Fistful of Caps (Oregon Trails) [FULL/FAST]

A single piece of jagged stone stood alone atop the small rise of ground. It stood alone at the peak of the hill, a silent testament to the stubbornness of nature and the indomitable spirit of Mother Earth in refusing to have allowed anyone to remove it over the countless hundreds of years it must have been located at the small hill's peak. Well, either that or it was still there because no farmer or rancher had a tractor anymore to remove it. Yeah, that second one was probably the better explanation for the hulking stone still being where it was.

Still, Martius had to admit it was undeniably useful that the stone was there since it was just about the only thing in sight that had sufficient size to hide the bulk of the Frumentarii in Caesar's Legion. Of course, his height was only enhanced by the cowl made of a Yao Guai head instead of the more traditional creatures like a fox or a wolf, or what passed for them out in the Mojave Wasteland where Martius has spent his formative years. Of course, the crazy cowl and the Legion member's nearly flat refusal to wear anything other than his Legion gear, along with his seemingly fanatical loyalty to the leader of the Brahmin Revolts and his undeniable violent tendencies when anyone questioned his insistence that the revolt's leader was Julius Caesar reborn had made him a logical choice to bring along on this little excursion. Well, that and the continual hints he dropped about being only too happy to kill members of the NCR in service to his Caesar. There was that.

The Legionnaire held his brush gun loosely in one massive hand, watching Earl and waiting. Why Earl was in charge instead of him was quite beyond Martius' ability to fathom. Legion training trumped self-important farmer. Or rancher. Or whatever in the nine hells most of these people did. Martius had made it quite clear to most of them that he couldn't give a damn less about their personal lives, which was true. The Legion was interested in their tactics, weaponry, military skills, and other practical bits of information. They didn't care one bit if Bob had a pregnant wife or Larry's great aunt was a super mutant or little Timmy could make a noise so annoying it could lodge directly in the dead center of your brain for all eternity. Or that most of the ranchers found it offensive when you punched eight year old Timmy hard enough to break his nose for making that noise.

Narrowing his ice blue eyes Martius peered down the road in the direction that the NCR was supposed to be approaching from. Why Earl was down there, instead of up here where he had a better vantage point, was beyond the Legionnaire. Still, that was his prerogative. Raising the rifle to his shoulder Martius drew the butt back tight against his shoulder and leaned his head over so he could look down the weapon's iron sights. Drawing a bead on the lead soldier he watched and waited as the group approached, waiting for the signal to begin the attack. While living among these rebels was maddening because of their utter lack of understanding regarding all of the things in the world that were important this particular assignment did, at least, afford him the chance to fight and kill members of the NCR who were enemies to the true Caesar.

"Always a silver lining," he muttered to himself, waiting for the signal.

Earl popped the NCR helmet back onto his head, bringing a lip to his fingers at Daniels call and shaking his head. The NCR patrol was getting closer, and he didn't want the ambush to be revealed 'for it even started. Speaking of the patrol-

Eight NCR troopers were marching on the road, most of them new volunteers- or conscripts - by the look of their gear. Three didn't even have a helmet, none had body armor except for the man infront, the Sergeant obviously, and only four had service rifles in hand. The rest were carrying-

Earls eyes widened.

Supplies. The men carrying them had their rifles slung over their shoulders. There was two men per a crate, and they were labeled 'Ammo'. This was better than expected, and as the patrol approached Earl had to clamp down on his excitement. He raised a glove and waved, calling out, "Hey! Pals! Mind helping me out here!" He put on his best green nervous smile, playing the role of a lost recruit.

The Sergeant ordered his men to a halt, raising a fist, and eyed his surroundings. He'd walk forward, asking gruffly, "Where the hells your rifle and unit soldier?" Earl's smile faltered, perfectly staged, "I dunno Sarge, I just enlisted a bit ago and got shipped out here. Got separated from the Lou when I stopped to take a piss, and tried to find them. Suddenly, I;m out here in the rats ass of nowhere!" He gave a nervous laugh, and the Sergeant rolled his eyes, and started to relax.

It was his final mistake. "Alright rookie, you can join up with -" There was a loud retort as suddenly Earls revolver was up, and top of the Sergeants head turned into a volcano, the blood spewing out of it as the man took a few staggered steps, and then fell. The recruits were momentarily too stunned to react, and Earl fired off another round, catching one in the arm and causing him to drop his rifle. "KILL 'EM BOYS!" Earl shouted, diving into a rut next to the road and firing the revolver once more. One of the Recruits raised his rifle, firing rounds wildly at Earls position, though luckily he made it into the rut just in time to avoid joining the Sergeant, and Earl ripped off the NCR helmet for identification purposes, staying down and letting his boys do their magic.

