"NO. No, no, no, no, NO."
Two bullets to the brain: a minor inconvenience.
Hordes of bandits, raiders, and other assorted Wasteland lowlifes: trivial.
The mighty Caesar's Legion – scourge of the Mojave Wasteland, feared by all: a speedbump along the road to victory.
A frilly, powder-blue evening gown: the gravest threat she'd ever faced – and one she wasn't sure she had the strength to overcome.
"Do not want. Do. Not. Want."
Nearby, draped lazily across a plush couch in the Lucky 38 Casino's Presidential Suite was the foul-tempered and foul-mouthed Rose of Sharon Cassidy. She snickered and took a sip from the bottle of whiskey which seemed to have been permanently grafted to her hand. "Aw, quit being such a baby."
"You do realize you'll need to wear a dress, too, right?"
"Oh, like hell I will!"
Standing in the doorway watching the proceedings was a tall, lanky man with blond hair that had been bleached even lighter by the sun. He wore an old pair of eyeglasses that perpetually slipped down his nose and a weathered lab coat that was more gray than white these days. He apparently found Cass' burgeoning panic amusing, because the corner of his mouth was quirked upwards into a tiny smirk. "It's a diplomatic function. That means formal attire. For everyone. Last I checked, you would be included under the catch-all term 'everyone.'"
Angry, bloodshot eyes glared at him from underneath the brim of Cass' straw hat. "Not happening. No way, no how." Her voice had descended into a raspy growl, like a Nightstalker preparing to lunge.
"Now who's being a baby?"
She turned, her expression instantly softening – becoming almost pleading. "Ash, you can't do this to me, girl. I'll die in one of them things. Look at these. What ARE these?"
"Ruffles." The doc sounded completely unperturbed. She was struck with the sudden urge to see if a fist to the jaw would damage his calm some.
" 'Ruffles.' What the flyin'-sheepdog-fuck is a 'ruffle,' Gannon? Who comes up with this shit? It looks like a Brahmin's puckered asshole!"
"Annnnnnd… that's an image I'm not going to be getting out of my head for a long, long time. Lovely."
Cass rolled her eyes. "Well, I am awful sorry to have offended your delicate sensibilities, Mr. Fussybritches, but I am not going to be stuffing myself into anything that looks like the wrinkly part of a ghoul's hindquarters."
"And on that note, who votes to skip breakfast?" Arcade glanced about the room and found several hands raised.
Behind him, though, Raul continued toiling at one of the workbenches, fiddling with a handful of different bits of broken machinery. "I could eat," he muttered, distractedly.
Arcade snorted. "Sorry, Raul, you're outvoted. Motion passes." He turned back to Cass. "It's only fair. If Ashleigh has to wear a dress, so do you."
"I'm still hoping nuclear winter will descend on the Mojave and I can get out of this banquet thing. I mean, take on an army of homicidal robots? I can do that. Take on an army of homicidal pseudo-Romans? I can do that. Entertain a bunch of visiting dignitaries with delightful anecdotes while sipping tea and picking at plates of hors d'oeuvres? Shoot me in the head. Use three bullets this time. Maybe it'll take."
"But what about the dresses?"
"And that's another thing. Veronica, you are way too excited about this."
"I haven't had a chance to break out my sewing kit in forever!"
Ashleigh thumped her forehead against the heel of her palm. "You have a sewing kit? What am I saying? Of course you have a sewing kit."