Seven year old Ivy studied her cards. “Go fish!”
In the kitchen section of the room, Tellerman was drying the plates from where he’d done the washing, watching his older brother teach their baby sister how to play cards.
“Got any Kings?” Ivy asked after he pulled from the pile.
Irving grumbled and threw out a King, which Ivy took out two of her own and placed them on the table.
“Got any sevens?” Irving asked.
“Go fish!” Ivy grinned. “Got any twos?”
“Go fish!” Irving grinned back.
Tellerman hit Irving on the back of the head with the frying pan in his hand.
“OW!” Irving shouted, turning to Tellerman and rubbing the back of his head. “What the fuck did you that for?”
“I can see your cards asshole.” Tellerman said. “No cheating the seven year old.”
Irving swore and threw his cards on the table. Ivy dropped her hand and grabbed the small stack of caps Irving had set for the winner.
“Hey!” Irving said, looking at her cards. “There’s a three in here!”
Ivy delved under the table with the caps.
Tellerman shrugged. “I’m not hitting her,” and hung the frying pan on the rack. From beneath the table, Ivy giggled.
The attack was over as fast as it started. There’d only been three raiders and their weapons had been both poorly maintained and poorly used. One had managed a lucky shot for both shooter and caravan – it hit a bottle in Bonavere’s pack, but missed the beast itself. The glass however, shattered and caused both Brahmin and Quaid to get cut with the green shards. It was all Quaid could do to hold on and keep the animal from running in fear – all while trying to shoot back at the raiders with his shotgun.
Finally Tiki got the last raider with a headshot with her rifle down for count. Quaid always envied her shooting skills – any target more than twenty feet away and he was practically hopeless.
“Headcount!” the caravan leader, a larger man who called himself Mighty Bob called out. “Tiki?”
“Here.” The tall thin woman shouted.
“Keller?”
Keller responded with his trademark grunt.
“Quaid?”
“Got grazed, but here.”
“Lonnie?”
There was an unprompted silence. Quaid looked around. “Lonnie?” the group repeated.
Tiki spotted him first. “Shit.”
Following her gaze, Quaid ran to where Lonnie had fallen, kneeling to examine him while the others joined to watch. Three bullet holes, one in the shoulder, one in the gut and one in the chest. The poor kid was shaking in shock and perhaps fear, who knows what was going through his head. Quaid took off his jacket and raised Lonnie’s head to set it beneath – a futile comforting move, but all he had to offer.
“Keller, get the first aid kit.” Mighty Bob ordered. “ Tiki, unload Bonavere and make a body sling out of that tarp we got, we’ll have to carry him back to – “
But Quaid turned to him and shook his head. Even if he could stop the bleeding this minute, the blood loss was such he doubted they could get Lonnie alive to a doctor in time. And Quaid didn’t think himself enough of a surgeon to operate on all three wounds in time to even stop the blood loss.
Keller brought the first aid kit and Quaid did the only thing he could – he gave Lonnie a heavy dosage of Med-X for the pain. Lonnie was rasping now, and Bob took the kid’s hand as he breathed his last.
He’d traveled with Lonnie for two months now. An okay kid – not much younger than him really. His jokes were annoying but inoffensive, and he’d been a good trader and always carried his worth. Just-
“Damn.” Bob said, the best eulogy Lonnie would get. “Tiki, get the shovel.”
As Mighty Bob dug Lonnie’s grave, Tiki, Keller and Gil scavenged what they could from the raider’s bodies. Quaid pulled back his jacket from beneath Lonnie’s head.
"I won’t vomit on your floor," he promised helpfully. "I’m much more interested in ruining anything expensive you have here and believe me I’ve an eye for that sort of thing."
Oh he’d seen those drapes, alright. He’d been practicing projectile vomiting just for a moment like this.
"Just hold it in while I get to my medicine stores. I'm pretty sure I should I have drugs that could help stop the impending death."Â Of course, it might be less mess just to kill him and drag the body to the incinerator. He was getting low on activated carbon anyway.
"Not without a label. Which there is." He pointed to the simple label reading "Strychnine Solution #7" and his minimalist skull and cross. Though in fairness the skull was more of a simple circle.
"If you vomit over my floor I'll shoot you to put you out of both our miseries."
