Fandom 𝙁𝘼𝙇𝙇𝙊𝙐𝙏 : 𝙒𝙞𝙣𝙙𝙮 𝘾𝙞𝙩𝙮 𝘽𝙡𝙪𝙚𝙨 {IC}

[BELIAL.]

tags: idalie BELIAL. Marzopup plague rats JustSomeDood Worthlessplebian Ozron ​

The sound of wind whistling past the old Chicago skyscrapers at midnight was a melody many natives admitted to find themselves soothed by; a determined sentiment of concrete and steel standing the test of time, even where others crumbled on rusted supports and moulded decay. Or perhaps it unfairly reminded them of the occupants, Lords and Ladies in pre-war glamour, faceless, touched by the Atom⁠—till every generation since the globe was scorched in flame, shared the very same patrons. For newcomers, this frigid and crumbling gridlocked maze proved one thing; wherever one went, the devil was a salesman. And in this instance, as with so many others, his produce was human cattle.

⁠”—We play 24/7, 365 days a year bringing you the classics! Radio 365, annually a hit!” The radio fizzled and popped with a flickering needle on a poorly-lit display, aimed into the midst of frequencies to pull a smooth voice from the heavens; a near trans-atlantic burr of yesteryear resting forward on the tongue. “I’m Ghoulligan, your host, your eye in the sky, and beloved⁠—I do mean beloved perhaps in the context of a distant relative you’d think briefly on if they ever passed falling over a mop bucket in a suburban shack⁠—narrator of all things rotten in the state of Denmark … Speaking of rotten, here’s Johnny Cash, some say he’s got those Folsom Priso⁠—”

One of the burly slavers, in what appeared to be a flaking leather-jacket and scrapped metal breastplate, yanked the dial down with a grunt, “Fuckin’ bullshit.”

“You’ll break the radio doin’ that, an’ he’s the only damn fuck who ain’t some pre-war ghost on the waves.” This slaver who spoke up was slumped by the entrance, chewing tobacco from the slosh and squelch of brown leaves between his stubby teeth.

“Piss off. Givin’ me a fuckin’ headache.” This one stood up, stretching his body and poppin every bone that had nestled into disarray since he’d first sat down hours ago.

The established cells were that of an old dog pound, if there ever were a wound in which to rub more salt⁠—concrete and steel, meshed walls and bars allowing sight along the rows and cross the small, discoloured walkway between them. The kinds of stains you didn’t ask questions about. The present room held eight cells, seven occupants, and not a source of comfort between them. Shackled by clunky explosive collars that chafed the neck, they were subject to draughty foundations with a set of simple underclothes; thin layers being all that was left of remaining dignity.

Things could be worse. It was the dreadful motto of wastelanders in predicaments where it could⁠—in fact⁠—be worse. Cannibals or raiders, mutant pulp, a slow death from exposure rather than hard labour. Unfortunately, death appeared the only thing substantial enough to regard as marginally poorer than being removed from the status of free citizens.

The sitting guard hawked a long, dirty streak of nicotine saturated spit, yanking his rifle to walk the distance up and down; bashing the butt of the gun against the wire with a clatter; all in high hopes of not letting any prisoner rest peacefully. Quiet prisoners meant thinking prisoners, and the ones who thought too much had an awful penchant of clever tricks.

“Sleepin’ time’s over. I don’ wanna see anyone noddin’ their heads an’ gettin’ shut eye, or I’ll blow your goddamn heads off myself.”

The slaver by the door snorted a laugh, keeping quiet to himself. The one with the rifle glared between the curled wire of the cages before returning to his partner, gesturing with a thumb to the open door.

“You keep watch now. I’m takin’ a piss.”

With that he departed, leaving the single guard who sat by the door.


Feel free to write yourselves waking up, being awake, or simply coming to terms with their situation. We will wait for everyone to have at least made one post before continuing.

 

[Marzopup]

This was the secret about slavery: it wasn't actually hard to escape. At least, not physically.

Bronson had been seventeen years old when he'd learned that lesson. They had been pushing forward in the eastern front, toward Colorado and Denver. The wilderness had taken back so much of those pre-war cities by then, irradiated and wild, and as they fought their way through scores of raiders they found themselves camping out with their clothes covered with blood and dirt. His decanus had told the slaves to do it then.

Go down to the river and wash our armor, he had commanded, and come back. Quickly!

