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Zealot Shreya Zealot Shreya enters by way of the front door. She leans against her staff as cold eyes peer around the saloon. Not a friendly woman with her tattooed face and harsh demeanor, the cultist makes her way toward the bar. "I hunger," she says simply as she seats herself. There is a gauss rifle slung over her back and when her robe parts one can see the leather leggings beneath. This is not a helpless traveler by any stretch.
Lowry      Unfriendly women are no stranger to Lowry. Not to mention any woman gets a nod and an approach! At least from this incarnation! "Elsie, got some good potatoe stew." He gives a nod to the serving girl and she will scurry on back. He tips his hat now. "We drink here though. Soups on tha house." His eyes and grin lend to the fact that he is soaking in her ink. He pulls a small bottle as the girl arrives with her bowl. He puts a hand on the spoon that is laid and waves the girl off. The brown liquor is pused to the child of Atom. "They go hand and hand." He flasses a grin but doesn relinquish the eating utensile if she chooses to not share a drink. She can eat.
Zealot Shreya Zealot Shreya looks at you coldly. "You drink some first. I want to see you drinking it. You do not know me. I do not know you. What is it you want with me?" She looks you over and special attention is paid to things like the location of any obvious weapons.
Lowry      Thats no problem. The cowboy takes a deep one. When he is finshed he wipes his lips and says, "Nothin' with ya'." Her soup is set down and he adds. "Try it." A flask is taken from underneath the coat and a simple drink had.
Zealot Shreya Zealot Shreya takes the drink after she eats a few bites and has time to be moderately sure you wont keel over and die. She drinks a small swallow and then a larger one. "Its good."
Franky     There's a creak from the main entrance to the Second chance saloon. Franky pushes back and looks around the place. A grin forms before he makes his way toward the bar. He nods over toward the bartender, and pulls out a cigarette while he waits his turn to order some booze. He notices some new faces, and some he's seen once before. He looks down to guide a lit match to the end of his cancer stick, and take a long drag only to vent the smoke ceilingward.
Rikka There was a droning in Rikka's mind that demanded silencing. It had been there for days, and it was about it was shut up for a while. She entered the saloon with her hands in her pockets and her eyes fixed on the back of Franky's feet, their entrance in quick succession by coincidence alone.

A brief glance to the bar room and Rikka wasn't at all surprised to note she was again the shortest person in the room, though the number of people over 6 feet tall was somewhat surprising. That worked to her advantage, though, and let her go unnoticed much more easily as she slipped as close to the far corner of the bar as she could get without shoudlering past people.

"Do you have rum?" she asked the barkeep in a distinctly french accent.
Zealot Shreya Zealot Shreya stands and leaves Lowry to himself. "Whoever you are you want something and I dont have anything to give." She moves toward the door.
Stockton Stockton steps in on heavy boots, the dust of the road on his armor and coat. Having already swapped the stealth helmet out for his Stetson, his one good eye and one hazy eye focus on the folks gathered. Hot on the heels of Franky and Rikka before him. He evades an exiting Shreya, pausing to give the Devout One a tip of his cowboy hat. The Marshal's spurs jingle some as he moves, carrying himself right on up to the bar so that he can find the new help that's been hired, or a drunk Lowry to get him a drink. Either will do.

Course it wouldn't do the man to simply darken the doorway and mozy up to the bar, there's an acute reckoning of everyone there, a head count, and tally of a variety of factors. But he seems amiable, an almost smile on his face that could crack at any moment. He's sniffing at the cigarette nearby and tucking his fingers into his duster to pull out a handrolled cigarillo and a match to light it. Once he's puffing, the instinct to tuck it between his teeth sets in and he's chewing on the end as he glances back behind the bar, "Whiskey when yah get there," he finally speaks up. His free hand puts a handful of caps on the counter following the order.
Ashur Ever since hearing about his adventures in Vegas, Celeste has been asking Ashur if she can visit; he's demured, so far, but promised that he'd fetch her a souvenir and organize.. something, in the near future. It's a small kindness that no one else the Legionnaire knows has the starry jewel of the Mojave in their eyes, as in all ways he loathes the place. The air in it feels unclean. The people are a mix of gamblers, porn stars, addicts, and suited men so greasy they can't walk within ten yards of an open flame. The lot of them would be better off on a cross.

