A/N: I think I'm going to try and keep my chapter updates a little shorter than they have been in the past for easier to read chunks. In addition, any feed back would be marvelous. I want to make sure I'm not rambling too much, the characters are in character, and the story is making sense.
And, as always, thanks for reading if you've made it this far
A step creaked and Beatrice looked down just before the rotted wood gave way under her weight. Her leg shot through the broken step as the other twisted awkwardly. She twisted, one hand slapping against a higher step to brace herself as the other kept a tight grip on her weapon. Breathing hard, she paused, listening.
The loud noise hadn't drawn anything to her, not yet.
Getting her balance back, she pulled her leg out and sighed. The jumpsuit had protected her, for the most part, and while she hadn't torn her skin to Two-Sun, she was sure she'd be nice and bruised up in an hour. It stung.
"Fucker." She grumbled. Testing her leg, putting weight on it, she decided that it was good enough and continued on.
This part of the Madre was different. The smog was thicker there, the homes more abundant. She had been able to scavenge more, though as soon as she started getting comfortable the Cloud started to fill the room and she was forced to leave. It wasn't that it knew where she was, she knew that much, it was just her damned luck working against her.
Continuing up the steps, she stopped just before she reached the landing. Her eyes scanned the room for what she knew had to be there. She had learned quickly that, aside from the abundance of Cloud, this place was riddled with traps.
Soft, blinking red lights caught her attention. At the base of the landing, landmines waited for her, or for some young adventurer to go running blindly in there. She had done that, at first, had barely managed to throw herself over the back of a couch and hide behind it to duck for cover before the blast went off, shaking the room and deafening her for a few long minutes after it was over.
She still smelled of smoke and sulfur.
But she learned quickly. She adapted. Lunging forward she disarmed them with quick, calloused fingers, tossing them to the side once the threat was gone. A sense of pride filled her once more and she grinned. Confident, she strolled around the open bedroom space, checking drawers and looking in cabinets, only stopping when something caught her attention.
Hidden in the very top of a dresser was a suitcase, a glowing hand marking the space just above it. The suitcase, in contrast to the rest of the room, looked rather well cared for. It wasn't moldy or covered with mildew. It looked out of place.
Reaching up, she grabbed the handle and yanked it down, tossing it on to the single twin bed.
"A cache." The words came from her as she unclasped the metal locks and pulled it open. Her eyes lit up at what she saw. While the guns and ammunition were all but completely useless to her unless she became truly desperate, the suitcase also held two stimpaks, a new roll of bandages, and a few bottles of water.
Trying not to giggle in her joy, she wasted no time in packing the items away with no care for who the cache might belong to. She had found it, it was hers. Besides, it wasn't as though the Ghost People were smart enough to store caches.
Then again, she doubted they were smart enough to use explosives and traps.
The thought made her pause and she looked back to the pile of landmines.
Deciding to ignore the eerie feeling that came over her, she turned away once more. There was no need to dwell on the mysterious person that had been so eager to hurt others or, maybe, protect themselves. She had a job to do, and with how often she seemed to be getting lost, she needed to focus if she was going to get it done.
Wooden planks stretched out from the balcony, tarnished and questionably built, they hit the tiled roof of the next villa over and that, she decided, was the obvious way to go. Confident in her new abilities to not only see but stop various traps, she strolled forward, spear resting on her shoulder casually.
There was a slight tug, something that caught on her foot and she had just a second to realize what had happened.
Tripwire.
A blast went off and she had no chance of moving out of the way, though that didn't stop her from trying. The hidden gun had fired and now sat smoking as Beatrice managed to catch herself on the opening to the balcony, bracing herself there. Pain didn't hit, not right away. A burning sensation spread from her side like a crackling spider web, so white hot and intense she had to shut her eyes.
It was as though someone had sucker punched her in the side with a Taser.
Gritting her teeth, she pulled her hand from the wooden door frame. Her short and uneven nails had broken, lost in the woodwork. Blood was beading on various parts of her fingerprints. Looking down at the wound, she saw that she hadn't been shot straight on, instead, the bullet hat grazed her side. Shredding her skin and her jumpsuit, flesh hung awkwardly, limply, and blood spilled out to stain her clothes. She pressed her hand to the wound and leaned against the door frame.
Stimpaks were hard to come by, what if something worse than this happened? Could she really justify using one?
The sharp, fresh jolt of pain told her that yes, yes she could.
Hand now glistening red, she wiped it on the pants of her jumpsuit and reached back, Grabbing the first smooth, cool syringe she could find, she pulled it out and removed the cap with her teeth.
