BLAM-BLAM-BLAM-BLAM.
The barrel of a three-five-seven revolver exhaled some smoke in the absence of another shot fired, held in place by a pair of firm, if unsure, hands. Claire stood in the midst of a snowy backyard of the house she'd woken up in just a few days prior, a ramshackle wooden fence surrounding her front. The area was certainly as makeshift a training grounds as one could want, already propped up long before Claire had woken up there; wooden targets made from the stumps of rad-soaked trees, a dummy plastered with a cut-ridden drawing of some old man on its face, and a single table filled with an assortment neatly put-together firearms.
Claire had aimed for the farthest target a few dozen yards away and managed to hit three of the four shots. God knew where the last had landed, but a stretch of open and unused woodland behind it certainly kept her mind off accidentally hitting someone. The house sat on the outskirts of Abbey, reminding Claire a lot of her own home back outside of Redding. Just fifteen minutes to the East and she could very well find that crime-ridden NCR town, though she'd neglect to make the trip without her newfound partner-in-law John.
The man himself had been desperate for a partner for a while, he'd told Claire over dinner one night, and he was glad to help her in any way he could. It was kinder than Claire could've expected, though something was to be said for the way he kept his home oh-so-messy. In her off-time, when she hadn't been training, some of her own compulsive cleanliness had snuck in– much to John's exasperation when he found he couldn't find any of his gear in his now-organized home. Men were strange like that, and Claire never understood how someone could find anything in a mess like his, and yet he had insisted on a method to that madness. Whatever he said, Claire had thought, continuously organizing his home in a far neater manner.
In return, he still fed and housed her. The bed wasn't the most comfortable, but she wasn't lacking in things to do given her driven desire for revenge. Combat, combat, combat, and Claire was a quick learner. And hell, she had to admit the man was an amazing cook.
A whistle came from beside Claire, and John tips up his rawhide hat with a finger. "I'll be damned, your shot's getting pretty good. Your wife teach you that?"
Claire lowered the gun in turn, exhaling, "Partially. My eyes have always been good, though, so that helps a lot."
"You're a natural," John remarked with a chuckle, his grin lopsided. Despite its kind nature, they always seemed a tad malicious when they came from him. "Hell, I'd be quaking in my boots if I was a tree."
"Funny," Claire remarked without humor.
Another snicker left him, and he sauntered over towards the table in a quiet hum. Rather than plucking any of the guns, he exhaustively grunts as he bends down to pick up a small stack of ceramic plates, each more cracked than the last. It was a time like this that made Claire wonder just how good this older man was at his job; every time he bent he creaked, and he seemed in a constant state of exhaustion whenever he did any physical labor. But time and time again, he insisted he was one of the best because of his age, and there wasn't really much Claire could say to counter that.
Waltzing on over again, he cradles the stack with one arm and picks up a single plate from the top. His wrist twists and twists, preparing to throw it in the air– and prompting Claire as well to ready the revolver she'd gotten. The gun wasn't flashy, but it was certainly well-taken care of, and would have to do while she waited to get her wife's sidearm back from the bastards that had stolen it from her. Just another reason to go after them of course. She raised the pistol, and John chucked the first plate in turn; BLAM! The plate shattered on impact as Claire shot it out of the air, a subtly self-pleased smile spreading across her lips for a second.
"I don't think the problem's your aim, at the very least. Might just be your quickdraw," John suggested, plucking another plate from the pile.
"I'm not a cowboy," she remarked, exhaling softly as she readies the pistol again. One bullet left. "Besides, how many duels am I supposed to get in? I'd like to think I'd already have my gun out."
"You'd be surprised." With little warning, John threw another plate into the air. BLAM! Like the last, Claire shot and shattered the ceramic somewhere over the snowy backyard. The sky above threatened to pelt down snow at any moment, but never quite seemed to. Instead, the day remained as overcast as any other, which Claire was plenty fine with. She was still in that very same dress she'd come to Abbey in, but John's house had proved a warm capsule out of the cold. Still, she felt it when she was outside like this, kept from freezing only by the adrenaline in her veins and the several cups of coffee she drank daily.
"Sometimes they get the drop on you, you know?" John remarked, placing the plates back into the snow. "Then you're going to wish you were a cowboy like your pal' Johnny Two-Hit."
"Johnny Two-Hit?" Claire raised an eyebrow.
"Yeah, 'cause–"
"You hit them, they hit the ground?" She finished, almost immediately. "No, I got that part, but who calls you that?"
"You can?" He suggested
"I won't."
The older man scoffed, patting Claire on the shoulder with the back of his hand. "Smartass. You need to lighten up, you know?"
"I guess I'm not in the mood right now." She huffs softly. "Plus, I've never really been all that light-hearted."
"Guess it makes sense why Henrietta liked you," John snorted to himself, rifling around his pockets for a moment. From his woolen coat, he eventually pulled out a small syringe that Claire had grown far more familiar with over the last few days; Med-X. There's little fanfare as he leaned against the table, carefully rolling up his coat's sleeve and revealing a frequently used vein. Claire's lips pursed as she eyed him, the same as she'd done every other time, but she'd accepted the fact that she was hitching herself to a junkie by that point. Still, her curiosity got the better of her.
