Chapter 2

Sentenza glared at himself in the broken mirror. Staring back at him was a round, hardened face, pockmarked with scars and lines of middle age. If he hadn't shaved his head, greyness would've appeared by now. Plugging the sink, he poured a bottle of purified water and splashed it on his face. It cooled his face and soothed his nerves. He wondered what his father, whoever he was, would think of him now, what he was doing. Thoughts like these didn't often occur to him, they were more current in his youth and adolescence, when he cared about such things.

He'd come a long way. He'd been a drifter all his life. His mother had told him he was born in Shady Sands, but what did she know? Doped up on chems all the time, selling her body to the lowest bidder, half of what she said was lies, the other half were delusional ramblings born of delirium. Bare-Knuckle Boxing was his first calling. That's where his name came from. His promoter said it meant sentence or verdict in Spanish, but he was as Hispanic as Instamash. Fighting came naturally to him; he enjoyed beating up people, especially those weaklings unable to defend themselves. He became a fighter of great renown, merciless, dirty. He caught his promoter milking his winnings, so he beat him to death. That hadn't surprised him. Everyone was trying to backstab everyone else. That's just how people were. You had to stab back, otherwise you wouldn't survive. A wanted man, he fled the NCR and came to the Mojave. He found work was a courier and the rest was history.

He stepped away from the sink and entered the bedroom. The bedroom had once belonged to Vera Keyes, now it belonged to him and his concubine, Sarah Weintraub. She was sleeping peacefully, naked except for the collar around her neck. Giving her a collar had improved her mood of late, not much, but enough that she was able to satisfy his needs and freed of her compulsion to escape. That's all that mattered. The room was spacious, luxurious, comfortable. Every trace of its previous occupant had been removed except for Vera's last words, still inscribed on the wall above the bed: "Let go".

He grabbed a couple of items from the dresser and left the bedroom and walked down the hall. The Suites of the Madre had been improved, cleared of debris and corpses. Some areas were still impassable due to the Cloud seeping through. More and more of it was leaking in. Elijah's room was further away. He came to the entrance of his bedroom. He closed his eyes and listened. Elijah's hoarse breathing was laboured but rhythmic. The old man was asleep for once.

The man's room was packed with computer terminals, linked to terminals in the Big Empty, monitoring, controlling the progress of the Cloud. Soon it would enshroud the Mojave, and the areas beyond, allowing the slate to be wiped fully clean. Around the bed were scores of finished cigarettes, empty scotch bottles, empty mentat packs, empty Med-X syringes. The room stank a noxious fusion of body odour, tobacco and alcohol.

He stepped forward gingerly, the carpet absorbing the sound of his footsteps. He took a step towards the bed and waited. Elijah sleepily exhaled and inhaled three times. He took another step. Three more times Elijah inhaled and exhaled. Another step. He was at the bed now. He held the device before him. In a fluid motion he placed the collar around Elijah's neck and snapped it into place.

Elijah awakened groggily and stirred.

"Whhhh...what the?"

Sentenza back away and flicked the lights on. Elijah was confused, disoriented, drunk.

"I gave you present, father." Sentenza mocked.

Elijah's angry, mad eyes focused on him. Then those eyes looked around, feeling for the first time the device around his neck. His eyes turned towards him, full of accusatory rage.

"YOU!" He bellowed.

"How's it feel to wake up with a bomb collar around your neck?"

"You...You think you can...trick me?"

Elijah stirred, about to stand up. Sentenza lifted a device in his hand, the detonator.

"I don't think so."

"If I can get close enough to you, it'll take the both of us out!"

"That's a big If. You're drunk, tired, arthritis is affecting every bone in your old body. You've probably got lung cancer by now. What is it you said to me the first time we met? Play stupid, play clever, make the mistake of saying no? Then that collar will go off and take your head with it!"

Elijah glared at him; irony was as sharp as any dagger. "What do you want?"

"Right now, I just want you to know what's it like to have a bomb around your neck. I'm not cruel. If I was, I'd ask you to some suicidal task. But I'm not. Instead, I'm just going to kill you using the tools you gave me."

Sentenza grabbed his Holorilfe and aimed it at Elijah. The old man's lip quivered and though he tried to look defiant, he could see the sorrow of defeat in the old man's eyes. The look brought a wide smile to Sentenza's face.

"You sick bastard!"

"That's a big compliment from you!"

"You'll never manage without me! You need me!"

"I'll do fine. The Mojave will do fine."

Sentenza aimed through the gunsight, even though it wasn't necessary.

Elijah put his arms up, begging for mercy.

"Please... Don't..."

"Shhhh." Sentenza whispered, his finger gently pulling back on the trigger. "I'm wiping the slate clean."