Fox Handall's sitting at the cheapest bar in town: the lights above are dirty and dim, the place smells of cigar smoke and dust, a bartender stands in front of a shelf of alcohol, cleaning a hazy yellow glass, occasionally wiping the countertop.

A man waddles over and sits heavily next to Fox. He's about fifty and wears spectacles that squeeze at his fleshy temples. His voice is low and grumbly, and the stool squeaks under his weight.

"Fox Handall." He greets, then coughs, "What's a guy like you doin' here? At a bar? You lookin' sad, bud."

Fox lifts his head. His jaw's sharp, his eyes green and soft, and his hair jet black like ink, combed to the side, one tuft of it leaning over his hairline. He's twenty-five—or something like that—but his face has a certain maturity to it, and small bits of unshaven stubble grow along his jaw. "Mourning. Wasted all my caps on the whores at Gomorrah and the slots at The Tops, Rich."

Rich shakes his head sadly, "You poor, poor soul."

Fox turns to the bartender and places three caps on the countertop, "Whiskey, please." Then solemnly watches them disappear into the rusty cash register. "Got only five caps left now."

Rich sighs and leans towards him, "Come on. You need to find other ways to solve your problems 'cept whores, gambling, an' whiskey. I know you can."

"You're right, I should just start doing Jet and Hydra and turn into one of those Fiend shits."

"Naw, Fox. Not that. Go do what you love."

The bartender places a small cup of the bright amber-colored drink in front of them. Fox snatches it and chugs it down, Rich watching with somber eyes. The cup slams back onto the table and Fox wipes his mouth conclusively. "The stuff I loved to do was shut down not too long ago."

Rich raises an eyebrow. Now this was getting somewhere.

Fox continues, "Got kicked outta The Kings gang, wasn't accepted into the Primm police force, turned down by the Great Khans, Merchants, guard jobs. Man, I was even thinking of joining The Legion."

"Well thank the Lord you didn't." Rich clasps his two pudgy hands together and peers curiously at him, "What issit that you love? An' what gotcha kicked outta The Kings an' turned down so many times? You done nothin' wrong."

His eyes squint and close from the anger and embarrassment. "One of the Kings' members went and framed me for raping one of their groupies."

Mumbling, Rich shook his head, "Oh Lord."

He buries his face in one of his hands, "Yep. Placed her lingerie on my floor and tied her up on my bed while I was out taking care of some thugs. Guy must've known the end of my shift and timed it perfectly so that no one was in the halls to see me walkin' down the hall to my dorm, and when I walked in she was already screaming."

Rich gives him a sympathetic pat on the back.

"The King was angry. Real angry. Told me to pack my things and leave. Word spread of the incident, probably why I've been turned down so many times." He sits up straight and looks at Rich sadly, "I wanna belong somewhere Rich. That's what I love: belonging. But I can't do that now. Been turned down too many times for that to happen anymore. When I came to New Vegas, I thought I could start fresh. Before I left my town, no one wanted anything to do with me. Now, it's the same. Nothing's changed!" He bangs the table with his fist in his drunken rage. The glasses on the surface teeter, and the bartender glances up. For a moment, the low hum of conversation is interrupted, and some heads turn.

Rich chooses his words carefully, as to not upset the red-faced gunslinger any further.

"Awe...Fox. Hope ain't gone yet. You c'n always wander the wastes, or be a prospector...Hey, you're good with guns an' the like, yea?"

Fox nods solemnly, his fist slowly unclenching. The familiar buzz of the bar returns. "Yea, I suppose."

Rich shifts his weight on the stool and it squeaks in protest.

"Just wan'er around! Cleanse New Vegas of its Fiends, animal abominations, an' ghouls! Go search for goodies hidden 'round. Lotsa people make a livin' offa that."

"Not the killing part, though."

"Well, yeah. That part's only for a select few, like you! Maybe you'll find another person who's in the same boat?"

Fox stares at the scratched wooden floorboards underneath the stool, "Very unlikely."

"But possible!" Rich tires smiling for his friend, who seems too sad and drunk to notice. He sighs and turns toward the bar, voice suddenly soft, "Fox...there's a war goin' on in your head right now. War's are violent, angry, tedious, brutal...but a war always ends, an' there's always those people and thoughts—those refugees pf your head—that're forgotten about. Don't matter if it's yer own war or the whole goddamn Nuclear War, because war—"

Suddenly Fox's hard growl cuts in. He speaks as if he were in a trance, and his eyes still stare blankly at the floor.

"War never changes."

Rich nods slowly, "Yea...'specially in New Vegas."

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