"You ever think of kicking that habit?" she remarked, rolling open the cylinder to her revolver.
"Nope." He remarked with a smirk, plunging the needle into his arm. His body straightens out a moment, but a serene sigh left him in the aftermath as Claire dumped the casings from her revolver. "In fact, I do this for the job, thank you. It's tough work, and you need every advantage you can get. Med-X keeps me calm, Steady keeps me focused. Psycho, I only use when I'm actually on the job."
"That… can't be good for you."
"Probably," he shrugged carelessly, "But it helps, still. You ever think of opening yourself up to using some?"
Claire glanced down to that empty syringe he set on the table amidst the guns, and she took a few steps closer to examine it. Her fingers plucked it up, though the vial was completely empty and held no warning labels on it. She knew how addictive this stuff was just from her personal studies, but she always imagined junkies as… far worse than the man in front of her. John may have joked and kept an untidy home, but he was a fairly calm-headed man. Especially compared to Claire.
"Not really. Only time I've had Med-X was when I broke my arm, but that was twenty years ago." She glanced up towards John, setting the pistol on the table but keeping the syringe between her fingers. "Psycho, no. Steady, though… does that actually help?"
The man grinned again, and pushed himself up from the table. He shook out his hands, and without a word of warning to Claire, slips one down and draws his pistol out in a flash! She almost had trouble following the slick movement, but one shot rings out into the air before she can even question it. Her eyes jolted to the target; not the one she'd been shooting, but rather something past it and into the woodlands behind the house. A dark mass falls from one of the trees, hitting the ground with a faint 'pomph' and throwing up a subdued whirl of snow around it. From afar, Claire spotted the victim– a crow now lay dead, nearly a hundred yards away.
With her eyes widening, she remarked a simple, but concise, "Holy shit."
"Yeah, holy shit," he affirmed with a snicker, "I'm telling you Claire, you could benefit a lot from it if you want to take out Daniel of all people."
With a momentary pause, he glanced the woman down. Her dress was disheveled by that point, worn out from constant use in an environment it was never intended for.
"...and new clothes, actually," he added.
Claire peered down at herself for a moment, her hand running back through her hair with an exasperated sigh. It flicks back into its familiar pixie-cut just a moment later.
"I'll pass on the chems. Clothes, definitely, I don't think I'm good enough of a shootist to go bounty hunting in a dress." With a slight pause, she added after, "...anymore, at least."
John clapped his hands, rubbing them together, "Perfect. I've got some in the extra bedroom that should be roughly your size." He took a couple of steps backwards, spinning on his heel to make haste towards the house again.
Perking an eyebrow, Claire set the Med-X needle down on the table again and followed behind, eager to get out of the cold once more. Even that adrenaline from her anger that swelled within her every day eventually gave into the snow- snow so all encompassing it was hard to tell the world was a wasteland. Perhaps it was a different kind now? The snow was either a good sign for the world, or a horrible omen for worse things to come.
John slid open the glass door, stepping inside and leaving it open for his companion. The room was a far cry from the haphazard mess as Claire woke up; even the man himself hadn't started throwing things around on tables again, instead using the cabinets and wardrobes the headquarters had. The house was far more homely with Claire's help, it seemed. It was almost like people could live there with the tables removed from the main room, leaving just the sofa and television set next to the pin-board of bounties. And not only that, it had a fireplace all this time! Even John had seemed surprised by that when Claire showed him the day before, and it now blazed with life as they walked in.
The glass door closed, and Claire hesitantly asked, "So, do I want to know why you have clothes my size?"
"Clothes roughly your size," John corrected, and pushed into a room Claire hadn't entered yet right next to the one she used. The one she'd woken up in. Claire neglected to enter after him; a paper sign next to it told her not to, after all. Claire's curiosity didn't mean she wanted to root around this man's privacy– especially when she was partially afraid of what she might turn up in a fifty-year-old's off-limit room.
"Fine, fine. Why do you have clothes roughly my size?"
"I've lived in Abbey all my life," he explained, though his tone was muffled by the partially ajar door, "I had a family, included a daughter about your size."
"What happened to them?" She asked in turn, though the question was a touch quieter than before. There was caution in her tone.
And as feared, a silence took the room, and the rustling from within paused for just a second too long for Claire's comfort. The man had brought them up, but it seemed like Claire's question was a step too far. Eventually, a rough sigh left him from within, and a wardrobe closed before John emerged from the room with a set of clothing draped over his arms– as well as a pair of boots in one hand.
"Here, these should fit," he remarked casually, the easy smile returned to his face. Had it ever left, in his Med-X ridden haze? He handed the clothes over, which Claire gratefully took.
"Ah," she was more than eager to move on, "Fantastic, uh, eh…" She stumbled over her own words in the aftermath of her question. "Are you– are you okay with me wearing these?"
