New Vegas. A slab of human filth. The gutters ran with discarded trash, and the air was warm with a hint of blood being baked under neon lights.
It had been 3 years since the war against the Brotherhood of Steel. It seemed everybody had it coming. But he was through with chasing down tin-plated dozers across the desert. Done with the bloodshed he had witnessed, and done trying to rectify wrongs to right. All he needed now was a drink. He made his way slowly across the desert towards the bright Vegas lights. His armor was heavy, so he undid the straps and let it fall to dusty death. His helmet was stifling, so he took it off letting the arid desert wind comb through his hair for the first time in who knows how long. It whispered things. Of death. Of new beginnings. He secured it back on his head, tired of hearing such nonsense. He piped in some tunes instead, letting the static and music sooth his shaky nerves.
He counted the empty bandolier slots across his chest, then the one around his waist. 5 shot gun shells, times two for cartridges for his revolver. Unless he was ambushed, He would be okay. His footfalls were rejuvenated as he crested the small dune and could nearly feel the blistering lights reach him. He stood there weighing his options, even though they had been made the day he resigned himself from the NCR. Freedom did strange things to a person.
He arrived at the main gate not an hour later and entered...
He remembered Freeside. Just the place for a drink and some cheap laughs.
Walking slowly with one hand on his revolver, he watched and listened. Droves of people around him haphazardly bumped and shoved their way to the front of crowds to yell some idiotic thing or boisterously laugh and wave their arms in the air. They laughed and play fought, danced and sang in the streets, it was mindless, but all in good humor he thought. Finally the first place he stopped was dwon an offshoot of the main drag: Atomic Wrangler.
Some shady denizens were posted outside the doors to another establishment ahead, but they casually waved him on to the Atomic Wrangler. They carried some impressive hardware. He entered the joint and was greeted by the noisy flurry of what he'd suspect was some kind of party. OF course it was just the regulars hooting and hollering, there were people at the slots and on the tables, it seemed as though it was a mildly popular place.
He sat at the bar.
The stage was empty, save for a barren stool.
A lady dressed down in sunday's best came over and served him a drink without so much as a frown.
"I'm Francine Garret, me an my brother operate this here establishment. Now, seeing how you're with the NCR I-"
"No ma'am, I'll pay." He pulled 4 denarius and set them down. "Keep em coming."
She scooped them up and walked away. Nice place.
If he had one thing, it was funds.
He sat late into the morning watching the crowds wither and fade away like a gasoline nightmare. Whatever that means. He rented a room on the second floor and decided to retire there. It was modest and had everything one could ask for. He lay in the bed. Maybe he'd offer some kind of service to this slum? But what could that be? What?
