F:NR - Where the Brahmin and Bighorners Play

[The Washoe Wasteland]

http://i127.photobucket.com/albums/p156/LoungieMu/fallout/mushroom-cloud.jpg


War.

War never changes.

On October 23rd, 2077, the sum of man's aggression against his fellow man unfolded in the span of two hours. Nuclear war scoured the face of the earth, wiping the slate clean and setting back the march of progress by millennia. Despite mankind's attempts to obliterate each other from the face of the earth, life endured.

http://i127.photobucket.com/albums/p156/LoungieMu/fallout/wasteland.jpg

As the blanket of background radiation eased, the few and far between survivors of nuclear armageddon emerged into a world unlike any they had imagined. Mankind was persistent. Through generations, civilization scratched a living amid the blackened bones of a bygone era.

In the upper reaches of what was once called Nevada, a city untouched by atomic fire glowed fluorescent against an atomic sky. Once called the Biggest Little City in the World, Reno stood as a haven for the pious and the wicked alike. The allure of a promise of wealth in its casinos drew survivors from the hardscrabble, eager to turn their fortunes around for the better.

In the shadow of Reno, many towns and settlements sprung from the parched earth like scrub brush. One such town, nestled in a valley to the south, is called Unity. It is home. Your home.

But in the quiet of the Nevada night, you can hear the sounds of motors running far in the distance, signalling things to come.

[The Washoe Wasteland]

The State of Unity was more a state of mind than a political thing. In the broad expanse of Smith Valley, a small village clung to existence, a week's walking distance from Reno along what was called the 395 in the Old Days. Life ebbed and flowed along the seasons. Farmers tended to two-headed mutated cattle, called brahmin, and hunted feral herds of bighorners in the sagebrush-dotted foothills leading up to the mountains that fortified their valley.

Unity was isolated, but not cut off. Caravans stopped from Yerington and points south and west, if only for a bit of cool, clean water before the push to the big city. While the pack animals drank, the travellers traded, and brought the citizens of Unity goods, but just as important, news from the outside.

Deep in the valley, at a ranch house that used to be a train depot, a white flag with a black circle and cross inside it flew in the breezy dry wind. Travellers far and wide knew the symbol used by the Followers of the Apocalypse. Despite their foreboding name, the Followers dedicated their lives to making certain to take care of their fellow man, in whatever way possible. It was partly the Followers' efforts that founded Unity; a rag-tag alliance of Followers, ranchers, and settlers from a far-flung township called Broken Hills, which had once been known for such causes.

Nobody in Unity had much of anything, but if you asked each of them, they'd tell you they had enough.

[Brother Kermit]

Dandelion tea and old cigarettes. Sometimes a twinkie.

This was Kermit's usual breakfast and had been for about a century. It took a bit of refinement to get down to something so sublime. His gnarled old hands stirred some agave nectar from a beaten old mason jar into his chipped coffee cup as he sat on the porch of the Followers' ranch house.

He sipped his tea - bitter and sweet, just enough of each. With a careful smile, he shook an abused pack of cigarettes, hearing the tell-tale rustle of at least two still in the pack. These smokes were ancient and dessicated, and you really only got a few good puffs from them, but it was enough pick-me-up to start your day. Carefully, he fished a cigarette out of the box and laid it across the saucer by his tea. Next, he worked at the ancient plastic wrap of his twinkie. Most savages in the wastes would just tear at it with their teeth and frantically choke down the cream-filled dessert, but Kermit unwrapped the dessert with all the care of a museum keeper maintaining an exhibit. The plastic was neatly opened at one end, the twinkie removed, and rested on the plastic, which now served as a makeshift plate.

Now, he was ready, save for one thing. His smile diminished somewhat.

"I need a darn match."

His voice, gravelly and croaky from his ghoulification, spoke to nobody. He held up his cigarette and looked at it disapprovingly.

[Runner]

A pair of feet thumped steadily against the ground. The weeks journey between Reno and Unity had gone by in a two days and a half. When roads could be avoided, trouble could be avoided too, and 395 went too close to the insanity that was Lake Tahoe. Instead, Runner went through Dayton and entered Smith Valley from the North.


