Just A Simple Lounge

Ask and you shall receive @carlosoliveiraa!

The House Always Wins is a Fallout New Vegas fic and part of my Fallout series A Radioactive Calamity of Love, Bombs & Gore. Here's what I have so far... It takes place a few years after the events of The Waters Of Life Flow (the FO3 fic), and half-human/half-dimensional creature hybrid siblings Ortega "Ore" Brantley and Marissa "Ress" Bishop have been tipped off about atypical activities happening in the Mojave, not dissimilar from the Occult's activities their despicable father, Arcane Urias, lead in the Capital Wasteland and California. Seeing this as an opportunity to put a stop to the Occult and avenge their friends and Urias' victims. However, this is put on hold when they encounter a securitron with a cowboy's face dragging an unconscious Courier through the scorching desert. With no place better to start searching for clues, they help get the Courier, a veteran Wasteland woman named Ryder, to Goodsprings.

Now I don't have any snippets prepared for you, but I can share that Ress and Ore split off to cover more ground; Ore will accompany Ryder to track down Benny, retrieve the Platinum Chip, speak with Mr House, get wrapped up in dealing with the Legion, and win Hoover Dam for House (plus attain any companions along the way) while Ress goes off to track down the Occult by doing the thing she loves most; intimidating the shit out of the locals in the communities she visits, killing people she doesn't like the faces of, bullying the elderly, get wrapped up in doing the NCR's bidding, almost die, then working alongside Yes Man for an Independent Vegas (plus pressuring any companions she meets into following her). All the while Urias second-in-command, Aggravor, chills in the Divide while coordinating efforts to place a warhead into the dam. If only the pesky courier with the mask and long speeches of "something, something, bull, bear" would let him get the location of the remote that originally set off the Divide.

Now The True Sinners is a FC5 fic where it takes place in an alternative setting of Far Cry The Silver Chronicles where Silva Omar's grief still remained long enough to dissuade her from becoming a deputy of the Hope County Sheriff's Department. Without a "muse", especially one chosen by the Voice itself, the Seals can't be opened, and the Collapse can't occur, and the Voice is livid that its muse has decided to opt out. Instead of wasting time in choosing another poor sap (especially since it has history with this one), the Voice instead just re-contextualizes the muse's purpose to Joseph, leading to the Seed Family kidnapping Silva in the dead of night so she can be present for the arrest and still break the First Seal (by technicality). Silva has to balance helping the Resistance from the inside and getting into the Seeds' good graces without sacrificing her morals and values in the process. In the meantime, Silva's (personal? family?) doctor, Kamski Neon, ends up helping to lead the Resistance to rescue the only other person he knew from the Archipelagos, and while great at organization and treating wounds, he is not very popular amongst the locals. Case in point, the snippet below:

Kamski entered the bar, moving ahead to the nearest stool, leaving Armstrong to her own devices outside. He was not unaware of the gazes that were set on him, eyes watching as he steadily sat himself in front of the bar's counter.

Like buitres, Kamski couldn't help but compare the locals to the scavengers. He disliked the bird, more than the eagles that dived at him when he took Silva's invitation into the county, but he understood their importance, despite the little pragmatism they held.

He brought a flask out of his satchel, unlatching the lid to take a swig. He took another swig as soon as he spotted the Pastor making his way toward him.

"Why?"

Kamski lazily glanced to Jeffries, spotting Fairgrave leaning against the wall next to the stairway, watching the confrontation like most of her patrons.

The Good Doctor sighed, scratching at his sideburns, the red in his hair slowly on it's way to becoming white, and asked his own question, "What is the meaning behind this "why", Pastor?"

Kamski took another swig, but found no bitterness reaching his tongue. Upon further inspecting the flask, shaking it about with no signature swish nor swirl, Kamski was disappointed that he'd be dealing with this conversation on a sober mind.

Jeffries took a breath, but his frustration made its way to the tone of his voice, "Why did you kill that man?"

Kamski raised a brow at the Pastor, "You mean the Peggie?"

"A former Peggie. A defector. One who would have exchanged information on John's supply chains, coordination of future attacks, and his next baptisms," Jeffries emphasized, "And you executed him."

Kamski blinked at the Pastor, giving a shrug, "Your point?"

As the old doctor shifted to slide off the stool, Jeffries grasped his shoulder, grounding out his next words with a solemner tone, "Even if it meant losing information regarding Silva's current captivity."

Kamski growled at him, shoving the arm off his shoulder, "I didn't just kill the Peggie. I got information out of him before I gave him what he deserved. It would have been counterproductive to not retrieve whatever information he held, just as it would have been for going through with the escort."

He pulled out a note and slammed it onto the counter.

"Here's all he had. None of it included Silva, by name nor description," Kamski stated.

Kamski made to move but Jeffries stated, "You still killed a man who wanted to change. A way out."

The Good Doctor scoffed, shaking his head at the Pastor's words. He doesn't understand. None of them would. These peggies don't get the right to attempt a vain ploy to change. Not after all they've done. All they do nothing about. It just makes it easier for them to stab us in the back.

He dragged his hand over his face, a fingers rubbing against the scar that crosses the ridge of his nose. His thumb traced the the cut that crossed his bottom lip down to his chin, a reminder that fueled his next response.

"Then he should have never listened to the words of that Profeta," Kamski replied, making his way towards the exit of the bar, ignoring the deep sigh behind him.

"Armstrong," Kamski greeted the sharpshooter at the porch, who only gave a grunt in acknowledgement as she tended to her rifle, "You know where the Jailhouse is?"

Armstrong stopped wiping the barrel, looking up to the doctor, "My pops drove past it sometimes when he was running errands for some old war friends of his. Hard to miss."

"Excellent," Kamski smirked, turning towards the sedan limousine he stole, "Because I'm going to need directions."