He had been cleaning his machete, and he had looked up, and he had questioned: But Decanus, the river is a mile away. Why are you letting them go alone? He had been lucky. A lot of soldiers would have been punished for less, but Julian had been a patient man. He had looked at Bronson, the young boy on his first campaign for the Legion, and he had laughed.

Look in their eyes, boy, he had said, once you have their minds, their bodies don't go anywhere.

And he was right. The women came back: a full mile they trekked, alone, and they washed the armor, and they returned. He couldn't unsee it then. How often the women were left alone. How often the guards had their backs turned. How easy it would have been to escape. That was why the first few weeks of being a slave to the Legion were the hardest: it was by design. They broke their spirits so thoroughly that escape wasn't even a possibility in their mind anymore. You could have put them in the middle of a field and told them to run, and they would have trotted back to their masters obediently like a dog. They stayed because they forgot how to be free.

When the gun rattled against the cages, his eyes flickered open. Bronson wasn't sleeping anyway, merely pretending to be. It was hard to sleep with the hum of the bomb collar incessant, the heat of the machinery warming his throat. If he had been a religious man, this may have been enough for him to renounce his ways right then and there. There was nothing more karmic than he, Bronson Maverick nee Spartacus, ending up exactly what he had risen through the ranks of the Legion to avoid being--common wasteland slave trash. But Bronson was not a religious man. He was only concerned with biding his time until he could get out of Chicago. His head hit the back of the wall, and he blinked up at the ceiling, his thoughts never straying far from where he would go once he was outside: he would find a new guitar, he'd search the city until he found Celer again. The two of them would be back to singing under the stars before they knew it.

He wasn't going to forget how to be free.

 

[JustSomeDood]

There was a time in Derrick's life when it all seemed so simple. A time in which all he had to do was follow his parents from point A to B and not cause to much trouble. A time in which he got to travel the wasteland carefree and see sites most people would never get a chance to see in their entire lives. Yet, he had to fuck up this simple life of his, hadn't he? He just couldn't resist his urges for just one fucking single day! Classic Derrick am I, right?

But Derrick didn't have long to dwell on that one fateful day in New Reno, as he heard a loud clanging sound that snapped him out of it. As he slowly began to come to his senses, he could immediately tell that something was wrong. There was something around his neck that felt as uncomfortable as a mother lover and he was quite sure that he was in his sleeping clothes instead of his usual duster and leather armor combo.

And on top of that, he was laying down on what he presumed to be a cold concrete floor and he felt as though he was knee-deep in what he hoped to be water. His mind then began to run wild as he began to wonder on what exactly in the damn hell was going on. And that's when it hit him, he had met some Chicago chick from the night before! And from what he knows about his limited knowledge of Chicago chicks is that they are way into some freaky business. I mean I'm talking full-on leather gear and blindfolds sort of things. What was her name again? Claire? Charlie? No that doesn't sound right.... was it Amy? No, that it ain't either. No, wait he knows it, it was Clara! That one chick he met at the bar! Yeah, this must be some sort of freaky Chicago sex thing right?

And as Derrick was just about to open up his little handsome mouth of his and say "Hellllooooooo Clara!" He was then greeted with the sound of someone who definitely wasn't a pretty lady from Chicago. Instead, it sounded like a man who does nothing more than shoot jet up into his lungs 24/7. And he damn well knew he hadn't gotten it up with some guy as he wasn't nearly drunk enough to fall for that again. Especially one that sounds like that!

He then finally opened his eyes and glanced around the room. As he began to take in his surroundings he could immediately tell that this wasn't some sort of kinky Chicago-style sex but was instead some sort of run-down-looking prison. No doubt some sort of holding cell to keep prisoners. Now, the real question was who the hell did he piss off this time to end up here? Did he accidentally bang some druglord's daughter again? Or did he perhaps scam the wrong people? Or was it one of Bishop's men? No, that can't be it because he is sure as hell he would already be deader than a lone NCR trooper in Arizona.

Well, it didn't matter anyway for the time being. Since right now he was in some sort of prison with a GODDAMN bomb collar strapped around his neck. Surrounded by strangers and knee-deep in what he is still hoping to just be water and not some bodily fluid mess. But for the time being, he figured the best course of action was to be friendly with his captors and gather some key information. After all, he wasn't sure if he was dealing with your run-of-the-mill slavers or if he ended up with a cannibal sex cult that is just dying to take a piece of him.