Brother Kermit usually got mail every other trip, as did some of the other Unity residents. Runner liked letters. They didn't weigh much and fit neatly into his pack. Letters were easy to shift to optimum balance with the basics of water, food, lighter, .357 ammunition, a revolver and a lever action repeater rifle, which also consumed the cheap .357 caliber bullets. Simple kept things light, which meant Runner could move faster.

Simple leather wrapped feet skipped across the loose surfaces of the Valley. Runner went by the Follower's Ranch house first usually, because Brother Kermit or someone else would usually be there.

Runner stopped in front of Kermit, who was preoccupied with his unlit cigarette. He grabbed his lighter and the letter for Kermit.

"You want th' fire or th' letter first?"

[Brother Kermit]

Kermit's pale blues seemed to sparkle a bit in the courier's timely approach. His smile broadened, threatening to look like a death's head grimace on his ravaged face as the leathery remnants of lips slid past to reveal browning teeth.

Prompt with his payment, the former preacher pressed the delicate cigarette between his lips, letting that be response enough as the mustachioed Runner (as he'd been called for as long as he could remember) fetched his lighter.

Three letters, coming up from Reno, It was a fair sixty caps, but Kermit tipped well for promptness and made it eighty. A rumpled paper bag spread an assortment of bent and gently-rusted bottle caps across the patio table.

"Gracias."

Kermit growled his thanks through the wafting acrid smoke as Runner took time to collect his breath and measure out his caps.

"Staying the night, or pushing to Yerington? Caravaner brought in a bedroll, and there's vacancy in the ranch if your dogs are barkin', son."

Another puff, and by now the cigarette was half ash. Exhaling through the two slits in his skull that used to be his nose, the preacher tapped away a length of ash.

"Any news?"

[Runner]

"Those things gonna kill you one day." He joked while he sorted through the caps.

He wasn't much for math, but Runner could count. 20 caps was a nice bonus. The old ghoul knew those caps were good for extra time before Runner moved on to his next delivery.

News? Runner shrugged, and tugged at the end of his mustache with his left hand, a tell that he was in thought. He'd slept under the stars the past 2 nights.

"Tahoe Slavers got a caravan on 395 couple days ago. Somethin's got them jumpin', second hit in three weeks. Local NCR is all thumpy about it now." He said, and took a swig from a water skin. Water was Runner's biggest expense, and he took it seriously.

[Brother Kermit]

Runner's commentary on the Preacher's nasty habit caused a raspy laugh.

"Sure takin' their sweet time, at least."

He carefully sipped the dandelion tea. By his estimation, if smoking shaved fifty years off his life, it would still be worth it due to making breakfast the best part of the day.

The news was the real meat of the meal, though. Kermit loved to talk, and getting a line of fresh news from the courier was just about the best thing to pair with tea and a smoke.

"NCR won't do a dadgum thing this side of the lake. Maybe not even down Californey-way, either. Ain't no money in it."

He shrugged, but they both knew what went on in the supposed Two Kingdoms of Tahoe. Nobody really wanted to sort it out, and figured that eventually one group would just kill the other one. That's usually how the wasteland meted out justice, anyway.

"Oh, by the way, I remember you was lookin' for some playable vinyl? Old Sallie pulled a record off some folks coming down from Reno. Course, on account of nobody here having a record player, we had to take 'em at their word, but they're repeat travellers and good people. Say it only skips three times, on their word. Some of those Gene Awtry roamin' cowboy hits."

The ghoul took out a switchblade, and used it to carefully parcel off half of the twinky, which he slid across the table to Runner.

"She'd probably put it in your hands for 30 caps, and if it's actually playable, you'd clean twice that in the Big City."

[Bonny]

"Triple, I'd reckon." A young woman's voice carried, announcing her approach, carried in a light-hearted manner that matched her walk.

It never took long after someone entered Unity that they caught the attention of the locals. Travelers meant trade and gossip, both of which were worth quite a bit to some folks. Bonny was no different, even if her status as a citizen of Unity was supposed to be on a temporary basis.