Still, he fetched his souvenirs. The Hellfire-clad behemoth, identity 'hid' behind the stylized, golden-horned helmet of Mars, has a pair of enormous fuzzy pink dice wrapped around his neck. The looped string holding them has worn down into the grooves of his shoulderplates, the dice themselves hanging near the metal beard of the mask. Besides the dice, he has a small purse-like bag in one hand, in which can be seen a postcard, a small figurine of a dancing girl in Hawaiian garb, a bottle of Nuka Cola Quantum signed by 'RR Davies', and handcuffs the same fuzzy pink as the dice.

At his other side marches a black-faced German Shepherd, collar spiked and golden. The hand there bears a waterskin, tragically empty. He comes upon the bar like a storm. "Water. Does this establishment sell water? Anything clean, in a barrel, without the piss-stains on the floor?"
Franky     "Rotgut...Or whatevers cheap." Franky, Asks of the barkeep. The blue eyes of his dart from patron to patron while his left hand works on filling his lungs. A noticable exhale almost a sigh when his drink comes in a recycled plastic bottle, chopped off for easier sippage. A shrug as he picks it up and has a swig. His other hand ashing his cigarette in the nearest ashtray, Rikka gets a glance before the attention is taken away by the heavy boots and fabulous hat of Stockton.

    A nod is offered Stocktons direction, he seems familiar. As does the rather imposing Ashur when he makes his way in, fuzzy dice and all. Franky holds his comments about the piss staind floor, for fear that he might have been the culprit.
Rikka Traffic at the door had been busy. In, in, out, in in. Rikka kept her head down and simply waited for her drink to arrive, but the poor barkeep had his orders piling up one after another. She took a moment to look over the man that had come in before her - a mercenary, like herself, most likely. And the one that came after her, there was something about his eyes, something about the way he looked at things that had Rikka staring at him for a few extra moments from the corners of her own eyes, trying to pin down.

The last one to come in the line was enormous. There was a split-second where a bolt of fear pierced her chest, eyes suddenly darting open. Whether it was the man's size, or the way he had moved or spoken, Rikka instantly shrunk a bit in her chair, and remained silently still, waiting for that rum.
Stockton Stockton glances up and spots the massive Legionaire, knowing him rather quickly. Nothing more than a polite nod to the man in his stompy stompy power armor. "If'n yah calm yer knickers, there's clean water in clean glasses. Sides, the piss-stains add character," he smirks at the man who only measures two inches taller, another two or three for the armor. The man just shakes his head and puffs on that cigar a few times, sending a cloud of sweet smelling tobacco smoke to the ceiling. Franky gets a friendly wink, despite the wolfish glint in the half-Tribal's eyes. Whiskey comes eventually and he sips at the glass slowly with a grunt, "S'gettin' better," he notes before glancing at the merc looking fellow down the way, "Try the beer s'home made," he grins a bit toothsomely. Rikka doesn't get too much notice, other than the rake of gauging eyes that everyone else got, a polite tip of the Stetson on his head. He is paying more attention to the door, curious if it'll spin open again yet tonight.
Ashur "A house fire adds character," Ashur remarks, voice tinged metallic by his helmet's gas mask. He turns his head and reaches a finger up to tap at one of the hose filters extending from the side of it, looking around the worn-down, albeit reasonably clean, establishment. "And would improve much of this city."

Dogmeat, for his part, drops down on his haunches and looks around, sniffing. Someone's got jerky in their pocket, and he's going to find it. Sniff, sniff, and he's walking off, unnoticed in Ashur's peripheral.

He throws his waterskin on the countertop. "Fill it with water," he instructs, leaving whatever payment the bar-man names. He cants his arms out, folds them behind him, beneath the flowing white gold of his cloak, and waits patient. It's a casual, militaristic pose, though the sheer bulkiness of the Hellfire makes it difficult -- he can't quite link his hands in the small of his back.