A strange sense of guilt filled her as she injected herself. She never had much, she was accustomed to carrying her life on her back, and this somehow seemed wasteful.
The blood didn't stop flowing, though it did slow.
It only took her a moment to patch up the wound with a fresh bandage and ducktape. With the pain starting to lessen, she shoved her hair out of her face once more and half jogged across the wooden planks that formed a walkway. Her foot hit the angled roof and she continued up without breaking her stride, powerful muscles propelling her forward until she stood on the beam. Not too far away, she could see another building just as high up. Light came from a single room in it, bright and shocking against the shadowy buildings around it.
That was where she was going to go.
The sound of her shoes skidding against the shingles was crisp but oddly silent as she slid down the roof, leaping down to land on the balcony below. She had her bearings, now. Surely it wouldn't be too painful to get over there.
The room smelled of smoke. Sweet and musky, it filled her nose and burned her eyes. The landing under her creaked and she shut the door behind her. It gave a crisp click and she inhaled the smell of cigarettes deeply. Though Beatrice never smoked, as that was the one vice she never allowed herself, she had always enjoyed the scent. There was something about it that felt welcoming, calm and warm. No one would smoke unless they were comfortable where they were, unless they weren't afraid of leaving a trail.
How tribal of her to think like that.
She gave a quiet scoff and took another step in to the small room.
Music was playing softly, twisting with the smoke, filling the room with warmth. With what she had just been through, she needed a break and this might have been it. Her side still ached, but the bleeding had stopped and she hadn't checked under the bandage since she put it on, but the lack of pain surely meant she was doing better.
Or she had become numb to it.
The room was old and what struck her most was the large hole in the far wall that showed the expanse of the villas below. Across the rooftops, Christmas lights hung, glittering and sparkling above like stars. Until then, she hadn't realized how much she had missed the stars at night, the endless expanse of Mojave sky. She longed for the cold breeze and the thick darkness that was lit up by distant gunfire and the swinging lanterns of passing caravans.
"Are you just going to stand there like a fool, or are you going to come take a seat?" It was the man in the chair that spoke. His voice was smoother than agave nectar, filling the air around her, drawing her in. There was a rasping quality to it, something like the after burn of whiskey.
Setting her backpack down beside where she propped her spear, Beatrice moved forward. Reaching out, she ran her hand along the old armchair as she rounded the edge and sat down. The two chairs were aimed towards the hole in the wall and, for a moment, that was all she could look at.
"Beautiful, isn't she? Ah, the Sierra Madre hasn't changed much despite the time. Two hundred years and I'm still not tired of the view, though it was better before the War and the tourists were much friendlier." He sounded wistful and she finally looked at him.
Reclining easily in his chair, the ghoul looked out across the rooftops to where the casino loomed like an impenetrable fortress. In one hand, he held a tumbler of whiskey; in the other a dying cigarette gave off a soft glow. One leg was crossed so his ankle rested on his knee, black suit dirty, torn, but impeccably made. From the cut, even she could tell that it had been fitted just to him. He sighed and turned his head to look at her and there was something so familiar about his features that she didn't respond. She saw herself reflected in his sunglasses, her own eyes staring back at her in place of his.
"Hmm, value silence do you? Or maybe you're just too dumb to talk. Either way, I wouldn't recommend getting up from that chair." With his drink, he motioned to where she was sitting before taking a sip of the old whiskey.
"It may not be the most comfortable, but the cushion is just for show. Under that is a bomb, and if you so much as move too fast, I'll blow your ass so far through your head it will turn the moon cherry-pie red." He had taken a drag of his cigarette, held it for a moment, then blew it out of what was left of his nose. A slow grin found its way on to his features, there was something devious about the way she couldn't see his eyes, about the way the smoke twisted in the air.
He looked pleased with himself.
Beatrice didn't look shocked. It was hard to surprise her after all she had seen in just a small handful of days. "Well if you wanted my attention, you have it, but a handsome guy like you wouldn't have had to try so hard ta' be honest." The words came with her signature grin, a vandal smile.
A brow of his twitched and she wished she could see his eyes, read what was there behind the reflective surface of his sunglasses.
He grinned.
"Ah, now that is what I've missed, a rapt audience." A chuckle accompanied his words. "I've seen people come in here, morons, idiots, but you," he motioned to her with his drink, "you I like."
"Your words warm my heart, doll-face, I promise. However, I think having a sip of that whiskey might help a bit more."