And maybe he could speak with his fellow captives once they get ahold of the situation. Because if he was damn sure of one thing it is that not a single one of these people looked a single bit happy to be here.

 

[Ozron]

Andrew shined the light on his Pipboy around the abandoned building, seemingly in a rush. He flashed the light to his left and right, his eyes scanning the eroded and broken floors. The walls around him had mold and rot, although that didn't seem to concern Andrew as he continued scanning the area. His breathing was steady and his body, whatever was left of it at least, was on full alert. A loud crashing sound occurred behind him, making him jump and unholster his .45 Auto Pistol. He sighed once he saw it was a radroach.

"It's just a radroach Andrew, just a radroach," His body relaxed and he holstered his gun, as he reassured himself. He turned back to search the area. He picked at his skin, a bad habit he knew he shouldn't do, but one he could not stop. As he picked at his skin, he felt regret not bringing Lucy with him. He had left her home, thinking he would only be gone for a few hours at best.

He continued walking down the dark and empty hallway, eventually stumbling upon a locked rusted door. He searched his pockets to find a bobby pin on himself, but he couldn't find any. He cursed at himself, trying to think of another way to open the door. He looked around and thought of an idea. He unholstered his .45 Auto Pistol once again and shot the door's hinges, lock, and doorknob, then gave the door a good kick. The old and rusted door fell to the ground, causing the floor to vibrate and making a loud bang. He used his Pip-Boy light and moved it across the room. Everything looked untouched, dusty even. This gave some hope the item he's been looking for was here after all.

As he walked into the room, looking through all of the room's possessions; he didn't hear the footsteps approaching closer to him. He went through the boxes of junk until something caught his eye. He lifted the object up and a grin grew on his face. He had found it, a crankshaft. He could almost scream in excitement, it had taken him decades to... Without any warning, the back of his head was given a powerful punch. He dropped the crankshaft and turned to face his opponents, but as he did, he was unexpectedly met with a pistol whip right in the face. Andrew was knocked out cold, and his Pip-Boy light was turned off, as he was dragged away to his unknown fate.

The next thing he knew, he was woken up by a loud rattling. He jumped up in surprise but stayed still for a moment. He let himself calm down and looked around at his surroundings. He was in a giant cage, which he didn't find reassuring, but there were other people. All of which was waking up, but he sighed when he realized most of them from what he could tell were humans.

"Just my luck, I get trapped in this cell with humans," He whispered to himself. He looked down at himself, quickly realizing all of his stuff was gone. His Pip-Boy was gone, his backpack was gone, his weapons, everything. Well, not everything, he still had his prosthetic leg. He then realized that there was a new addition to his neck. A thick, and worn-out-looking bomb collar. He looked and saw everyone in the cage had the same thing.

"Shit, we're about to be sold into slavery," He softly told himself. The thought of which didn't appear until now, but it made sense. If slavery was about to be his future fate, then he wasn't afraid to say FUCK YOU to fate.

He looked around, moving through some sort of liquid on the floor. It smelled terrible, and he would rather not focus on what he was walking through. He found the entrance to the cage, but it was locked. He wasn't surprised, their collars would likely blow anyway if they got out. He moved back to where he had originally woken up, deciding to wait for the others. He didn't like the thought of relying on several humans for a potential escape, but he had no choice. They were all in this together, whether he liked it or not.

 

[Worthlessplebian]

Darkness. A sensation so familiar, so prevalent yet so harrowing for people. It hides the ugliness, obfuscates the truth, and gives opportunity to the predators, both man and animal alike. It is right to fear that darkness, but if you were to ask the man with the white-bleached, leather tarp on his head then he'd tell you the fear of a different darkness. Or at the very least, consider within himself the terror induced by a different darkness. The darkness of consciousness; that very notion perked the hairs on his back and arms. He had never been afraid of the former, but learned, in no uncertain terms, to fear the latter.

His eyes were shut tight though the circular eyepiece on his right eye with faded, quartz lens made it difficult to know entirely. Sleep is a luxury and weakness, he couldn't imagine affording now. So for the time being he took succinct naps, ones that befit a hunter who sits, waits, and whose lips grow wet in anticipation of bagging a prey item. And though he could not see through his lids, Felix knew that the others, or at least one of them, would also be lying in wait with closed eyes. Bunched up in the fetal position in a dank corner with an unpleasant, copper-hued smelling liquid beneath him. Pale fingertips once touched this liquid, thickly congealed with hard, brittle crumbs. Felix couldn't rightfully tell through the darkness then and he still couldn't now.