She'd taken the farmers as simple folk, easy to pull one over on in comparison to the big games in Reno. But the settlers had proved far more competent that she had hoped and the con in plans never got off the ground. Bonny had swore she'd move on to easier prey but there was something about Smith Valley that she just seemed to like and it caused her to linger, always promising herself it would be the last week she would do so.

"I'm just sayin'," she gave a quick nod of greeting to the goul, no matter how much he creeped her out, "you find yourself someone with a radio station and a passion and they'll pay just about anything for new music. Folks are always hard up for stuff like that."

The sunlight caught the edge of the glasses that didn't quite fit her face properly as Bonny paused for a beat and swayed slightly in the morning sun, letting the bottom hem of the long dingy yellow sundress she wore twirl a half second behind her movements. The picture perfect image of innocence... aside from the gun strapped across her back.

"You don't by chance have a letter from my mum with you, do ya, Mister Runner?" Bonny half wondered if her usual addition to the man's name bothered him, she almost hoped it did.

Anything from the Cat's Paw in Reno had been absent as of late. Last few times Runner had swung through Smith Valley Bonny has asked and always walked away disappointed and imaging the worst. She so dearly hoped today would be different.

[Runner]

"Probably." Runner said, and nodded his head a little as he did. He chewed the twinky thoughtfully. 30 caps was a small investment. It wasn't like Runner did much with his money besides buy food and water, that people knew. Vinyl records were fragile things, sensitive to heat and damaged easily, and one in good condition was a find. Given his predisposition to stick to roads less traveled, he was optimistic he could deliver and double or triple the money easily. Runner didn't talk much, but Kermit had a way of getting the words out of people. He wanted to discuss the Tahoe Trouble a bit more with Kermit but Bonny made him too uneasy to keep chatting for several different reasons.

First was because she had tried to con the locals in Unity, and while Runner didn't have a home proper on account of never staying anywhere for more than a day or two, he did like Unity best. That alone was a strong strike against her. Second was that big shotgun that she held with too much ease to be anything but a danger. Runner had seen enough people who knew how to use a gun to see that she stood the same way. The biggest issue was that she was too damned pretty.

"Yeah, I got a letter for you." He said, and frowned a little as he went through the small stack of Unity's mail. He might not have trusted Bonny, but caps were caps, and after her cons were given up she'd behaved ok.

[Bobby Blue]

The vault-dweller sat on the opposite side of the porch to Brother Kermit, just within earshot of the old ghoul. In his lap was a comic book whose pages were yellowed and worn, the colours long ago bleached by the sun. The comic was Tales from the Front: The Red Terror and, having travelled with Bobby Blue since he'd left Vault 19 little over a year ago, it was just about ready to fall apart.

When he heard the familiar voice of Runner, Bobby rolled the comic up and stuffed it into the inner pocket of his jumpsuit, zipping it right up to his throat. He watched the courier and his customers with a squinting scowl. His rifle was slung over his back and his sleeves were rolled up his elbows, a chunky Pip-Boy 3000 prominent on his left forearm.

“You run into any of my folks on the road, mailman?” he called out, not making any move to edge closer to the group.

[Brother Kermit]

Kermit deferred to Bonny's streetwise appraisal. He hadn't put any music on hock in New Reno in a while, and Bonny had the pedigree to know about that sort of thing, as she was kin to the "entertainment" industry in town. He was a century beyond casting judgment though. There was a thin line between doing what it took to survive and doing the Wrong Thing. Where that line broke? Well, he'd say it was up to the Lord, but the jury was out on that one, wasn't it?

The Vault kid broke his attention, and Kermit glanced back to the edgy-looking youngster. Whether he meant Vault 19 specifically or Vaults in general, the topic was always an interesting one. He'd met his fair share of vault dwellers, and each had their own particular flavor of neurosis. The rumors around them weren't usually much more bizarre than the facts. He'd heard everything from rampant inbreeding to lack of sunlight to the notion that the vaults were all one sinister social experiment from the Old World government. Kermit preferred to mainly listen before casting aspersions.