As for the other patrons, well, Ashur notes Franky's nod, and faintly registers how Rikka shrinks into herself. He's content to ignore her.

But Dogmeat? Dogmeat is now at her side, tongue lolling, head tilted. He recognizes her.
Rikka So far, so good. A quiet drink in a quiet bar, enough alcohol to silence the voices gnawing a hole in the back of her head and let her get some sleep tonight. No one was really giving her much attention, and for the time being, she preferred it that way. The man with the vigilant eyes had tipped his hat to her, to which she replied with a vague, casual salute-like gesture, the subtlest hint of shaking in her fingers until they folded against the bar.

She was given her rum before the waterskin was filled - she had ordered first, after all. She was cradling it against her chest after a cursory taste when she noticed the dog at her feet. There was a vague familiarity to it as she looked the animal over.

"Je n'ai rien pour toi," she half-mutters to the dog, her voice just barely above a whisper, giving a gentle sort of dismissive wave.
Franky     A long tilt back of the cup in Franky's hand and he kills the cup of booze. Setting it lightly upon the bar top, "I'll take a beer then." Franky pipes up, having full faith in Stockton's suggestion. His four fingered hand jabs the butt of his cigarette into the tray, another plume of smoke goes to the ceiling.

    A look is directed at Ashur as he stands in some form of power armor parade rest, his eyes flick to his war hound. Franky's slightly glad he doesn't have whatever that Dog is looking for. He places a hand on his neck as he remembers the stories from Hoover Dam round dos. "Probably not the best place to bring it up. But what became of the giant mechanical man at Hoover?"
Stockton Stockton just shakes his head and sighs, "If it ain't plated in gold, burn it down, right?" He just ignores the big Legionaire, and goes back to his drink and smoke. A hand lifing to pluck the cigar from his mouth so he can knock back the liquor and exhale sharply at the slight burn. The good stuff. Back to his lips goes the cigarillo and he puffs on it a few times to get it going again. His smoke adds to Franky's for a bit before an open window ushers the smoke outside. "The death bot the Enclave sent at us? Disabled an' sittin in a ravine while the Scientists see if they can't make it functional on our terms," he says easily. And why not believe him with that Marshal star on the shoulder of his duster.

He'd have been content to ignore Rikka and the dog but she had to go and utter in accented tones towards the pupper. Curiosity piqued slightly, he keeps her in his peripheral vision for the time being, ever alert. "Why, you wanna help 'em wit repairin' the leg and gettin the engines up an' runnin' again?"
Ashur The barman fills 'er up right and good, and returns the sloshing skin to the countertop. He takes his payment and Ashur steps close, muscling his way past whatever people are seated nearby ad scooping it up. A bit of finicky handiwork and he has the string of it looped onto his belt, where it hangs against one duraframe hip in quiet contentment. With his preparations complete, he's ready to leave this god-forsaken pit, until the next time he's forced by a fussy bride to take her on a vacation. You know, there was that town down south that had the broken-down roller coaster track, where those prisoners chucked dynamite at him.. maybe she'd rather go there, and ride the.. get a piggy-back on it as he runs fast.

He sighs, and closes the distance between him and his dog. Probably not.

"Come, boy," he commands, reaching down to muss the hair between the dog's fluffy ears. For a moment, he's near face-to-face with Rikka, and all she can see is the armor and the sharpened shining bull-horns. The expressionless mask of a god stares at her, then turns to depart.

The dog follows. Whatever he smelled on Rikka, he didn't get it.
Rikka Rikka's ear gives Franky and Stockton the same attention Stockton's eye spared her. It was always good to catch a little gossip around town, after all. And maybe it would distract her for a moment from this creepy dog staring her down. She was finally about to give in and give the dog a pat on the head when another hand beat her to it, one wrapped in armor. Her eyes lift for a moment to meet her own reflection in the glass eyes of a mask, and before she can register what was going on, mask and mutt are gone. She lets out a small sigh, and sinks back into her chair.

Her second sip of her rum was a gulp.