His throat, wilted by the lack of water, gulped against a constraining thing around his neck. It impressed itself disgustingly, but Felix knew this sensation as keenly as passionate lovers would know their partner's touch. It was a slave collar. The first time, well, that didn't involve an iron collar with integrated, remote-detonated micro explosives, but Felix knew this from the time when he committed such heinous acts. Place your fingers top and bottom, open it wide to the hinge then clamp it around their scrawny throats — not too tightly, restricts blood and airflow, however enough for that unnerving, reminding tightness. This one's incessant ticking wasn't a feature that Felix's collars had, sometimes he could not hear himself think through it. Sometimes... His heart synced to it.

Thump. Tick. Thump. Tick. Thump. Tick. Thump... Tick.

He did not know what fate awaited; whether he'd be sold off to a freakshow sideshow on a dusty road to Nevada or pardoned off to Chicago's nightly underground of depraved, cannibalistic mouthbreathers. All he knew is that soon they'd be moving. Guesswork from him, based on his anecdotally assembled experience from these types of works. Slavers never did hold onto their victims for too long, takes too many resources for upkeep. Nobody, save for twisted individuals, wants to purchase an unhealthy slave. Which means they're looking for a buyer because of sell-by dates, like pre-war produce.

A bark from a mangy, bulldog of a guard ordered them to stop their sleep. The charade had been over, not wanting to have his head prematurely blow off by a twelve-gauge or whatever calibre of weaponry the slaver had on him. His eyes knife open, a ghostly pair of orbs reflected from the dark corner. Almost flamelike as they bobbed up against the canvas of blackness. The clothes that he wore were not his own, evidenced by their dirty, sullen caress against his salted skin. The sloshing of the viscous fluid is the only sound that tells anyone through the wiremesh cages that he moved.

He ran a finger down the door then tapped it with a fingernail. His eyes squint with a mote of seriousness, dejection. He wandered back to the farthest wall with a hunch in his back, before propping himself up by it and crossing his arms close to his midsection.

"So when's the sale coming through?" His hoarse, bottom-of-the-beer-barrel gnarled wood voice spoke. The tobacco-chewing slaver might be more complacent to answer the question than the larger, neck of the woods grouch who left moments ago. Or Felix just gave the slaver a reason to blow his head off, either way, Felix and by extension the others will receive something out of his action.

 

[plague rats]

Jules' head cracked against the bars of his cage when he was woken by the bang. It added to a growing list of bodily complaints, measuring somewhere in between the itching skin and the sour twist of his stomach. He'd been slipping in and out of a restless half sleep for- well. He didn't have a watch and no one had mentioned the time. A while was his best approximation and it would likely be several more whiles before he knew.

The other suckers caged with him began to stir, all strangers. That was almost comforting- it seemed unlikely they were all here to be shot for treason. But Jules still kept his gaze fixed away from them, half watching the remaining guard and half drifting in the last moments of numbness. It was more pleasant than sizing up his fellows and thinking about the times he'd been on the other side of the bars. The guards' directionless annoyance was familiar. Slaves were just sad and it was a relief these ones had been mostly quiet so far. He hated the crying and begging, hated the empty look they all got after a while, their eyes like smudged glass. It was dull, dirty work and in his opinion, usually easier to just kill them. Why bother? Most of them died before long anyway and then whatever jackass had bought them came around to bitch about wanting his caps back. So just kill them then kill the jackasses then keep going till you were king jackass of meat mountain. Why bother at all. The dull anger that churned through his guts sharpened for a moment, breaking through the hazy border of 'still drunk' and 'hungover'.

Jules took a shuddering breath and let his head fall back against the bars again, a little gentler this time. The itching had gotten worse and he could feel sweat beading his forehead. Next came the twitching and leg shaking as he scratched at his neck and tongued the split lip he'd gotten at some point. Whatever he'd taken last night was filtering out, offering teasing little memories as it did. There'd been a raid. It was the kind of stupid, routine violence that barely registered outside of the pulse of adrenaline. He'd wandered back through the rambling sections of the South Works to find Isaac already drunk with a handful of other treasonous little rats who offered handfuls of things he didn't bother to examine in his haste to catch up. After that was just a lot of shoving and stumbling and snatches of angry conversation, the Boss' grim smile looming in some corner of his mind. He'd fought at some point judging by the fresh bruises and bloodied knuckles. And lost judging by the collar now squeezed around his neck.