One thing was certain though. When a vault opened, the wasteland took notice. A massive influx of naive newcomers bristling with Old World tech was usually quickly pounced upon, and Vault dwellers soon found themselves devoured by the wastes, for better or worse. Bobby's case seemed to be different. He was fresh out of the vault enough to barely get a tan, but carried himself with an unease and twitchiness to rival any salty wasteland pistoleer.

"What he means," Kermit interjected coolly, "is have you seen any Reds?"

From what he knew of Bobby's vault, there was some kind of civil war inside that had boiled over long before the vault doors opened. Red vs Blue, or somesuch. Seemed a silly thing to feud over, colors. Nevertheless, the boy had a singular focus. Not that Unity had ever seen much hardship beyond the occasional swarm of Cazadores coming down the mountain, but Bobby would probably shrug off a Super Mutant raid and save his good ammo for some poor schmuck in the wrong place at the wrong time sporting a red bandana.

[Runner]

Runner sighed. Bobby Blue was crazier than a New Reno tourist on Rocket. Runner had encountered another Vault 19er before, shortly before he was gunned down by someone else for going color crazy. Runner saved his ammo for things like scorpions and bloatflies.

"I told you before it don't work like that up here. If they got smart they would stop wearin' color an blend with the wastes." He said, and shook his head. That Bobby was loco, and no one who regularly roamed the wastes wore a lot of color. Runner himself was solid evidence of that. His clothes were a medium brown that let him disappear in the high desert. As long as the main roads and towns were avoided, chance of happening into anyone else was slim. What a dumb question.

[Bonny]

Her eyes lit up and all but glittered at the promise of news, even if it was guaranteed to be in that wretched barely readable scratching her mother considered handwriting. The Wrights, the women at least, all had insisted on teaching the girl properly, even if it was for no other reason than to have her understand all those high class fancy insults that they frequently slung her way.

Bonny had been sorting out her own caps for the payment when the boy from the vault spoke up. She shot him a devilish smile and ran a hand through her hair, giving the strands a slight flick as Runner made some vain attempt at sorting the boy out. She hadn't dared try and speak to Bobby herself, he was far too jittery about her to be any good and besides... as much as the goul gave her that sort of uneducated shudder you knew better than to feel but just couldn't help sometimes... the vault boy made her downright uncomfortable. They just weren't right, them vault dwellers. Not a one of them. And as much as Bonny considered herself a fair amount of trouble herself, she had nothing on the kind of mess that could find a vault kid in a big hurry.

With caps sorted out and letter (in it's wonderfully hideous bright pink envelope) plucked from Runner's hand in exchange, Bonny figured it was too nice a day to go back indoors and so sat down on the bench opposite side of Kermit and set about the task of trying to decipher the lovingly written chicken scratch.

[Mimi]

Mimi sat, and watched.

Unfortunately, it wasn't through choice. Well, initially it had been. Sitting had been an experiment: something he had not yet done since his core processor had been so heartlessly ripped from his original chassis, and placed in this ham-fisted monstrosity. But, not being one to make a fuss about such things, he had decided to make the most of a bad situation, and study the various oddities that organics seemed to conduct on a regular basis.

Thus far, he had extensively experienced walking. At first it had seemed like a highly inefficient means of motion, particularly given the odd weight distribution of his humanoid frame. The majority of mammalian and saurian species had evolved with a tetrapod means of motion, which seemed to offer significant advantages on the uneaven terrain of the local area, and allowed them to travel at much greater speeds than the humanoids. They lacked the limbs necessary to interact with objects in the way that humanoids did however, and for that Mimi supposed he was greatful: trying to find a canine capable of repairing his chassis would not have been an easy task.

However, even that fact wasn't enough: it couldn't compensate for how much easier it had been to move around when his chassis had floated a metre or so above the ground. While walking, there were constant changes in elevation that he hadn't even percieved before. There were obstacles; uneaven surfaces; structurally unsound surfaces that shifted unpredictably or struggled to support his mass. The organics even made their lives more difficult by constructing extra obstacles and gradients of their own. With all the vast, open space in the wilderness around New Reno, Mimi couldn't comprehend why humans had concieved this ludicrous 'upstairs' notion.