Catherine Fyre stood just outside the entrance to the dusty little town, surveying the dilapidated buildings. The dust kicked up around her, causing her duster to slap noisily on her denim covered leg. She was covered in dust from the trails.

Cat had been offered a job back West, and now here she stood. The job had seemed monotonous at best, but the payment was substantial. The settlement had been quite a journey, not to mention the long brahmin trails of Oregon that seemed to stretch on forever. And yet here it stood, her destination for the last two weeks, humble and quite.




"Tull" a wooden sign read, banging lazily in the wind. It had once read something more, but the rest of the sign had been lost long ago. A sun-bleached ( or radiation bleached, Cat could never tell the difference. ) brahmin skull had been nailed above the sign.

"Tull." she said out loud, for no reason in particular. Her dry tongue had trouble rolling the 'l'.

The woman took a long drag of her cigarette before flicking the butt onto the scorched earth below. She adjusted the brim of her hat to properly cover her sharp eyes, scanning the settlement. She marked the spots that would serve as a sniper nest, as well as any practical rug-outs for machine guns. The woman finished casing the area, and gave a quiet grunt. The place was too quiet. She stood still, listening for anything out of the ordinary. After deciding the lack of bustle didn't matter, Cat Fyre adjusted her belt walked into town.




A rusty windmill squeaked in the wind, turning slowly as Cat walked by, her boots noisy against the backdrop of the quiet town. Most of the residents were probably indoors, she thought, eluding the heat of high noon in the badlands. Stopping in the center of Tull, Cat popped her neck ( which had become stiff on the walk to the place. ) Looking along the dusty streets, the woman spotted the bar. The Dixie Pig. For a moment she had a spell of dejavue, and then it was gone.

Cat entered the watering hole, shaking off the Oregon dust as the doors swung closed behind her. Walking slowly to the bar, she eyed the occupants from under the rim of her hat. Most stared, but none seemed dangerous. The woman pulled a metal stool across the floor with her boot-heel, straddled it and sat. Her gloved hand produced a few Nuka-Cola caps from her pocket, which he then tossed onto the aging wooden counter. Above her, an neon Nuka-Cola sign flashed as it attempted to stay illuminated.

Plucking an aging toothpick from a dirty glass and sticking it in her mouth, Catherine quietly cleared her throat.


"Whiskey." she said to the Bartender, looking over the patrons of the dimly lit establishment. As he poured her a shot, she downed it just as quick with a flinch. "Better jus' leave th bottle." she said as he attempted to cork the whiskey. He placed it before her as she dropped a small handful of caps on the counter.

As the bartender collected them, Catherine leaned over the bar and held a small object before his eyes. It was a small bar of packaged soap. It had not been used, despite it's age. This was a treasure in the wastelands.

"It's yers, if yah tell me what yah know 'bout the lil' uprisin', an 'bout the Oregon Devils." she finished, never making eye contact with the man.

Already, three NCR soldiers were down. Five were left. These other five had dropped their crates, running into a ditch on the other side of the road from Earl and staying low, only poking up to fire quickly before popping back down.

Earl creeped to the edge of his rut, pulling a stick of dynamite from his belt and lighting it. He threw it over the edge, and there was a thud. It had landed on a troopers helmet.

"What the fuck is- OH SHIT DYNAMITE EVERYONE OU-" His scream was cut off by a bang that felt as if it had lifted up the ground. Two corpses came flying out of the rut, an arm fell into the center of the road here, a foot there and Earl was sprayed by a few droplets of crimson blood. The final three troopers walked out of their rut, hands in the air screaming that they surrender. Earl gestured at David from below, making a 'move forward' gesture.

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Carl Sanders had been the bartender of this particular saloon for nigh on thirty years, after he had inherited it from his father at age 18. He was a well liked figure in the community, as many came to the saloon to rest, tell stories, and get a good drink.

Sanders had been in the process of yelling at the player of the old piano that still surprisingly worked, Sheb, to play a different tune, the one he was currently playing "Bleeding his ears dry!" according to Sanders. Sheb, as usual, had been less than cooperative and just played a louder tune. The tune cut off abrubtly as the doors swung open and shut, and a stranger stepped through.

A stranger packing iron who looked like she knew how to use it.