"They're clothes, ain't they?" He shrugged casually, and slipped towards the board to distract himself. Claire quietly sighed, before awkwardly removing herself from the conversation. She'd made a right fool of herself, and she was never that good with personal topics. Something Henrietta always had an issue with, but it was easier to handle with someone you knew and loved.
She set the clothes on the bed, and proceeded to unbutton the straps over her shoulders to peel that dress off. It was nice to finally change into anything else, in spite of the awkwardness the situation had caused, and the dress itself had long-since outstayed its welcome. A hand deftly zipped down the back of that yellow article, and it fell down with a soft thump as Claire sighed. How could she get so personal? Perhaps it was all the questions the man had asked her about Henrietta, but Claire was far more liberal talking about her partner. It kept her memory alive, she thought. Or perhaps allowed her to dwell in it?
She had a gracefully lithe figure, dotted with sunspots and freckles around her chest, shoulders, and upper back. Though it was fairly hard to notice in the characterless tank-top she wore underneath, self-conscious of how her torso looked. Perhaps it was strange to be so hateful towards herself, seeing as she loved the rest of her body– her face, her legs, her lower back and rear, she was proud for those blessings. But her torso never failed to be a sore spot for her with all those tiny blemishes naturally given to her by genetics, as well as a noticeable scar along her tight abdomen from a situation Claire neglected to think about. Even now, just a glance down caused the girl to sigh, and she hastened her dress-up.
"So, do you think we're ready?" She asked, distracting herself.
"I know I am. And you're a pretty good shot," he remarked from outside, absent-mindedly. "Plus, we'll start with the weakest link on the board. I'm sure you'd love to go straight for Daniel since that's your tried and proven style, but I think it might do you well to practice on the guppy of the group."
"Are you ever going to let me live that down? People do dumb things when they're angry."
"Sure, probably when it stops being funny," he snickered. "Still, we're gonna' start with Trevor."
Claire pulled up the dark, denim trousers; luckily for her, the clothes were only a single size up from her, and sat snugly around her hips. They felt a little tight around the rear, but that's what she got for using someone else's tailor- though they certainly felt like something for someone a little younger than Claire, even if it was as simple as a difference between two ends of the same decade.
"What's his deal?" She asked, reaching for the shirt.
"Twenty-nine years old, five-foot-eight, generally unpleasant to be around. I met the fella' a few years back, and I can tell you he hasn't changed at all." John snickered. "All bark and no bite. Very self-absorbed, but that's gonna' make him think he's untouchable. We can use that."
To Claire's relief, she buttons up that plaid shirt as quickly as she can, leaving the very top button undone for comfort around her neck. With how it was striped, and the deep burgundy cotton it was made of, she felt like she was due a visit from the local brahmin rancher to check up on her work. Perhaps this wouldn't be too different than home, after all, though she was never that into deeper and darker colors when it came to shirts. She adjusted the cuffs briefly.
John continued, "He joined Daniel three months back. Before that, used to run a hustle with a few of his boys against the Crimson Caravan, and he's had a few run-ins with the NCR. I'd be thankful if I were him, the NCR goes easy on him compared to that company, I swear."
Claire slid on the boots while he talked, intently listening to every word he said. They fit the best out of anything, and reached up just below her knees when she finally laced them. She even felt a smile on her lips, admiring the pair for a moment longer in some silent adoration.
"Anyway, now him and his boys are Daniel's problem, but Daniel hasn't shaken them. I dunno' why, Daniel hasn't ever been shy about cutting off dead weight, but more money for us. I don't know where he's holed up, but he regulars Yellow-Home at the north end of town. And that is a problem, because Yellow-Home's a whorehouse run by the Mordino's."
"You're kidding me, they're still around? I thought they were wiped out in New Reno?"
"Yeah, in New Reno, but a few of their people came north after Big Jesus finally kicked the bucket in fifty-six. Namely his son, Lil' Jesus." A quiet huff left John. "Fella's an idiot, but I'll be damned if his gang isn't somehow doing well in spite of the NCR here. If I were a betting man, I'd think Lil' Jesus might know where Trevor is, so I reckon we make a stop there."
"Will they let us in?"
"Same way they'd let the NCR in," John snorted.
Claire finally stepped out of the room as she placed the final piece of clothing on– a dark wool coat that hung down to her boots. It was certainly comfortable if nothing else, and the thickness did well to make Claire look a touch more imposing than a pretty housewife from Redding. John spun around to face her, though his smile fades a tad while he eyed Clare from the board. There was a nostalgia in his eyes, one Claire could certainly relate to whenever she looked at her wedding ring, and that was all that John needed to do to make her realize they had more in common than she thought.
It took a few moments before he snapped from his haze, and he shook his head. "There you go, you look the part now. How you feel?"
"Warmer," she hummed, tugging at the coat's lining, "And ready. Are we shooting our way in?"
Another snort left John, "Jesus, you get in one fight and suddenly you're ready to kill. No, we're gonna' see what options we have. If we gotta' sneak our way in, I'm good with that, but I'm not making an enemy of the Mordino family."
"Fair enough," Claire shrugged, "Then let's find this Trevor bastard."