It hadn't been the first time he'd gotten into it with the others or even the first time one of them had slipped him a mickey and let him wake up somewhere cold, alone, and covered in what was mostly his own bodily fluids. That was just idle cruelty to fill boring nights and he always managed to crawl back in the morning. But a collar only meant one thing. A collar meant slave, meant meat, meant dead. With his luck he'd end up back under the skyscrapers working for someone whose feet had never touched the ground.

Isaac would've called it ironic. And the only thing keeping Jules from dissolving entirely was the fact he wasn't there to say it. There was a chance, however small, he'd gotten away. Every time his brain tried to think otherwise he bit down on his tongue. He wasn't here which was awful but he was somewhere else which had to be better. Sick panic crept up the back of his throat if he lingered too long at all so he swallowed blood and watched the guard and wondered dimly how many people he could take out if he rushed a crowd right before his head exploded.

 

[BELIAL.]

REBECCA WETHERBY
tags: n/a ; location: unknown (dog pound, near chicago) ; company: unknown (sorry suckers)

The cement floors were cold, colder than the last bitter wind that Rebecca remembered. Somewhere between consciousness, fighting against her initial restraints once she’d awoken out of her inn room, she’d felt the wind. The most gut-wrenching realisation that she’d been taken, and her things abandoned, had almost been colder than that. The way one’s stomach twisted, balling into the throat, seemingly unable to fathom the reality at hand. In another world, the woman would have probably begrudgingly accepted such a world. That woman wouldn’t have made any plans for escape, hadn’t thought about not if she would get out but how, and wouldn’t have done her best to stay awake in the time since. Rebecca, however, did all of that. She still plotted it, even while laying on that cement floor, pondering the cracks in the ceiling plaster.

Once they’d wrestled her from the back of their caravan, and she swore she could see other people being wrestled as well, she’d fought back. Elbows flying, knees attempting to find groin to smash into, and curses flying from her mouth, she’d been a spitfire. A good knock to the face, fist wrapped with a pair of knuckledusters, had sent her near sprawling, and straight into oblivion. Part of her had been still conscious, unfortunately all but aware of the collar clamped onto her neck and the shameless redistribution of clothing items. Flesh that she had no wish to expose, she felt almost more vulnerable in her bottom layers than if she were to be completely naked.

But, as it appeared, she would be at least thankful to have been reduced to a thin covering. Company, albeit in the same position, gave her a degree of shame. At least it meant she was not alone in her situation.

Finally having found some balance to her unsteady vision and coming to a greater awakeness, still slightly shaky from having been clocked in the face, she felt gently for the already forming tenderness under and around her eye. A shiner, without a doubt. In-fucking-convenient. She’d not be awake very long, back against the hard wall toward the rear of the cage, doing her best to take stock of all who were in the cages around her, when the guard had rattled the wire cages with his gun.

Fuckin’ asshole.

The grit to her skin was near negligent in her perception, as Becks was purely focused on considering every possible situation for escape. There were enough of them there, as far as she knew, all ideally with the same nerve to get out alive, that it wouldn’t be too much to try and rush a guard. The bomb collars were an added challenge, sure, but Becks wasn’t one to go down so easily.

Plus, if her head ended up blowing off anyway, she had a feeling it would be a better outcome than whatever was in store. She didn’t know Chicago, nor the state, as well as she’d like. There was comfort in knowing, but going in so blind to that stupid innkeeper had been her first mistake; and, ideally, her last.

It was the lack of her gun, as well, that provided the most discomfort to Becks. She couldn’t talk for shit out of a situation, and flattery wasn’t her talent. All she could fathom was pulling a trigger, or evading a situation. How did anyone deal with already being elbow deep in said situation?

It annoyed her; beyond, it frustrated her.

Consuming such emotions, she fiddled with some pebbles and smaller debris that had accumulated in the corner of the cage where she sat. Picking up a few, she tried her best to lob them through whatever tiny holes in the front of the cage she could.

 

[idalie]

DIXIE DAWES tags: BELIAL. Worthlessplebian ; location: the ole dog pound baby! ; company: becca & co.