She was silent for a moment before she turned her eyes over to Stockton, a bit more reseolve in her expression now. When her voice rises to address him, from at least a few seats away, it comes woven into a thick french accent, "Is this ravine you are talking about dangerous?"
Franky Several caps get placed on the top of the bar when a beer is poured and placed in front of Franky. His head bobs up and down at the Barkeep, most likely in thanks. "Suppose thats the best place for it then." Franky drops a single elbow onto the bar as he watches Ashur gather his water and hound. "Quick drinker that one." Franky mumbles, his eye's shifting over to Rikka as he gives her a shrug.

    "Not much of a tinkerer myself. Be quite a sight to see that thing operational again, though." He places the brew his lips and has a gulp. He hums his approval, giving the Marshall a thumbs up. His head shifts from Rikka to Stockton when she has a question, and hopefully he has an answer.
Stockton Stockton glances up at the disappearance of the armored hulk and he tries not to make faces at his back. Puffing on his cigarillo a few more times before he moves to ash it into the nearby tray along with Franky's smoke. The interaction between Rikka, the dog, and Ashur is simply observed and when the brute is gone, he gives Rikka a reassuring look. Angle of the body to make sure she sees that Marshal's badge, the shiny metal one attached to his custom armor. Much sleeker than the scavenged power armor the former Legionaire wears.

"The ravine? Well shoot, it ain't rightly safe. The Enclave went'n used chem weapons, tried tah gas us tah death. So there's remnants of that crap. Landmines, unexploded ordinance. Plenty of ghouls at this point I 'magine. But if'n yah wanna go out to he wreckage, I 'magine yah could go with a group s'long as you could lend a hand?" he looks at the French accented woman a bit more directly now. It's easy to see why his left eye is greyed out long before its time when one can see the scar that runs from forehead to cheek. A glance at Franky and he grins some. "Shoot yah both're welcome I'm sure." Then manners kick in and he offers them both that lopsided grin, "Name's Stockton, Marshal of the Federation an' biased patron of this here Saloon. You got questions 'bout what's south'a Vegas, I prolly got answers."
Rikka Rikka had noticed the badge before now, but it hadn't really set in just what it was implying until he brazenly showing it directly to her. Subtle as he was about it, the look on his face betrayed what was actually happening right then. She straightens her posture in her seat, but keeps that glass of rum close to her chest.

Rikka gave Franky a quick look-over again, then turned her attention back to Stockton, nodding along as he spoke. "Any chance they are hiring anyone for security out there?" A single syllable of laughter lifts from her chest as she lifts her drink and shakes it indicatively, "My last job fell through and I am running a bit short on funds."
Franky     A calm streak runs over Franky's face followed by an air of seriousness. Maybe it was the badge being presented, or maybe it was the wall of liquor staring back at Franky. He exhales slowly lettimg his eyes shift down to his drink, he hoists it to his lips. Chugging it down to clearly impress nobody in particular, or maybe because there's sober children in freeside.

    He sets the empty cup down and has a soft belch, "Mm, Names Franky...Pleasure." He general directs to both Rikka and Stockton. "Just remembered I have someone to meet. I'll see you guys around maybe?" Franky offers another shrug of his shoulders. Turning haphazardly before he slips through the crowd and out the door.
Stockton Stockton blinks slowly in the face of the straightened posture and the shift of her demeanor to closed. "There's chances fer security needs errywhere, darlin. Anywhere from 'ere tah El Dorado. Any number of people needin' help keepin them and their things secure. Shoot, if yer any good wit a shovel, they need farmhands too." He nods at the empty rum and gives the bartender the chin-nod that says he's got the girl's next round. Easy enough to put caps on the bar for him.

"Course I should also mention the Militia, and the Law always lookin' fer cool headed, able bodied folk who can tell reason from reaction." He has to get that pitch in of course. A glance to Franky and the same going to him with a simple wordless gesture. Clearly the Marshal prefers to communicate in fewer words. Franky makes his exit post haste and he just tips his hat at the man, "Be safe out there," he intones and then goes back to puffing on his cigar and drinking his whiskey when it gets refilled. Content with the quiet of the room now that it's down to a few folk.
Rikka "Oh! Yes, right, I am sorry. Zariah Rikka," the small woman introduces herself late with a nod as Stockton finishes up. A partially-gloved hand rubs at the back of her neck, smearing some dust-and-sweat grime over some bruises. "I was always told that I was born on a farm, but I was too young to remember. Maybe I have some faming skill in my genes?" she wonders with a mild grin. "But, I was raised with my hand on a gun and my eye in a scope. That, I know I am good at."

