IKROAH #12.
Until I killed him.
Something else catches AGNES’ attention in BENNY’s bedroom. Something on his nightstand. A gun.
He came to me helpless in surgery and I ripped him apart from the inside out, thrilled, exhilarated, terrified of myself.
AGNES approaches the nightstand. She picks up the gun.
And after that...I ran away again. Ran until I got to the Mojave. Ran until I fumbled into being a courier. Making deliveries, always running, but not a doctor anymore, not stealing to survive, just some stability in my life for once. For once. And then:
It’s the same gun that BENNY shot her with.
She turns to face BENNY.
You.
AGNES removes the 9mm bullet that she has been wearing around her neck since she left Goodsprings; a bullet made partly from the lead that was fished out of her own skull.
You are not special.
She loads the gun. As quietly as she can.
I’ve been dealing with people like you my entire life. My mother. My C.O. The Bishops...
...your Khans, McLafferty, the Van Graffs...have I killed more people in the last week than you have in your whole...
AGNES approaches BENNY’s bed. She gets one shot.
...was I the only one, Benny? And you couldn’t even do it right. I clawed out. An ugly life, too ugly to kill, even with a gun to my head. Your gun. This gun.
She raises the gun. She aims with both hands. Bodies are easier to hit than bottles.
Rigged from the start—is that what you’d said? You piece of shit. You look like you have everything, have been given everything. So you just had to rub it in, that night. Didn’t you.
AGNES scowls. Her brow furrows with rage.
Always been too big of a target. Too tall, too wide, too mannish. Never been beautiful. Never even got to be handsome, like you. Then you shoot my eye out, butcher me even more—and all for what? A mail-order tchotchke!?
The gun gleams in the sparse light.
I’m going to fucking kill you.
AGNES’ expression shifts.
I’ve killed so many people to get to you.
Her hands start to shake. The gun is heavy in them.
And...and now I’m going to kill you.
Sweat is beading on her face.
Because of what you did to me. Because I can’t sleep at night. Because of you. I don’t sleep, most nights, because of you.
AGNES grimaces as her whole body trembles.
So I’ll kill you, with the fucking gun you killed me with, then I won’t be so...
The gun. The gun. The gun--
I’ll...I’m—
Her eye is wide with terror.
Oh God.
AGNES stands alone in the dark in the bedroom of the man that she has planned to kill. The gun is in her hands. Tears stream down her face, frozen in grief. The gun is in her hands.
BENNY is awake. He has been awake. He is sitting up in his bed. He is staring at her staring at him.
My faith is almost gone,
but my will is strong,
and I've gotta make it big in Vegas.
—“Big in Vegas,” Buck Owens (1969)
It Keeps Right On a-Hurtin’
#22 - Ring-a-Ding-Ding I
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Notes / Original Pencils / Transcript:
Notes:
I live! It’s been nearly three months since the last issue, and boy are my arms tired. In the meantime, I was putting out comic work elsewhere, moving apartments, and hosting a beloved friend in my home for a week, so I’ve certainly had a busy 2022.
Speaking of ‘22...this issue, #22, is the longest issue yet in terms of both page count and, I’m pretty sure, word count. It’s one hell of a talker so I hope it’s been worth the wait. Revelations! Confrontations! What could be next for our intrepid heroes? Well, it’s pretty generous to call either of them “heroes”...
The adventure will continue next ish. And lemme tell you: it’s gonna be a killer. You might even say it’ll really go out with a bang. One could even argue that Benny Gecko is going to die. Metaphorically speaking. But also literally.
“But Lou, that’s spoilers!” Aw, come on, haven’t you ever seen Columbo? It’s about how he solves it, not the suspense of whodunit. And besides, maybe I’m lying. Maybe Agnes’ll shake her charlies for the Ben-man, even, who knows? Don’t trust me about anything ever. You can’t even trust me about when these comics come out, since I posted this a day earlier than I said I would, though technically it’s Saturday in certain global time zones by now.
Original Pencils
The original pencils aren’t actually going to be included in this post like usual because there is so much to go over, production-wise. I’m really excited to get into the specifics, but I’ll be doing it over at @fallout-lou-begas sometime in the coming days. So follow me there if you’re not already, and I’ll update this description when the production notes are up and link to them here!
Two days later: Here it is!