Dixie Dawes wished upon satellites and stars and benign things like eyelashes landing on the curve of a stranger's cheekbone or rhyming couplets; attributing every lucky instance as a moment of heavenly intervention. A clever man once explained those pinpricks in the sky were far away, real far, nothing but matchstick heads alight⁠⁠—most of them dead but the light just kept on reaching for something, or someone … The concept of cosmic measurements and distance had little grasp on a wastelander. Other girls, Reno girls, Vegas girls, they’d learned how to print their names and read the pages of pre-war books⁠—the columns of magazines that had the best pictures, the illuminated signs flashing above casinos and clubs, but Big John had ideas about literacy. There wasn’t a use for it, as far as he was concerned.

Although recalling John, he’d berate her to no end finding out her reasons for leaving⁠—and for being duped, twice. Three times now, as the number inched past naive to downright gullible. Concrete flooring leeched the heat from her skin where the showgirl crossed her legs. Assumedly a once white vest hung off her shoulders, greying from age and environment, matched by a pair of repurposed gym shorts a size too big until they ballooned out at the thigh with petticoat flare. She’d been thankful so far there wasn’t a mirror anywhere close, for fear of the horror that’d peer back in sleepless ire. There wasn’t even a scrap of extra linen, nor spare handkerchief of which to wrap about the mess of frizz and roller-curls⁠—half of them limp at the base of her neck where the bob lost its signature bounce.

As limited as her recollection proved, leaning against the wire mesh of the cell wall, it’d been accepting a ride from a friendly brahmin wagon which brought bad tidings. They’d been cordial, until reaching the city, where a baton to the head put her down like a candlestick in the dining room⁠ waiting to be finished off. No blood, not that she’d found prodding about her scalp, however Dixie would claim she’d need stitches in every other breath had someone offered a sympathetic ear. So far, all other occupants had slumbered in debatable peace⁠—if not violently enforced in some way or another.

The movement beside her cell was enough to elicit a half-hearted crawl forward, seeking the familiar face of an old travelling companion, Dixie pressing against the flimsy wall until she’d practically entered the brunette’s personal space without taking a step forward⁠—”If it ain’t you I don’t buh-lieve it! Why! It is ain’t it? Becca? Ain’t this just thuh fuhnniest coincidence? Sugar, you would nawt know it, but I just ain’t been thuh same⁠—an’ don’t bother excusin’ yourself, I fuhgive you, I bet it was real important-like, I mean it had to be, but if we end up on thuh same farm or sumnthang, jus’ don’t go losin' your head; they sure tried to knock it off an' all.” Dawes gestured to the ever-darkening bruise about gunslinger's eye.

The rattling of cages and unsavoury wake-up call elicited a quick frown, “Oh theys just pure brutes, I seen ‘em everywhere, sorta fellers couldn't even make good doormen. Prob’ly get confused whether it was push or pull.”

Down toward that of Felix’s holding pen, the slaver and his rifle paused; leering in through the criss-crossing wire, “Today. Yeah, youse got a tidy patron, all seven of you swans. He’s real regular, ain’t never seen them work for him, likes makin’ them vanish. Sadistic fuck or somethin'. I’d start figurin’ out which God y’prefer.” The tobacco continued to roll between his yellowed teeth, spitting cleanly at the foot of the grey steel separating free man from captive, resuming his pace back toward the stationary chair and now-silent radio.

 

[Marzopup]

Bronson was a quiet sort, and it went hand-in-hand with his propensity for observation. Physically he was weak; mentally, he was strong; and therefore his greatest weapon was knowledge. The Legion wasn't well sorted to that sort of person--they guarded information with the fervor of the most militant cults--and in fact, the first thing he'd done when he left was to pursue all of that which had been forbidden to him. He was a well read sort of person, and he enjoyed reading people as much as reading books. First, the guards; typical ones. They didn't look too bright and, if not for the bomb collar strapped around his neck, he may have even said this escape would be a piece of cake. They looked unclean and uncaring. Those types of men were almost always lagging a little in the brains department.

Next, their fellow prisoners: four men, two women. One a ghoul, the other...not showing his face for some reason...and the rest, normal looking as far as he could tell. The women were a liability if he ever saw one. Oh, maybe if they had guns, he could have made use of them: but a women without a gun was just dead weight. The blonde one from the way she was talking either had something up her sleeve Bronson didn't know, or she was just awfully naive to the state of her current situation. His best guess was that she was an idiot. The ghoul didn't look particularly impressive. The men were big, bigger than Bronson--one, a handsome looking fellow, Bronson couldn't have been linger on just a little longer. Familiarity knocked at the back of his skull, but he pushed it away. He couldn't place why. And who of the NCR or Legion would be in Chicago?