There's a pause there as she takes back another gulp of liquor, a slight wince crossing her face when the burn begins to set in her throat and stomach. She catches the nod, and bows her head some to Stockton. "Merci," she offers in thanks. "At this point," she continues, "I am willing to take almost anything that pays. There are not many jobs I will not touch, but there are a few. You mentioned the militia?"
Stockton Miss Rikka has Stockton's attention now, seeing as the bartender finally gets a break long enough to go clean some glasses, get some more swill whiskey poured out into the pouring bottles. He's finally puffed his last on that sweet scented cigarillo and he reaches out to stub it into the ash tray a few times. A wrinkle of his nose and he turns his gaze back to the dirty woman. "S'possible, Ma's a hippy, who takes naked treks intah the wastes to commune...s'posin I got that in me," he smirks some toothy like and then shakes his head at the mental image.

"Alright, well like I said, a good trigger finger and someone on a scope's mighty valuable. Militia an' the Law wouldn' mind puttin' you tah work. Gits yah a roof o'er yer head, three square, and a weekly pension far as I know. Access tah some higher grade gear too, make sure yah don' go out ill prepared. That is if you feel like puttin' in the service." He gives a disarming smile and turns to lean on the bar. "I'm more'n happy tah ride wit'cha back tah El Dorado, introduce yah to the right folks."
Rikka The young woman actually cracks a smile at Stockton's description of his mother. Despite her generally boyish appearance and the layer of dirt splotching her skin, her smile might even be described as pretty by some. "Going naked into the wastes sounds...dangerous."

She listens as he continues, another long slip of rum sliding down her throat. She takes a look at her glass, gives it a considering swirl, and backs the remaining little that was there. The barkeep is ready with her next one before she set the empty glass down, and she accepts it with a nod and lifts it in thanks to Stockton.

"That sounds like a very good deal, Marshal. What exactly is 'the service' I need to put in?"
Stockton Eventually everyone learns to love Ma Volkner, it's a thing. Whether she's forcing darned socks on you at a too-cheap price, or making you drink her herbal tea when she hears your cough. The smile is matched albeit slightly more feral in bend. "Course it is, but that ain't ever stopped 'er," he chuckles.

Without drink or smoke he ends up folding his hands together over his belly some in a comfortable and lazy lean. A nod given for the gracious salute. "Yanno, take up arms fer the cause of the people, go on patrols tah make sure the city's safe. Spend some of yer time durin' the week doin' Militia type duties. Course our brand's a lil strange bein' that the Marshals're now law enforcement. But whatever yer bend, Sheriff's department, Militia, what have you. The boys and girls get summoned up to the front lines sometimes. Er well in yer case, the back forty with priorities." He shrugs.
Rikka Rikka's eyes turn over her shoulder briefly to the sniper rifle strapped there, right beside the assault rifle. To the layman, it might have seemed an odd thing when comparing Rikka to her weapon of choice - it was nearly as long as she was tall, and probably weighed just as much as her. Rikka's body was covered in dust, dirt, and is that ash?, and cuts and scrapes, and bruises, but the body of the rifle is pristine. Smooth and unmarked, shining almost if it had just come out of a factory rather than being picked up from the dirt after two centuries of abandonment.

Her eyes turn back to Stockton, the subtle grin on her lips just barely touching them. "Who pays best?" she asks, head canted slightly aside and forward.
Stockton Stockton does take notice of the woman's weapon, part of the original scan for what she might realize was hostiles or potential threats. This man has clearly lived in the wastes long enough to know better. No obvious guns on him, but if she was ken she might have caught the outline of pistol grip shapes under his duster at the small of his back.