Mimi had experimented with other aspects of being humanoid, too. He lacked the intake ports necessary for eating, and his waste outlets were in alternative anatomical locations; sitting had seemed to be the last major activity that he witnessed organics performing.

It had taken quite some time to calculate the necessary sequence of movements to convert his chassis from a standing orientation to a sitting one. Inefficient as the design was, there were numerous points where his weight was distributed strangely, and his balance was at risk of being compromised. Eventually however he had calculated the necessary process, had executed it, and had succeeded.

Sitting was definately a novelty. Or at least, it had been a novelty, for the point-oh-eight-seven seconds necessary to gather telemetry from his servos and sensors, and the few minutes spent processing them. After that, he was largely indifferent. The position placed slightly less gravitational strain on his chassis, but the difference was negledgable. Still, it presented roughly the same surface area of his solar collection panels to the sky, and so he had chosen to remain in that configuration overnight: so that he could recharge his emergency power cells when the sun rose, before he engaged in any activity.

What he had failed to consider was the implications that such a duration of sitting would have on the more complicated and unfamiliar processes of his new chassis. Thermal expansion and contraction in his joints - due to the extreme temperature differentials between day and night - had conspired with the difference in weight distribution on his hydraulics, and a non-standard alignment of his self-lubrication systems. The result had been an excess of pressure on, and a lack of lubrication to his hip joints: over night these had seized, and Mimi was thoroughly stuck.

He hadn't told anyone, though. It wasn't to do with pride, or embarassment, or any of the other emotions that Mimi simply didn't feel. Instead it was a simple risk calculation. As a Mr Handy, he had been fairly useful: he performed tasks that the organics preferred not to, and thus his continued operation was desirable in most circumstances. In his current configuration, he was yet to determine a viable use for himself: and there was a notable risk that should his malfunction be identified, the organics would choose to cannibalise him for spare parts rather than expend the resources on his repair.

In the hours he had spent waiting, he had calculated a series of movements that should dislodge his seized limbs. All he needed to do now was wait for the organics to move out of optical and auditory range, so that he could execute the proceedure without drawing any unwanted attention to himself. And so he sat, and watched.

A query ran through his core processor, calculating the time ellapsed since the noseless organic had first appeared. His attention shifted to a small saurian creature that had - quite rightly - determined that Mimi's left thigh was a safe and efficient location to gather solar and thermal energy. For an extremely complicated and meticulously calculated series of reasons, he had chosen to name it Steve.

A low-frequency burst of static crackled from his vocal speakers like some vague approximation of a sigh. "They are still there, Steve," he informed the lizard who, due to his position and the shortcomings of his ocular organs, could not see the group of organics. Mimi chose to spare Steve the unsettling revelation that they were steadily growing in number. "We may be here for some time."

["Lucky" Luke McCann]

Suddenly, a mole rat trotted past the group, heading towards the edge of town. Some reached for their weapons, but did not fire since it was running away anyways. Some of them may have noticed that it had a hat between it's teeth

Then came Luke, vaulting over a nearby fence. He lost his footing and stumbled slightly into a damaged motorcycle. He quickly stood up and got his bearings. He saw the tracks in the dirt leading beyond and around the corner of the Follower's ranch house, with a dissipating cloud of brown whispy dust serving as a clue to the thiefs getaway direction. Luke lunge down into a running posture, then stalled as he caught sight of the group gathering near Kermit.

"Oh! Hey! Morning guys. Uh - sorry, gotta run!"

He burst off around the corner, clearing another fence in chase, then shouted back...

"That son of a bitch's got my hat!"

[Brother Kermit]

"Why in the heck does he...er...forget it."

The ludicrous turns of events that seemed to follow Luke McCann around like a cloud used to give Kermit pause. These days, he'd just come to accept that the boy's deck was just stacked with aces and jokers. He thought about getting up and plinking at the mole rat with the lever gun propped by the door, but even if his hands were as sure as they were a century ago (they weren't), you didn't exactly get to go pick new ammo off a bullet tree. Sometimes you just had to suffer a mole rat.

He carefully gathered his letters that Runner had delivered, putting them away in a coat pocket. There wasn't any hurry in readin' 'em, and it would be pretty anti-social to boot.

