2

Keep it Together

Lola glanced casually at the luminous clock in the top right corner of her Pip-Boy, laying idle on top of a pile of clothes. Five. She doubted anyone would still be milling around seeing as the Aces had closed four hours ago and it tended to be much quieter around this time before the joint filled up again. Maybe she should slip on something a little less comfortable or, hell, maybe nobody would care if they saw her edging out of the casino with guns strapped to her thighs and a look that could kill.

All of this was assuming she could remove Swank's arm from her waist and right now, that didn't seem to be an option. He was curled tightly around her as though he knew exactly what she was planning to do, but what she couldn't understand was why, if this was the case, he even cared. Misplaced chivalry, she supposed. The Chairmen, like so many others, made the mistake of assuming women didn't fare well in the Wasteland – they were that out of touch.

She hadn't let slip, of course, about what Benny had done to warrant her arrival at The Tops in the first place – once she had made her mind up and figured out a way around it, she hadn't needed to. Then again, the fact that she had arrived here at all was testament to her survival out in the harshness of the Wasteland and all it had thrown at her. Going back out there wasn't likely to be a problem, though maybe he knew as well as she did she'd gotten soft.

"Got quite the grip on you. Of course, I knew that already," she murmured as she tried to extricate herself from his embrace, not so much one of romance as one of habit. Eventually she managed it, trying not to make too much noise as she rolled out of the bed, glancing down at her clothes and then at her day pack. She shrugged; it was too much effort to go to, wearing a dress when anyone who wanted to find out would know it was her anyway.

Only she knew what came next. The elevator whirred, a low hum following her to the lower floors of the casino, and she crossed the lobby swiftly, a few heads turning towards her but not enough to cause a stir.

"My weapons," she muttered to the woman slumped at the desk, one step beyond exhausted. She'd always found it strange that they kept surrendered weapons behind the desk where people cashed their chips.

"Your name, please?" the woman groaned, barely able to string even this short sentence together.

"Lola Adams," the woman nodded in compliance. Talking seemed too taxing for her but she turned away, disappearing from view before returning a moment later, tentatively balancing a lockbox that she slid across the desk without speaking. Lola didn't even utter a word of thanks as she opened the box using a small, silver key handed over in exchange for the goods; she armed herself, knowing the heavier artillery was still stashed up in the Lucky 38, but this was all she should need for the time being. If it was a choice between taking out the big guns and being able to move quickly in a fight, she knew what she would prefer. She slid the open box back across the desk to the cashier, the key still lodged in its lock, not bothering to draw the woman's attention to the fact that she'd just walked out of the casino armed for a fight.

That was it, then. She stepped out of The Tops, knowing that the Chairmen wouldn't leave the gates or the relative safety of The Strip, so once she made it through Freeside, she was home free.

It surprised her. Perhaps it was simply because most people were subdued by hangovers and losing streaks at this time in the morning, but nobody seemed to care for a gun-toting blonde in tattered jeans. Maybe she would regret not throwing on more substantial armor, but she'd gotten by just fine in what she was wearing up until now.

She didn't linger as she crossed Freeside, keeping careful watch for errant thugs, but even they didn't seem to have the energy to bother with her at this hour. A member of the Kings recognized her as she passed through the East gate, but he offered her little more than a nod in exchange for the one she gave him.

Lola looked out over the dim wastes, not yet illuminated or scorched by the sun; she was grateful for the dawn's cooler temperature. A thin, violet band stretched for miles across the horizon, disappearing behind the jagged silhouettes of the mountains in the distance, a reminder that this part of the Mojave was cut off from the rest, a natural divide between North and South, East and West. She could turn back now if she wanted, but there was no point in that: she had to keep on.

"I guess this is it, then," she couldn't help but notice how her voice wavered as she spoke to herself. She told herself she wasn't apprehensive, but it didn't matter because she knew she wasn't ready for this, not by a long shot. She breathed in slowly, taking in the taste of the Wasteland, the dry earth and cool air, frowning – she'd almost forgotten this, too. She didn't like it. It reminded her of how quickly people changed and lost themselves when faced with money and indulgence.

She felt strangely alone. She'd made the journey to The Strip with various companions in tow; Boone, always a perfect shot with his rifle, always eager to spill Legion blood; Veronica, instantly drawn to the signature crackle emitted by most energy weapons, always ready with a quip; Cass who was the only woman Lola knew who could drink her under the table. They'd followed her in turn, along with Lily, Raul, ED-E and Rex and eventually, Arcade, all of them vagrants in their own right only to end up housed, however tenuously, in the Lucky 38.

There were plenty of occasions on which they'd saved her skin, too. If she wasn't careful, the cazadores would put paid to her if some radscorpion or deathclaw didn't do it first.

Before she set out, Lola bent down carefully, checking her day pack, loading ammunition into the various pockets and compartments she kept strapped to her person, cursing herself silently for not thinking to do this sooner. Guns were no good without ammunition, and there were some situations she couldn't sleep her way out of.