Oh believe me, I know. ;-) 'Good' characters are often always good in the same ways. Evil characters get to be evil in their own ways. I have a couple videos waiting to post in my drafts of my face!claim explaining why we all love a good villain and what makes them so fun to play.
"Nice to make your acquaintance, Quaid." Duchess nods to the man, then snorts a bit at his comment about making a fortune.
"Well, that’s true and then it ain’t. Caps flow like water in Vegas, but they usually only flow in one direction; to the casinos. Everyone’s got an angle, though, there’s plenty of ways to empty your pockets." She hums a bit, thoughtfully. "What is it you do?"
“Oh I have no intention of wasting caps to the casinos. I’ve been to gambling dens before and I doubt Vegas’ are any different no matter how shiny they look. I’m a chemist by trade.” And here’s where things got interesting. He might have lied about it – normally he played quiet at first to test the waters - but one of his orders was to start business immediately.
“And yourself?” She was strangely dressed, at least by his eyes. More like the raiders he'd known than someone who'd seen a functional society. Quaid had already assumed that the closer to civilization one got the more they’d attack to Pre-War standards of dress. Either this woman didn’t care for standards or California was as dissolute as his associates made it out to be.
"A chemist? So you make your own chems and medicine then?" They all needed to come from somewhere at the end of the day. As for the question, she knew it was French and she knew enough to know what he was asking. "Me? Some like to call me the Lone Wanderer. I just wander around wherever I want to go. I’ve been staying at Project Purity but come to Rivet City for market days. Just to get supplies and whatever else."Â
“I also make more industrial and non-medicinal chemicals, but medicinal chems usually turn out to be my main trade.” the woman hadn’t seemed too judgmental on the subject, which was all the better in him avoiding getting shot.
She reaffirmed his belief of her identity. “I thought so. I suppose I owe you a free bottle of water, but I’m guessing you already get that on the house.” Quaid smile broadened. He’d heard of her heroism and thought on it. Some thought her a meddling do-gooder. Frankly he couldn’t fault her for trying to help others, even if the propaganda was a bit much.
There is the buzz and crackle of the intercom and a voice pours: "Sorry, the woman downstairs said to just press the intercom. Is there a schedule for the ship's bridge extension or do you just wait for larger groups to assemble?"
"No" Harkness instructed voice projecting against the river as his thumb pressed against the intercom. "You can come across, just watch your step as the bridge extends."
He sure as hell didn’t want the paperwork of an accidental drop. Retreating from the device Harkness pulled on a familiar worn mechanism filling the wastes with the screech of the walkway between the platforms.
It was the same as every interrogation. Harkness kept a watchful eye on the approaching visitor, taking in every detail who could in the time it took them to reach him on the other side of the bridge. Giving a courteous nod Harkness received the visitor silently, not so discretely eying them up because he had no idea who the hell this was.
“I can exactly have visitors waiting to be picked up by Muties now can I?" He gave a smile before shrugging. "Now, how can I help you?.” It wasn’t as if his fate in Rivet City depended on the visitors answer. It depended on his next few.”
Quaid hadn’t exactly dressed in a foreboding manner, just his jeans, pullover, boots and jacket along with his travel bag and hunting shotgun. And while he managed to retain a collected composure for the untrained eye, there was a nagging worry underneath. Suppose Brad Danvers remembered him and decided to risk exposure to get him off the ship? Granted, his last exit had been gracious for both parties, but that was years ago and who knows what Danvers had dwelled on.
“I don’t know,” Quaid joked in reply, “one way to discourage solicitors.” He kept his hands in his pockets, but he could relax somewhat with the new guard. “I’m here to do some trading in the market, maybe stay the night if there’s an available bed.”
"Well, nice to meet you then, Quaid." Cass quickly examined him before taking the beer that had been ordered and taking a few sips from it. "Alright then, Quaid. Who are you and what’re you doing round here?"
"Well, I'm a chemist, I'm in Rivet City to trade some Med-X I've been working on." A partial lie of omission, but he thought an understandable one considering who he was talking to. "And I figured I'd stay the night rather than risk going through the ruins alone at night. Et tu?"
The lady smiled gently, watching him for a moment. “You need not be afraid, my dear, I intend no harm …” She eventually said softly, noticing his stare and inaction
He dared to speak, but his voice was intact and calm. "Forgive me if I fail to relax. Tales of meeting with incorporeal beings don't usually have sweet endings." At least not the tales Quaid studied intently.
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