"Honestly? Prolly Militia gets most perks," he decides without much thought on it. He's pulling out another cigarillo in an attempt to light up and puff a few times. "Course you'll have time to scavenge or patrol on yer own time as well."
Rikka Rikka's glass gets tipped against her lips again as Stockton answers. Another mild wince at the burn. When it falls back to her chest, her rum-lined lips are twisted in a thoughtful frown. She rocks a bit on her stool, tipping the feet just an inch or two above the ground each time her balance shifts.

"It sounds like they will be the best for any further training too, yes? Like if I wanted to learn punching and things." A small chuckle laces through her next few words, "I cannot let myself slack off, I must be better every day, yes?"
Stockton Stockton is thoughtful as he watches the lady, always trying to glean what he can from what's not spoken. He's a lawman like that alright? So sue him. Course the predatory nature, the way he looks at every detail, that's a little bit merc too. He smiles some and nods, "Militia'd be good fer learnin how tah do other stuff too fer sure. Throwin' a punch er lobbin' an explosive." he chuckles some and nods. "Sounds like we can make fer El Dorado in the mornin, get you there by dinner er so." He sniffs some and grins, "Meanwhile, you want a hot shower and a clean bed, I'm happy tah give yah 'nuff to get into the Tops. It's clean at least, an' the place ain't run by pimps er cannibals." He doesn't seem like he's kidding. "You can meet me back 'ere in the mornin', can't miss mah mare, Brandywine," yanno the draft horse that's big enough to carry the mountain of man around.
Rikka Keen eyes can catch keen details. Her body leans slightly forward as she listens to Stockton, her head lowering just the subtlest bit and her eyes rolling up to match and look directly to him. Still, her right hand clutches her glass still close to her chest - she's putting something between herself and him, guarding herself. Her left hand rests on her lap, but her fingers are curled into a fist, slowly tensing and relaxing as the conversation goes on in a regular pattern. The rocking stool is propogated by a single restless foot, pushing against the floor with a barely-contained energy.

To the inquisitive eye, Rikka, apparently, was bottling up a lot of herself for the sake of this conversation.

Some of her tension dissipates at the mention of a shower. A hint of a chuckle floats beneath her words, "It has been a few days since I got a shower, I am sure I am not a pretty sight at the moment. I am not- I am not without means, not yet. Where is this Tops?"
Stockton Stockton is watchful, some might say hyper vigilant, but one has to be in the Wastelands. They match eyes and he studies her carefully, like a bird might perhaps, for a little while yet before finally that edge starts to soften some. She's not presenting any threat to him. The defensive posturing, the nervous ticking, he's seen it before, lived it too. He keeps his hands laced over his stomach there, elbows out and relaxed. She's got nothing to fear from him right now. "Tops? Tops is out on the Strip north side," he says and gestures vaguely with his chin.

A hand follows that motion, lifting to smooth the beard down again before returning to that easy position at his stomach. "Wasn' sayin' yah were, but if'n yer gonna seriously consider bein' Militia, well we take care of ours and there wouldn' be a need fer you tah spend yer hard earned coin just yet." he smiles some. No comment on whether she's pretty or not.
Rikka There was something soothing about this man. He had that air to him that came with experience only men like him could have. Even relaxed as he was, he commanded the area around him with careful confidence and disarming charm. The exact sort of aura that make the innocent feel comfortable and the guilty nervous. Rikka was hovering in a strange space somewhere between the two.

She drained another drink from her glass and spun in her stool to put the glass down. "I am interested, Marshal," she speaks, her voice a bit more calm now. "You said you could direct me to the right people in the morning? I will take you up that offer, it is still avaialable come morning."
Stockton Stockton rides a fence of his own between civil servant, and feral wildman. The odd dichotomy is not lost on him. For now though, he's looking outside and smiling some at the time. "Good, then Miss Rikka, I will see yah bright'n early t'morrow, we'll head tah El Dorado, get yah introduced to a few folk, get yer life started. Meanwhile, you visit the Tops, I'm gonna go upstairs an' make too much noise," he's giving her a suggestive wink before tipping his hat to her and turning towards the stairs and going up. Considering there was a residence for the two proprietors of the establishment, it's not hard to guess where he's headed.