[The Washoe Wasteland]

Watching Luke sprint off in chase of a mole rat, a silver-haired woman in a lab coat couldn't help but shake her head as she stepped out of the ranch house, onto the wide deck where the usual morning crowd had gathered. Only it was a bit more than usual - the courier was here too. She smiled, the expression soft and pleasant on her lightly-wrinkled face.

"I know Kermit's gonna have his twinky rain or shine, but if anyone's wanting an honest hot breakfast, Marshall put some mantis on the spit, and I've got prickly pear juice."

Doctor Lucy Rosen, or as anybody with formal training round these parts was known - "Doc" - approached the wrought iron table and set a carafe of the lightly sweet, cool beverage in the middle. She looked to Runner.

"You've come from up north right? Was there a package for me? Small box or a pouch?"

In the meantime, Marshall stepped out from inside. He was older, like Doc, but aged a little rougher than she did. Decades of the sun had beaten down on him until his skin was a bronzy leather, but his eyes were still keen and blue, squinting under the bill of his worn out baseball cap. He put his plate of mantis bits on the table with little fanfare.

"Now give 'em a minute, they still hot. Don't go on like a bunch of wasteland savages and choke down a scalding home cooked bit of bug."

He looked back to the figure on the periphery, dominating one corner of the porch.

"Hey doc, that robot ain't moved a damn inch since sun-up. I think it done froze its joints!"

["Lucky" Luke McCann]

Returning to the group with a slight limp, Luke had a smile on his face that shone through amid gasps for breath. His pants were scuffed with dirt from when he jumped at the mole rat and missed, landing face down in the dust. He brushed himself off while doubled over, trying to catch his breath. He had a rope clutched in one hand that drew a straight brown line behind him to a brownish-pink bulk on the ground.

"Got him! And my hat, too!"

He spied the jug of pear juice on the table next to Lucy and half walked, half fell over to it. He poured himself a glass, accompanied by over-exagerrated wheezes, then downed it like there was no tomorrow.

"That hit the spot. Just what I needed after that. Damn molerats. At least I bagged him though - stupid thing ran into one of my traps - sent him fifty feet into the air and when he fell back down, he cracked his head on a rock."

Luke sat in the shade. The decking was still cool. Soon the sun would start to climb, and the day would get hotter.

"So what's new guys. Runner! Any tales from the road? I heard a gang of raiders hit three trader caravans in the last five days!"

[Bonny]

It was downright hard to read a letter when there was a bunch of fuss going on, Lucky had managed to pull her eyes away from it with his molerat chase, then breakfast had shown up, then the robot that Marshall pointed out, then Lucky again...

Yep, far too much going on to spend the morning reading... well, trying to read. Especially after Bonny had come to the realization that what she had managed to make out would require a good re-read to make sure she got all the facts right anyway.

"When aint raiders pulling shit like that?" It wasn't really a question meant to be answered by anyone, just something that left her as she reached across the table for a piece of the cooked mantis.

Her eyes wandered over to the robot that sat off in the distance. Raiders were a fact of life out in the wasteland. So were the occasional stray robot. But big damn ones that just sat around? Hardly.

[Runner]

Runner shook his head.

"Nah, they said it weren't ready yet." Doc Rosen looked disappointed.

"Well, you tell that no-good Reno post-master that he better darn do his job and get me my package." Runner nodded, although he would say no such thing. You didn't cross the Reno post-master and walk out with your health.

Talking to Luke was always a bit strange, because the universe didn't work the same for him. Sure, good things happened to Runner now and again, but he was pretty sure it would only take 30 minutes to get Luke banned in a casino up Northbound.

"Wasn't that much, it was two in 3 weeks. Still a lot, man." He took a look a Luke's hat, with the advantage the height the surrounding deck gave him.

"Teeth didn't even go through the hat."

[The Washoe Wasteland]

As the group mingled at the ranch house, a low buzzing sound could be heard far off in the distance, toward the mouth of the valley facing the 395. At first, it sounded like a pack of cazadors swarming. That in itself wasn't unusual, the fearsome giant wasps often could get stirred up on a mountain. After a few seconds, it became obvious that it wasn't cazadors...but something else. The buzzing had a deep thrum to it, and the sound of something mechanical. Whatever was causing the noise, it was coming into the valley, and it was getting closer.