"How unlucky can one gal really be?" she whispered to herself, hoping that even if her luck was as terrible as it had been last night, she might just be granted some reprieve. She shook her head, knowing that the first step into the wilderness was always the hardest one to take – after that, all she had to do was run.

Hours later, Lola recalled how she had convinced herself that running was the answer, that this was all it would take. She had been running for a while, alright, and now she'd run right into trouble.

"Fuck," she muttered to herself as she poked her head around the side of the boulder, able to see the deathclaws ambling amongst themselves in the distance. So much for a shortcut. They hadn't yet spotted her, but she knew it wouldn't take long, especially if they were the blind variety; cheap Vegas perfume stunk for miles, they were bound to sniff her out.

Lola rifled through her various pockets and pouches, trying desperately not to make too much noise. She would need all the ammunition she could load into her rifle, the brush gun slung innocently enough across her back – hollow points would work best, spreading out and causing unseen damage. Not only this, but her aim would have to be precise as well and she wasn't so much the type to line up her shots carefully as she was to run and gun, spraying out bullets and praying for the best.

There was a first time for everything.

Her heartbeat thudded up into her throat, so fast she was sure the beasts would sense it before long, smell her blood as it pumped rapidly through her veins and come to finish her off. It was a fear mostly borne out of Wasteland legend, she knew, but she didn't think the creatures earned their moniker for nothing and even from a distance, their claws simply looked razor sharp; what if one of them sliced off an arm or leg, or worse? Once they smelled blood, she'd be ripped apart in seconds, she knew it.

"Keep it together," she whispered, slowly rising to her feet and stepping precariously around the boulder. Not too close … aim … line the shot up … Lola squinted in the sunlight, closing one eye and crouching down, wondering why she hadn't bothered to go back for a sniper rifle, and why she was about to engage in direct combat with such dangerous creatures. She tried to steady herself, feeling tremors course up and down her arms as she pointed her rifle at one of the beasts. There was no other way. She convinced herself of it.

She pulled the trigger once, twice, relieved to see the shot hit the deathclaw nearest to her directly between the eyes. She didn't have time to pause, however, because she'd alerted the other three beasts to her presence and more were sure to follow. She didn't have time to aim as she fired off random shots, fingers fumbling as she tried to reload at speed, hoping that she was hitting vital parts of deathclaw anatomy, the round spreading out causing untold damage within.

Another shot to the head, more luck than judgement, but a saving grace all the same. The creature fell back, leaving only two more in pursuit of her. She fired in the general direction of the third, but not before–

"Shit, fuck, damn it," Lola bit down hard on her bottom lip as the claw whipped at her leg, the creature catching her even as it fell on its back, limbs curled in like some grotesque dead insect. Bright red blossomed through a fresh tear in her jeans. It was a scratch, a flesh wound but it was deeper than any flesh wound she'd ever known. Gritting her teeth against the throbbing sensation that spread through her leg, Lola aimed again, closing her eyes and firing … if she wasn't so fortunate, if it was all going to end here, all she could hope was that it would be over quickly, a flash of razor claws, then nothing.

It took a moment for her to realize she was holding her breath. As she blinked her eyes open, Lola noticed the trail of deathclaw corpses up ahead, but she wasn't about to give any more the chance to arrive. She slung her brush gun across her back again, breathing in sharply as she put weight on her left leg; she'd have to get that seen to when she had the time.

"Damn you, Benny," she muttered, but her face split into a relieved grin all the same. There weren't many who could say they'd faced off against four deathclaws and lived to tell the tale, not that she put any of it down to skill. If she shared in Old World beliefs, she would have been tempted to suggest that someone had been watching over her, but she knew better; if things really did happen for a reason, then the world wouldn't have ended up like this. She wouldn't have ended up like this.

She waited until she was a safe enough distance away, until the only sound she could hear was the soft hush of breeze across the plains. Only then did Lola allow herself to sink to the ground. She opened her day pack, feeling around for the familiar needle, folding her hand around one lingering nearer the top before ripping off the cap and plunging it into her leg. With the Stimpak still sticking out of her limb, she clasped her hand around the smooth neck of a glass bottle, planting it on the ground before diving in again, in search of the rough strips of cloth she always kept in there, always just in case.

"Shame. I was looking forward to this later on," she cast a longing look at the vodka, clear liquid swilling around in the scratched bottle. She twisted off the cap, pouring some onto one of the cloth strips she'd fished out of the bag, willing herself not to scream as she fastened it around her leg, watching the blood soak through instantly.

It would have to do. Once it was all over and done with, she'd get Arcade to take a look, but she didn't have the time to go back, not now. The relative safety of The Strip called to her; if she turned her attention Northwest, she could still see the tower of the Lucky 38 looming on the horizon. She had to keep going. Nothing would work if she didn't.