He didn't respond for a moment, then he too chuckled. "I may be in the entertainment business, but I'm no fool. If you are trying to butter me up, I'm afraid it won't work, partner. I've had far prettier and younger girls with much smoother tongues try to do it before and it never worked for them."
Still, he was compelled. This woman looked like she had gone through Hell and back and, if she had found his traps, she might very well have. Still, she grinned like nothing happened, spoke easily like the dames he remembered, though that was where her similarities to them ended. He offered her his tumbler.
"If I were trying to butter you up, you wouldn't be able to resist." She grabbed the glass of whiskey he had offered her and took a swig. It wasn't good, but it burned like a bitch and that was what she needed. She needed to feel the pain, to wash down the Cloud and ash that coated the inside of her throat. "And it's Luck, by the way, Beatrice Luck. But I'll let a handsome guy like you call me Bea 'f ya want."
"You say that like I give a single iota as to who you are." He took the glass back from her. Not even he could deny that his ego was slightly stroked by her words, her unbiased attention. "I hate to cut this short, tourist, but I have to say that I've had enough with the pleasantries, you're here because you want something. Everyone wants something, and judging by the lovely little bowtie you have there, you're here because the Old Man has managed to rope you in to his terrible scheme and he wants you to get to me as well."
"Well you've pretty much summed it up, don't see why I gotta say anythin' at all." She mused.
"Thing is, you're not the first pretty face he's brought in. Thing is, no one else has been worth it. They've all failed and I can't imagine you'll be any different. Really I don't see a reason I shouldn't just detonate the bomb now and end it and—why are you staring at me with those big blues of yours?"
This time, it was her turn to look pleased with herself. She was leaning back in the chair despite the fact it was digging in to her with jagged edges under the frail cushion. "Because I know something you don't, doll-face."
"And what exactly would that be?"
"Our collars," she tapped her own, "they're connected. You kill me, you kill yerself."
That gave him pause. Then, he laughed. It was warm, and he shook his head slightly. "Ah, I knew it. I knew marriage would catch up with me some day. Dashing man like me can't escape it, it seems. Well, if I'm going to have a ball-and-chain, at least you aren't completely unintelligent. You might just be useful after all. Here's the thing, you don't like Elijah either, do you?"
"Can't say I really care for crusty assholes who order me 'round, no."
"Good, good, then you and I are in the same boat." His voice lowered and he leaned forward to speak to her, one elbow propping on the arm of his chair. "So here's where being my partner pays off. See, I know something Elijah doesn't, how to get in to the Casino vault. Oh sure, he knows how to open it, but after that he's stumped. I'd hate to give away the big finale so I'll just give you the short of it – piece together Vera Keyes' song and the Sierra Madre opens its legs, we're in business." He made an opening gesture with his hands, grinning at the redhead. "And you're on my side, I may be a betting man but I like knowing my odds. An ace in the hole. Lady Luck."
She listened to his words carefully, absorbed the information as best as she could to piece it together. Vera Keyes, the name meant nothing to her, but this just added a new layer of things to do.
"Look, I don't want whatever's down in there. If we get there, you can have it babe, all yours. I just want out of here." She shook her head slightly as she spoke.
The fat that she didn't want the gold, didn't even want to see what was there surprised him. That's why everyone else came. They all let their greed get the better of them, and he let them destroy one another. From behind his sunglasses, he blinked before looking pleased.
"All the better, then. I believe this marriage will work out just fine, Partner."
"Of course, me doin' somethin' for you means you gotta do somethin' for me."
"I'd be a fool to think otherwise." He made a fluid motion with his hand, waving her on to continue as he stood, adjusting his white bowtie.
Taking his lead, she stood as well. In vain, she tried to dust off her jumpsuit. She'd need a replacement soon. "I don't need much, just the assurance you'll watch my back 'n answer a few questions 'bout this place for me."
Taking his last swig of whiskey, he chased it down with a deep inhale from his cigarette. Dropping the nub to the ground, he crushed it with the toe of his foot, snuffing it out as he breathed swirls of smoke out where his nose once was. "That's all? Hmm, yes I believe I can agree to that. The least I can do is try to answer your questions, I suppose."
"Well, then I'll be happy to act as your ball and chain." The words came with a wink that was all too easy. She reached out to grasp his hand. "What'cha say your name was again?"
He matched her firm shake. "Ah, I remember when people didn't have to ask me that. They'd see my face or name in lights and know right away. The name is Dean, Dean Domino."
The ghoul grinned.