These are all just a collection of musings and rants of what I think went in in the head of Dean Domino during his 200 year stint at the Madre. Most of these will just consist of him muttering to himself, but I might eventually do some of when he first meets the Dead Money cast, and probably a few set before the war.
The Sierra Madre, as much a part of him now as anything else. Even the ghosts of Vera and Sinclair still kept him company, the scenery growing old and rotting with him while they stayed preserved. Infuriating at first, but somewhere along the line it'd become comforting. His own little tarnished version of the world that the bombs never touched.
Still too lonely for his tastes though, he thought and wrinkled his nose. He craved an audience, anyone really; even the blasted mist that seeped into his cigarette smoke couldn't dampen that need to entertain.
Dean Domino – nearly as much a ghost as the rest of them.
The thin line distinguishing him from the ghost people was a balcony view and the use of his faculties.
His mind would be next, he'd muse on occasion, typically after half a bottle of scotch reminded him that the world even existed outside his precious Madre.
His Madre. He owned it now more than Sinclair ever did, that cheap bastard still haunting him even in death.
And Vera too, his Vera...he'd laid the groundwork for that girl before Sinclair was ever in the picture, before he'd even had a chance to traipse his eyes all over her fake, pin-up Hollywood body. He'd set up the players, he'd planned the heist, he'd been clever enough to pull the wool over the eyes of that arrogant prick.
Thought his rink-dinky hole of a casino could eclipse Dean Domino? His name was in lights, goddamn it, all over the world!
Well who's laughing now! He heard his own voice respond, drunken syllables, barely pronounced, echoed back off the rotting alleyway.
Who's laughing now? He repeated, quieter this time.
Luckily these moments were infrequent; it only took but a moment for his tenacity and good-wit to chase off any pessimism that found a way inside his head. Alcohol helped a great deal as well.
But since no one was looking, not like there'd ever been anyone to look anyway, he let the feeling linger.
It tasted bitter.
Sometimes he'd let his mind wander outside the Madre, far beyond the ruined walls of his self-inflicted prison cell of a city. The whole world was still there - it had to be. Flames had cleansed the surface but society remained intact somehow. He'd seen glimpses of it caught in traps and fitted with collars, forced by some twisted fate to return and scurry around his city.
Tourists, he spat. People.
Contempt held against them simply because the alternative threatened to break what he had left.
They'd die, bickering and cursing, just like the others.
No point, really, in getting attached.
Not like it'd been any different before the bombs.
At least then he had better entertainment. A whole flock of celebrities to putter about and regale, fueling his ego as they scarcely knew.
Now, left alone, he surprised himself in reaching out. Or at least wanting to, anyway. Each time he'd talk himself out of the silly delusion of course.
If he let himself stray from his obsession...well, frankly, he was afraid what he'd see.
200 years of wasting away and all of it incredibly pointless, positively certifiable if he didn't succeed in getting into that damn vault.
No, no he'd wait. Wait for them to come to you, Dean, he'd calm himself. The only way you're getting in that vault is with a clear head on your shoulders.
The idea that he might be going mad struck him every odd hour.
A silly concept, he'd realize and shake it away. But appallingly haunting in it's implications.
No, the heist was still proceeding entirely as planned - a few delays in it's implication, surely, but every great plan has its hiccups, right? It was only the results that mattered in these situations.
Only the results, he'd assure himself, staring down at the city...
and nothing else.