[Brother Kermit]

"Luke, another two steps that fella would've been down the hole and that would've been all she wrote on that hat. You must have four leaf clovers sown into that thing."

Kermit watched the captive mole rat struggle to find slack in the rope as it tried to flee, until something else caught its attention and it ceased to struggle. His cup of dandelion tea still to his lips, the former preacher eased his cup down as he took in the sound.

"Now what in the..."

Most of the folks here were greenhorns, and certainly didn't have the mileage under the hood that the ghoul did. His memories of before the war were still clear enough to remember what an engine sounded like. Further, that was the sort of sound that you just didn't hear casually in this day and age. Either it meant somebody with enough bottle caps on them to buy a town, or it meant trouble. Or both.

[Bonny]

One thing that sound meant that was completely certain to Bonny was this: Breakfast was probably about to be ruined. Even if it was just some rich fucker that wanted to gab on. But people who were overflowing with caps often stuffed themselves up in some swanky place surrounded by yes-men. They weren't the type to roam the wastes and they often couldn't be bothered by the likes of venturing into small towns. And when they did...well....

Bonny felt the muscles in her back tightening as the noise got louder and she couldn't help but wonder if maybe choosing the dirty yellow dress instead of the merc-wear she'd pawned off some scavenger while he slept would have been the better option for attire that morning. She had her gun though. Now to just hoping she didn't have to go show off how well she knew how to handle the thing.

[The Washoe Wasteland]

Doc Rosen inched toward the edge of the deck as Marshall glowered in the distance. The old man finally sprinted inside, bolting out again a second or two later with some dilapidated binoculars, using a beaten old ladder to shimmy up to the rickety roof. There were enough missing shingles and footholds for him to get a perch, and he put the binoculars up to his eyes upon reaching the vantage.

"Something sure kicking up dust in the distance. Can't see a damn thing yet!"

By now the reverberating sounds made it clear that there were more than one.

"Sure kicking up a fuss, whatever they are. Y'all best get inside, I suppose. Just in case they ain't friendly."

[Mimi]

Mimi's head - one of the parts of his chassis that could still move reasonably well - rotated to aim his ocular sensors towards the oncoming cloud of dust. Processes in his core filtered through the various inputs, scanning numerous frequencies to build up a layered image of thermal emissions, x-ray absorption, and visible light. His telemetry identified several discrete heat sources, with absorption spectra that suggested a mix of metallic and organic components. Either they were some sort of cybernetic centaur creature, or -

Turning his attention directly towards Doc Rosen, Mimi broke his policy of ignoring organics in the hopes that they would go away and leave him alone. "Your assessment is accurate: my acetabulofemoral joints have indeed 'done frozen'. However, my tactical systems are functioning more than adequately. I can assist you, but it would be advantageous if the approaching individuals were not able to see me."

His head twitched to the side slightly, his processor scanning memory banks for potentially benefitial objects that were commonly found in settlements such as this, and the appropriate terminology in local dialects. His gaze re-focussed. "Do you have a 'tarp', Doc Rosen?"

[Brother Kermit]

The robot spoke something that halfway sounded coherent, and it made Kermit swivel in it's direction. That wasn't normal. Oh it spoke plenty of times, but usually not in a way that made sense to anybody. It wasn't Kermit's place to ask why Doc Rosen kept the thing on premises. Seeing a robot like that was usually a good way to keep tempers even.

The preacher didn't have much time to dwell on it. He was up on his feet, hands rifling through a familiar worn duffel. Somewhere, beneath the baggie full of caps, the few bottles of water, and the cans of cram were a 1911 Colt automatic and half a dozen sticks of dynamite.

"Thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me."

He spoke to nobody, eyes fixated on a gathering plume of dust in the distance.

"Robot, I reckon the best thing you can do is to look as big, mean, and visible as you can."

The preacher turned to head into the ranch house.

"I ain't clocked in over 250 years by looking for trouble. Guess I'd better keep to that trend."