Transcript
EXT. THE STREETS OF NEW VEGAS. The radiant lights of this preserved pre-war city beam brilliantly into the night sky. Below, the streets are full of drunks, gamblers, tourists, lovers, loners, winners, and losers, as well as those who call the city home: not only humans but SECURITRONS, too, the police robots controlled by the de facto ruler of New Vegas, MR. HOUSE. Outside the entrance to the subterranean VAULT 21 HOTEL, some vault-dwelling resident-employees are among the people.
A NEEDLE PLUNGES INTO FLESH.
CASS: And that’s it?
AGNES: That’s all there is to it.
INT. VAULT 21 HOTEL, ROOM 310. Inside, AGNES SANDS is sitting on one of two beds in her underwear; ROSE OF SHARON CASSIDY has just administered her estrogen shot for her. Two dresses, one red and one blue, hang on hooks above their dresser. The dresser, the beds, and the floor are adorned with their clothes and equipment.
CASS: Hope I did a good job.
AGNES: You did fine.
CASS: And you can’t do this yourself, or something?
AGNES stands up and moves toward the bathroom.
AGNES: Oh, no, I can. I just prefer not to.
CASS: Oh, gotcha.
AGNES turns on the sink faucet and wets her face. CASS leans, sitting, against the side of the bed.
CASS: I'm the same with drinking. I tend to meet some interesting people that way.
AGNES: Huh. How fortunate.
They smile at each other from across the room.
CASS stands up and undresses, removing her shirt and pants before grabbing the blue dress hanging over the room’s dresser. Meanwhile, AGNES shaves in the bathroom. She tenses as she puts her metal straight razor to her face again and again.
CASS: Hey, about done in there?
AGNES: Yeah. Just about.
CASS (putting on dress): Can't rush beauty, right. Puts a new meaning on "dressing to kill," doesn't it?
AGNES: Yeah. How do you feel?
CASS inspects herself in a compact mirror.
CASS: Pretty good, I guess, if only because I haven't worn a dress like this in years. But this Benny guy—what is the plan, exactly? You know where he is?
AGNES (washing her hands): Well...we know he's one of the Chairmen, so he should be at The Tops. I'll case the joint, find out where—
CASS (off): Alright, Agnes, hold on.
AGNES freezes.
CASS: Just fucking stop right there.
AGNES peers out from the bathroom at CASS, who is sitting on top of her bed. She looks mad.
CASS (yelling): "Case the joint?" Are you serious? Are you some kind of fucking burglar now?
AGNES stands in the doorway, stunned.
CASS (exasperated, head in her hand): I mean, you're a master goddamn lockpick, I know that. So of course. Courier, doctor, soldier, assassin, burglar, why the hell not. You're gonna be a goddamn brahmin baron by tomorrow, too, aren't you?
AGNES: Cass, listen—
CASS (yelling): I will listen, if you start fucking talking! That's the thing!
AGNES (intense): Lower your voice.
Beat.
CASS: Sorry.
AGNES: I thought you were in a good mood.
CASS fidgets nervously with her dress.
CASS: I was, I...I am, it's not...I'm sorry, it's...
They look at each other. CASS frowns, her anger seemingly exhausted already. AGNES grimaces with uncertainty. Eventually, CASS looks away.
CASS: Look...I like you, Agnes. Like, you've been the kind of person that I needed to meet, in more ways than one.
CASS looks back at AGNES again, staring daggers.
CASS: But the more that I like you, the more that I worry I shouldn't. Because sometimes you say some crook shit like "case the joint" and it reminds me that I don't know you.
CASS (quietly, looking away again): Not really.
CASS: So yeah, I wanna have fun while I'm in Vegas. And you've scratched my back so I'll scratch yours.
CASS (glaring at AGNES): But you'd better come clean right the fuck now about where the hell you learned to pick locks and kill people, before I feed your ass to the ghouls back down in those goddamn sewers.
CASS: Fuck, Agnes, what is it? Were you a raider, or in a gang? Do you think I'm gonna judge your shitty childhood or whatever? Do you not trust me?
AGNES: Cass—
CASS: Because sometimes it feels like I've trusted you way too goddamn much is all, like I'm a goddamn sap. Am I being set up, Agnes?
AGNES: No!
