Post-Apocalyptia: Short Stories From The Wasteland
based on the popular game franchise "Fallout"

Season 1, Episode 1 - "The Job"
December 10th, Year 2281

Freeside, Nevada

"So where you from, pal?"

The bartender's voice and accent were rough around the edges, but still layered with familiarity. He was a smelly man, gruff and bearded, probably in his mid thirties or forties. No matter how much effort he put into cleaning the glass in his hands, it still had a hazy film around the inside; but that was more likely because of the way the light from the eastern window flared through it, or the dirty apron tied around his midsection, recontaminating everything he cleaned.

"Not from around here," Jason responded without looking up from the counter where his whiskey was. He took a sip, sparingly, mindful that he should conserve his drink. Play the part, blend in, watch your alcohol. Keep those eyes to yourself.

"That's obvious," the fat bartender said. "You got a look'n ya like you'd just come from up North or such. By my count, that's no place to be."

"Something like that," Jason said. He was getting frustrated. The man tending this dusty establishment was quickly becoming a problem with the attention he was bringing. Six months of work could be made into a real big waste of time if the bartender blew his cover.

"Compensate," his mind said. "Taper in the adjustments and make do. There is no such thing as failure."

Jason certainly looked the part, though. A long grey trench coat with a matching cowboy hat was a common sight in the Mojave region of Nevada, he'd certainly done his homework. Still, he was unfamiliar with the particular regions around New Vegas, and the awkward and barren streets of Freeside hadn't helped that. Jason was used to bigger crowds, more concentrated crowds of diversity. Easier to blend in, easier to work.

Easier to disappear after the work was done, too.

"Shit," he thought out loud. Since the word wasn't supposed to come out of his mouth, he followed it up to establish a personality with the bartender. It looked like the target was behind schedule anyhow, so he figured it a good time to practice some people skills. "This is some good whiskey, boss."

"Hah," the man replied. "That ain't even the good stuff. I can show ya some real drank, some of that knock-yo-cock-in-the-dust kinda sauce."

Time to shift. Make the moves, seem innocent and young. Inexperienced.

"Thanks, but I couldn't handle anything stronger. Hell, this here is potent enough."

Check the bartender's eyes. Is he looking down? Up? Or to the right? Dammit. Focus, Jason. Nope, he bought it. No suspicion.

"Ah, so you're a real lightweight huh? Figured as much. Keep'n me well stocked behind the counter so it's no problem. Most my patrons clear out my stock by day's end. Not that's a bad thing, I make plenty'a caps anyhow..."

Good. Bartender's talking again. That's fine. Keep him interested in himself, and not me.

Jason was beginning to feel in his right element again, then the door to the nearly deserted bar opened, and some cool air floated into the dusty place. His brain went back to work, using peripheral vision to try for an identification.

A few seconds was all it really took. The person entering wore a duster similar to him, except his hat was more full, and pulled down, concealed the face and eyes.

Dammit.

Jason did a quick review of his identification parameters in his brain. Male, late twenties, two scars on the face, one next to the right eye and one a few inches below it, round and chambered for nine millimeter rounds. Before he could recall the worry he'd had about taking a job where the target had already survived a very thorough assassination attempt, he snapped back into focus.

"Sunset," the target said to the bartender as he approached the bar. He paid no mind to Jason, outside of a quick glance, which Jason caught from the corner of his eye. He felt himself tense up a little when the target set a package on the counter, and the bartender handed him a Sunset Sarsaparilla in return.

"Thanks, Bill."

The confirmation came. The target tilted his head back to drink the soda, and the light was like a friend to Jason, pointing at the long and mean scars on the man's face. Just next to the right eye, and another just below it. The bartender spoke to the man, breaking Jason's concentration.

"Take it easy, buddy. See ya next week?"

"You know it. See ya, Bill."

He does his business and leaves quick. If you aren't paying attention, you might miss him. Jason remembered these words, written on the dossier of his target, describing him as much as possible. He didn't necessarily need that info anymore though; he knew he'd found his mark. The scars were definite confirmation, more than anything.

The target turned and walked out, collecting a small bag of caps as he left. A split second after he was out the door, Jason dropped seven caps on the counter and spun off his stool, making for the door.