Well, this wasn't the first time Bronson rallied some prisoners for an escape. They couldn't keep the bomb collars on forever--even slaves got to bathe once and awhile. The question was whether he'd bother helping the women too. If they could get their hands on some weapons, he guessed--he wasn't against doing them a favor. Depending on who their captor was, leaving them there would be a fate worse than death. He knew that.

But otherwise...

His head shifted in the direction of the guard talking to Felix.

He wouldn't kill them. They were already spoken for: you didn't kill merchandise. It was bad for business. And, truthfully, he was just feeling goddamned petty.

"I don't know about all of you," Bronson announced, crossing his arms, "but I think I'll pick the god that says slavers are going to hell. Anyone want to join me in a prayer?"

 

[Worthlessplebian]

Felix's jaw clinched as the tobacco chewing yahoo spat at the foot of the door's cell. That abominable wretch stank of more than a sweet smoky smell that tobacco is known for, but Felix's nose through the leathery cover could pick up an unwashed stench, as a courtesy for them—the slaves—their handlers could take a dip in a stream or pour a bucket over their head and scrub down with soap made from Brahmin fat. Impotent complaints aside, Felix had gotten the answer to his question. There once had been a time where the hunter, greener than grass in an oasis to the outside world, thought from a preconceived perspective of chivalry; that this is how the post-apocalyptic world in spite of his father's teachings. This was just after his parents' demise, but long before his stint as a slaver or the mutilation. Too young to know any wiser, but old enough to be fixed in his ways.

Strangely, the nostalgic reminiscence embittered, emboldened him further. The yearn to be free from these binds burned with ferocious heat, a black furnace in the desert. The deep red fire in the heart is tempered by the ice cold water of his mind; no time would be devoted to plotting. The others alongside Felix were well into that, judging by their quiet or idle, statue forms. Then a woman's voice, one or two cells over Felix's, called out in shocked surprise. Felix's eyes flared as if they were blossoming flowers. The cover on his head became foliage when Felix turned to eye the woman who spoke as if she jumped out of a holotape for commercials from the pre-war days!

"Warsh my ears, never thought I'd hear a girl in Chicago sound like a squinny." Said Felix a stark contrast to the professional tone he had last, though the hardness of the throat box was still there.

Another man skinnier than him, that Adonis in the corner, the male escort, or that one-legged freak spoke up about praying to a god that damns slavers. Felix responded only with a smoky chuckle. "Afraid I'll stick to the ones trying to save my soul."

Interactions: Marzopup idalie

 

[plague rats]

It got harder to ignore the rest of the room as more voices sounded off. It was an odd mix of accents, most of which Jules couldn't place. Travelers made easy targets but he couldn't imagine why anyone would go out of their way to visit this heap. Every nerve in his body felt flayed raw and the anxious energy that came with sobriety pitched him to his feet. It'd been a long time since sleeping in cramped, dirty quarters really bothered him. But now that he was awake there was nothing to do, nowhere to go and he'd never handled stillness well. He wasn't as steady on his feet as he would've liked but after a few tight circles the aches spread throughout his body started to ease and the haze clarified into brittle anger. It flared a little hotter when the guard spoke again.

Jules didn't have to imagine the kind of things folks with enough caps to blow on disposable bodies did with them. He'd seen it, seen the scraps left behind when they inevitably got bored. There was no sport to it, nothing to gain but the pain of someone who couldn't even fight back. Killing for caps or food or chems was one thing. Having the resources and time to waste on some unlucky idiots you couldn't even bother hunting down yourself was another.

Jules paused briefly when one of the others, an older man with his arms crossed sternly across his chest, mentioned prayer. A smirk flickered across his lips that grew to a bark of hoarse laughter when he was immediately shut down by whatever the guy in the hood was.

"Besides, if there's a god 'round here that gives a shit about slavery he's sleepin' on the job." Jules rolled his shoulders out as he leaned against the wire, leering out at the guard. "Quicker to just send 'em there yourself." Mesh dug against his skin as he leaned his weight against the cage wall. There was a gap just big enough for him to spit back before he shoved himself away and resumed his aimless pacing, kicking out to rattle the walls whenever he passed close to the guard. If they wanted him awake, they'd have to deal with the consequences.

mentions: Worthlessplebian Marzopup