AGNES: I'm sorry. I'm really sorry. I'm not trying to lie, or anything. I just...don't like to talk about it—
CASS: Oh? Well, with all due respect, tough shit.
CASS clasps her hands together, pleading and pensive.
CASS: Y'know, all of the goddamn blood money that McLafferty bought me out with went toward this room for tonight. And for these nice new clothes that don't reek of sewer shit. If you want to pay me back for that at all, friend, you can start by just...telling me what the fuck your deal is.
CASS: I’m just so sick of fucking worrying about you.
AGNES: It's hard to explain. But I'm not an assassin, or some kind of serial killer, or anything like that...I swear, Cass, that I'm not. If you still trust me at all, I promise I'll tell you everything once we're back from the Tops.
CASS: And you say that you promise?
AGNES: Completely. I promise you.
Beat. Their clothes are mingled on the floor of the bed. They stare at each other from across the room as CASS thinks it over.
CASS: Fine. But only because if there's one thing about you I know for sure, it is that you're not a liar.
CASS (standing): You're just very selective with telling the truth.
AGNES: Cass—
CASS (fed up): What!?
AGNES: Of course I trust you.
CASS is caught off-guard.
CASS puts her hand over her mouth, ponderous and troubled. Then, she smirks and she puts her hand on her hip. She’s over it, it seems.
CASS: Alright, alright, whatever. Just get dressed already.
AGNES takes the red dress from the wall.
CASS: I still want to hit the tables before we kill this guy.
The dress wrinkles in AGNES’ fists. The bedroom’s florescent light gleams off the 9mm bullet that she wears around her neck.
AGNES: ...
The bullet that CHET hand-loaded for her back in Goodsprings with lead retrieved from her skull.
How many times have you heard someone say
“if I had his money, I could do things my way?”
But little they know that it's so hard to find
one rich man in ten with a satisfied mind.
—“A Satisfied Mind,” Porter Wagoner (1955)
Okay so here’s the thing. Yes, in-game there are sewers beneath Freeside that you can enter and explore. Yes, as far as dangers go, there are ghouls in parts of the sewer. No, none of these sewer tunnels actually allow you to subvert the Vegas gate via subterranean means, like I very confidently thought they did when I first outlined this volume of IKROAH and scripted this issue probably close to a year ago. Yes, it would have required rewriting the entire outline of Volume 2 to account for this because Agnes would have to get out of Freeside a different way. Yes, I care much more about telling a strong and coherent narrative than I do about what strictly happens in the video game Fallout: New Vegas. Yes, this is very sexy and cool of me.
Everybody give a big round of applause to @tarberrymentats for crushing the art again just like they did last December, they’ve been one of my favorite artists since I first ever became a part of this community and it’s been great to become such good friends outside of just the Fallout fandom. I love it so much when I get a guest ink-and-colorist because adhering so close to my pencils creates this really interesting hybrid of our styles that you just don’t get from any other kind of collaboration. It’s an especial honor to have had Halk work on this issue specifically, too; I couldn’t help but get the number one ghoul aficionado to assist with an appearance from of my favorite minor NPCs in the game: Rotface! He was fun to write, and fun to use as a way to show a little bit more of Agnes’ character and history. First that “maniac medic” thing Beth mentioned, now this? What the fuck is her deal? Maybe we’ll finally find out for sure in an issue or two. Maybe.
Also of note: IKROAH has a brand new font! Caveat Brush has been the font for all of the previous issues, but as my lettering has gotten much better and much more attentively professional over time, I started to disagree with it. The new font going forward is “Unmasked” from BlamBot, a possibly generic font that is nevertheless very suited for my purposes here.
Original Pencils (click for full size)
It felt really great to draw Agnes again after so long. With this issue primarily just being a conversation, I wanted to make sure the layout was interesting throughout, and conveyed the emotional beats and narrative focus very intentionally. I’ve included the original thumbnail sketches on the pencils for page 5, because that page had so much empty space anyway due to the way it looked in the final product. You can see a few alternate designs for the fifth page among them, such as a more typical-looking page, a dizzying overhead shot, and a close-up of the Lucky 38, but I went with the sort of “tunnel system” layout for Rotface’s dialogue rather than try to stack a bunch of balloons.