"Hey there pal, you forgot your change."

Jason ignored the bartender and pushed open the door, checking both the left and right seemingly simultaneously as he stepped into the cool night of Freeside. He spotted the target, fifteen yards to his seven o' clock, crossing the street.

Trail a good distance. Wait for the box, and then close it. Make sure no one sees or hears it, and make sure you leave the logo. Always leave the logo. It's how we get more business, and how you get more work.

The target moved into the dark of a corner near a building, but he was still in the open. Jason was determined to do this clean, to do it right. His trench coat was long enough to conceal his weapon, but the mind kept telling him something was wrong. Just... wrong. Somehow.

Instinct can also be the reason you fail, and failing is just as bad as being the target yourself. Don't become the target, Jason. Dead employees don't make money. Not for the company, and certainly not for themselves.

Jason took the corner in silence, peeking around it enough to make sure his target didn't know he was a target. By the time your prey knows they are prey, you should be killing them.

Further now. Twenty yards. Did the man know he was being followed? The dossier said he was more experienced than Jason's previous targets. Still, three years of training to do one job made Jason pretty damn good at killing people. That thought brought his confidence back in droves.

Jason moved. He quickened his step, taking note of the target's path. The moon was behind them both. The man stopped, making Jason step to his left into the cover of a skeleton building, out of sight. He pulled a mirror from his pocket and made use of his training.

The target was still stopped, facing now to the right, studying a piece of paper. Jason's heart leapt when the man stepped into the darkness of an adjacent alley, still focused on the paper.

Mirror back in the pocket, Jason moved quickly. He came to the corner leading into the alley, and with practiced fluidity, stepped into the darkness and pulled his 10mm weapon.

Immediately after his eyes told him that the target was not in front of him, not in the path of a bullet, they then told him that he'd made a mistake. A gloved hand gripped the barrel of his weapon and jerked it to the right. Jason's instincts flared and he swung out with his available hand, but made contact with something much harder and denser than the bones in his delicate right fingers. Before he could react any further, the weapon in his left hand was violently twisted around and wrenched free, snapping his trigger finger and breaking the bone.

Whoever it was, they knew what they were doing. The figure was shrouded in darkness, but each movement was professional and deliberate. They stepped back, Jason saw a glint from his pistol, then felt gravity pull him down as the figure used the now confiscated firearm to put a 10mm round through each of Jason's knees. The gun made the all too familiar popping sound he'd become accustomed to while killing his targets, the slide clicking back and then forward again, against the black muzzle suppressor.

It should hurt, right? It's supposed to hurt. Why doesn't it hurt?

Jason fell onto his back and drew a long breath. He almost wanted to laugh. Many of his friends had gone out this way. Counter killed by someone just way more experienced than you. The man put a boot on Jason's chest, and leveled the weapon at his face.

"How many are with you? I'm not going to ask twice."

"Just me."

"Who do you work for?"

"Some people who don't like you."

The target shifted his gun hand and fired. Jason felt his right hand explode at the wrist, but he didn't bother to look. He knew it was gone, but this time it hurt like hell.

"Triage!" He almost shouted. The pain brought out desperation that he thought he'd conquered long ago in training. He was weak and scared, yes; but no matter how bad the end would be, he would not beg for life.

"Who is Triage?"

"Kill squad. New Reno. Don't ask who paid, I don't know."

When the 10mm round erased Jason's left hand this time, all that was left was his still broken and mangled trigger finger.

"Fuck!" It was the last time Jason would ever say the word. It was sad, too. He liked that word. "They don't tell us details," he was shaking now. Blood loss? Fear?

The target turned away for a second, mumbling something. "Makes sense," he said to Jason. "The pros are like that. Sorry you got mixed up in this, kid."

"I knew the risk."

"If it helps, I've been where you are. You probably know that already about me, though."

"Yeah. My company does their homework. Top billing in New Reno."

"You don't know why?"

"No. If I did, I would tell you."

Jason knew that it was over. He was okay with that, though. It had to happen to everyone. Better here and now instead of ripped apart by some wasteland terror.

"Killed by a mailman," Jason sighed. "How embarrassing."

"Yeah."

The target leveled the gun and fired into Jason's forehead, neither of them bothering to look.