You can also see on the fourth page an original sketch for Agnes’ “flashback” panel (to the very first issue of IKROAH) that wound up getting replaced for old art. It just didn’t look good with the whole page around it, and using the old panel from Issue #1 carried a lot more weight. It was still a pretty cool design, though, so I’m glad you can all still see it in the pencils.
And lastly, there’s the final page, which was actually added after I had already scripted and drawn the entire issue. The issue originally ended just with Agnes walking away, but it felt like it was missing something, and this extra coda with Agnes and Cass entering the sewers was a much better final note. I just want to say, going into this issue, it was probably my least favorite that I had scripted just because it felt far too purely functional as a matter of getting Agnes from Point A to Point B. But it went through many dialogue revisions, especially during the process of lettering it after it was already drawn, that kept the same idea while adding much more emotional depth, and now I’m instead very fond of this issue and what it does for Agnes’ character.
Tumblr was being very difficult with letting these particular pencils be viewed at full size on desktop, so just click here (1), here (2), and here (3) for them instead.
Transcript
EXT. FREESIDE, a street corner. A ghoul known as ROTFACE sits on the sidewalk against the building of a pre-war water filter installation business.
Suddenly, over him, is:
AGNES: Is this seat taken?
ROTFACE: It is if you’re asking, ugly. Take a hike. Unless you maybe care to spare a cigarette.
AGNES SANDS sits down next to the ghoul.
AGNES (sitting down): Thanks, Zeke.
ROTFACE: Don’t mention it. How’re you doing, Agnes? S’been a while.
AGNES: Yeah, I was, uh…shot in the head.
ROTFACE: You’re fine other than that though, right?
AGNES (weakly smiling): Yeah. Yeah, just peachy.
ROTFACE: Y’know, I heard you were back in town—well, figured, because what I heard specifically was that you killed Dixon.
AGNES (removing two cigarettes from a box): Oh. Well…there was, uh, well, it was this whole thing with the Followers*—
CAP: *Last ish. -Lou
ROTFACE: Oh, I’m well aware, ha ha. Grecks said he could hear Dr. Farkas chewing you out from four blocks away.
AGNES (handing cigarette to Rotface): Zeke, I really don’t want to talk about it.
ROTFACE: Alright, sorry. Tough break, Ag. I mean it.
AGNES: Um…nice hat, by the way.
ROTFACE: Aw, thanks! You think so? Cost a lotta caps, but man, worth it. Really brings out my eyes.
AGNES: Wait—where’d you get the money?
ROTFACE: Just because I’m a beggar doesn’t mean I can’t save up for stuff. something nice every once in a while. And last time I really got anything nice for myself was that steak I had after top surgery. Besides, this is more of a long term investment. I spend my caps on food, that’s gone as soon as I eat it, right? But this hat? Bought it three weeks ago.
AGNES: I worry about you…please don’t buy hats instead of food.
ROTFACE: Bury me in it, then. If you worry so much, why don’t you buy me something to eat?
AGNES: I would, Zeke, but…I can’t. I literally can’t. I’m broke.
ROTFACE: Get your own corner to beg on, then.
AGNES: I’m serious, Zeke, come on. I’m only here at all because I need to get on the Strip.
ROTFACE: For business or pleasure?
AGNES: Uh…no, it’s…I…I…
A memory of blinding light from the barrel of a pistol, a gunshot, and then the silence and darkness of the grave.
AGNES: There’s someone I’ve been trying to find.
AGNES: But I blew the last caps I had here just trying to scrounge enough for the gate.
AGNES: ...I’m worried I’ve really fucked up.
ROTFACE frowns sympathetically.
ROTFACE: Y’knooow, I heard that security has been kind of lax at Mick and Ralph’s lately—
AGNES: No. I’m not going to steal it, Zeke. And not from them.
ROTFACE: Not gonna steal from Dixon either, or did you at least loot his corpse?
AGNES glares fiercely at ROTFACE.
ROTFACE: …eheh. Sorry.
ROTFACE: Well…alright, fair. I'd be a bad friend to make you go back to that shit, anyway. So let me be a good friend. Maybe I can get you onto the Strip.
AGNES is stunned. She leans toward ROTFACE urgently.
AGNES: You’ve got enough cash for the gate check!?
ROTFACE: Ha! Good one. If I did then I sure as hell still wouldn’t be in Freeside. No, what I do got for you is a damn good tip: you want to go in? Go under. But it’s dangerous.
ROTFACE: What you do is pry open the manhole on east Fremont and take the old sewer tunnels. It's gonna be miles of maze-like bullshit, sure, but all the pre-war stuff's still connected. The first ladder you're gonna want goes up behind the Ultra-Luxe, I think. Squatters used to sneak onto the Strip this way sometimes, but it's been a while, might be sealed off by now…might be. I'm not sure. That's not why they stopped.
ROTFACE: No…that'd be because of the ghouls. And not the kind capable of a pleasant conversation like moi.
AGNES: Huh. If it is sealed, would you know with what?
ROTFACE: Probably nothing that you couldn't pick apart in your sleep. Shit's gotta flow somewhere, and sewers need maintenance, so it shouldn't be all tombed up with concrete like what Mr. House did to that one vault hotel.
ROTFACE: But yeah, that's it. Fuck the gate check. Get a little messy, or just a whole lot lucky—and Agnes Sands is on the Vegas Strip for free.
ROTFACE: Really gotta watch those ghouls, though. Get caught, and you may not spend any money, but it still might cost an arm and a leg. Know what I mean?
AGNES: Thanks. It’s, uh…at least I know what to expect.*
CAP: Wouldn’t be the first time. See IKROAH #11. -Lou
ROTFACE: No problem, friend. And I’ll sell my hat for a nice grassy plot if you don’t come back.
AGNES (standing up): You really mean that?
ROTFACE: Hell no. You’ve told me before that you’d want to get cremated, anyway. Now scram, I don’t need deadbeat beggars like you hogging my corner.
AGNES (walking away): Thanks, Zeke. I’ll be seeing you.
ROTFACE (waving goodbye): Aw, don’t mention it, Agnes. And best of luck to you in Vegas!
EXT. ELSEWHERE IN FREESIDE.
AGNES walks a few blocks to reconvene with ROSE OF SHARON CASSIDY, and they share a few words before they continue walking together.
ROTFACE (cont.): I always wanted to go and try the machines. Y’know, slots…but if I was a good gambler then I probably wouldn't be a beggar, ha ha.
EXT. ELSEWHERE STILL, EAST FREMONT STREET.
AGNES and CASS approach a sewer lid over a manhole in the middle of the dilapidated street.
ROTFACE (cont): There's always some kind of system in place that just makes sure you lose anyway, right?
CASS casts a nervous glance toward AGNES.
ROTFACE (cont): So it’d probably be a bad idea no matter what.
AGNES returns the look impassively.
ROTFACE (cont.): There’s an old saying like that, I think, but...gun to my head, I can’t remember how the whole thing goes…
The manhole lid is off, and AGNES and CASS are gone.
Don't you know that she's had a bad, bad fall?
And if you can't say something nice,
don't say anything at all.
—“If You Can’t Say Anything Nice,” Roy Orbison (1965)
It Keeps Right On a-Hurtin’
#20 - Freeside IV
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Notes / Original Pencils / Transcript:
Notes:
Whewwwwww this one was a project. I’ve always wanted to experiment with doing a multiple-page spread like this, and I’m glad that I finally found an excuse! It basically doubled the amount of coloring work that I had to do, but as you can see the result was well worth the trouble.
That being said, IKROAH will be going on a sort of semi-informal hiatus (which just means it might be a while until the next comic) because I have some other non-fandom comics I want to work on before the end of the year and also I have been working so hard for so long oh my god I just want to hide in a hole and play video games right now. So I will.
Anyway! See you next ish! I’m gonna go beat Metroid Dread.
Original Pencils
Since I work traditionally, it actually took a lot of effort and precision to make sure the background spread lined up correctly on each page. And it still wasn’t enough because I had to correct the alignment a bit on each page anyway during digitization! You can also see my abundance of notes-to-self about little fixes to make during the coloring process, as well as some...uh...”cut dialogue.”
The unique grittiness of the flashback panel in which Agnes confronted Dixon was achieved by leaving it uninked. By scanning it as raw pencil instead of clean black and white, I got a much rougher-looking smattering of black on it during digitization.
You can see how large I drew the flyers on the original pencils at first; I shrunk them down digitally. It was easier to draw them bigger and I knew that I could just reposition them later.
Something that proved surprisingly difficult during the art process was thinking of things to draw in front of the Fort’s walls. On the original pencils here, you can see that I drew somebody tripping over a rock on Page 5 because I thought that it’d be funny, but I replaced him with birds during the inking process because on second thought it just seemed too distracting.
Transcript
JULIE: I can’t believe you...you killed Dixon?
INT. THE OLD MORMON FORT in FREESIDE, the Vegas-area headquarters of the FOLLOWERS OF THE APOCALYPSE. The director JULIE FARKAS is engaged in a shouting match with AGNES SANDS, while AGNES’ companion ROSE OF SHARON CASSIDY stands by beside her and JULIE’s associate ARCADE GANNON frets behind her.
AGNES: He attacked me! What was I supposed to do?
JULIE: I don’t know, not leave yet another murder victim out on the streets of Freeside, maybe?
ARCADE: Julie, please...
JULIE pinches the bridge of her nose, stressed.
JULIE: I thought you'd convince him somehow, not...this!
AGNES: We tried. He said we'd have to pay him off, but we didn't have the caps—
JULIE: You could have come back! And asked for the caps!
CASS: So what, then, the followers just open their wallets for any asshole selling on their block? Shit, Agnes, maybe we should start pushing and get our money that way.
ARCADE leans in to speak to JULIE.
ARCADE: Julie, I hate to say it, but she's got a point. Even if we did give Dixon the caps, it would have set a bad precedent...frankly, we can't afford to be extorted.
JULIE: And this justifies murder, Arcade?
JULIE turns her attention back to AGNES and CASS.
JULIE: Somehow I doubt Dixon just attacked you two for no reason.
AGNES: I told you. He asked for a bribe...that we buy him out, basically. And we, uh...we couldn't pay, and so...and so I improvised...and I threatened him—
JULIE cuts AGNES off, pointing at her furiously.
JULIE: —and so you started it!
AGNES: I...no, look, he pulled a knife—
JULIE: No. Stop. I don’t care. It's already taking all of our effort to keep tensions between Freesiders and NCR squatters from boiling over into all-out riots, and everyone's only been even more on edge since somebody took out the Silver Rush*. People are scared, and killing a dealer like Dixon no matter how scummy is only going to make things worse, not better. We've been struggling with our patients' withdrawal symptoms enough as-is.
(NOTE: Julie would know who if she'd read IKROAH #17—Lou.)
JULIE crosses her arms, immense disappointment and frustration on her face.
JULIE: And furthermore? I don't need your perspective on violence in Freeside. I live here. I know Dixon's type, and the Followers of the Apocalypse have worked with plenty of people just like him without ever resorting to threats and violence. Do you fucking get it yet?
AGNES seethes behind her sunglasses.
JULIE: Do you understand what you've done?
AGNES’ teeth clench tight.
JULIE: You're a murderer.
AGNES: I—
CASS (interjecting): Yeah, yeah. Nice lecture. But we did what you asked. That asshole won't be dealing where he's going, guaranteed. You're not happy at all?
JULIE looks at them hard.
JULIE: No. I’m not. I’m not happy that I seem to have put my faith in a pair of hitwomen. You and the Followers have no further business.
CASS: What about the caps for our trouble? Nothing?
JULIE (turning to leave): The caps you were promised will go toward Dixon's burial expenses. Arcade, please escort these two out of The Fort.
Exeunt JULIE as she enters one of the Followers’ medical tents.
ARCADE: I'm sorry about Julie. I mean, I agree with her, but...well, I don't actually know why I'm apologizing, then. Murder is bad, as it turns out.
AGNES: ...it’s fine.
ARCADE: And she really doesn't mean to be so harsh...things have just been really, uh, tense around here lately.
ARCADE smiles sincerely.
ARCADE: Listen, if you're ever in need of help, you can come back anytime. Really. Just talk to me instead of her. All I'll lecture you about are, uh, medicinal herbs. Haha.
CASS (turning to leave): Thanks, four-eyes. We'll keep that in mind. Come on, Agnes.
AGNES hesitates to follow CASS, remaining still. ARCADE turns to rejoin JULIE, but looks back at AGNES with a worried expression.
AGNES: Yeah...thanks.
EXT. THE OLD MORMON FORT, the STREETS OF FREESIDE.