Conversation died off as men and women, hard ones who were used to disappointments and failures, stared. Curious, but also nervous.

Carl Sanders handed the stranger her whiskey, trying to ignore the nervous looks the people of the waterhole had taken on when she walked in. His nervousness was only heightened by her question, and Cat would notice the round man was sweating, though his eyes glanced at the soap greedily.

"Listen girl..." He leaned in, whispering quietly, "I don't want no trouble, ya hear? What do you want to know about those boys for?"

The bartender stared at Catherine, the mere mention of the Oregon Devils had cause him to start perspiring. Cat tilted the rim of her hat upwards using her free hand. Her eyes met him well, and they told her most of what she needed to know in that first instant of conversation.

"Listen girl..." The sweaty man leaned in, whispering quietly, "I don't want no trouble, ya hear?"

Cat stared into the barkeeper's eyes, studying him. "So long as you stay straight with me, I 'spect there won't be no trouble." she said quietly, carefully listening for any sign of trouble behind her,

"What do you want to know about those boys for?"

Without taking her eyes from him, Cat placed the soap on the bar and slid it in front of the man. She kept her leather glove on top of it.

"Reckon I might have business to discuss with them boys." the woman responded, pouring her self another shot of whiskey with her free hand. She took it better than her first, and sat the empty shot glass quietly on the bar.

"You we're sayin' where ah girl might find someone who's part of these Devils." Cat continued as her eyes squinted ever-so-slightly.

Earl watched the Legionnaire with a mix of curiosity..terror...and a cold logic. He didn't approve of the butchery, believing himself that a quick death was the most satisfying. Wasted less energy.

However, he also saw the look on the troopers faces, and knew the message had gotten across. The remaining two were quivering in their boots, and there was a suspicious dark stain on one of the mens tan uniforms. Earl walked over to them, casually loading new rounds into the cylinder of his revolver, before snapping it shut as quickly as he had opened it. He pulled back the hammer, and said in a cool voice, "Key. Now. Or else I'll have to give you to Martius here as a prisoner." He said this last bit almost sweetly.

One of the troopers croaked with a dry voice, "Jesus Christ, who are you guys? Lanius' little brothers?"

"Not a bad idea for a name, though I'd recommend you hand over the key. Now." He raised the revolver, and the man pointed at the Sergeants corpse with a quivering finger and blurting out, "He has it! On his corpse! One of the pockets!"

Earl nodded, walking over to the Sergeants corpse, but pausing at Martius. "Do what you want with them, but make it relatively quick." He then walked over to the corpse, crouching down and rifling through the mans pockets and pouches.
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The bartender looked relieved, starting to relax. His eyes kept that nervous look though, and he began to speak. "No trouble. Alright, that's good. No trouble. As for them boys?"

He shrugged, "You'll probably find them out in the bushes somewhere, playing at soldier-" He said this casually, with a dismissive wave. Though it was obvious he was keeping something to himself. Downplaying just what the boys were doing. "And what sorta business would you be wanting with them anyway? They're just gonna git themselves in trouble, riling up the NCR the way they are. Especially Ea-"

At this point, the bartender seemed to realize he had said too much, and gave a weak laugh. "But, they won't do much. Just a lot of talk and bar fights between drunk locals and drunk troopers."

The bartender relaxed, but his eyes held fear.

"You'll probably find them out in the bushes somewhere, playing at soldier-" He said this casually, with a dismissive wave. Though it was obvious he was keeping something to himself. Downplaying just what the boys were doing. "And what sorta business would you be wanting with them anyway? They're just gonna git themselves in trouble, riling up the NCR the way they are. Especially Ea-"

At this point, the bartender seemed to realize he had said too much, and gave a weak laugh. "But, they won't do much. Just a lot of talk and bar fights between drunk locals and drunk troopers."[/b]



Catherine Fyre watched the man intently, a cold look creeping over her eyes. Removing her hand from the soap, the woman took a third shot of whiskey. It went down smooth, and she slowly licked her wind-chapped lips to savor the taste. Cat then produced the big iron from her hip, laying it heavily onto the counter, just out of view from the saloons patrons. The weathered barrel was pointed at the bartender. She leaned towards him slowly.

"Maybe yah didn't hear me tha first time ah said it." Cat drawled in a low tone. "I don't take nicely to liars. You're hidin' shit from me, and that means yah've lost your innocent privledges. Now ah tried bein' pleasant, but seems yah'd rather play difficult. Don't yah think fer an instant that jus 'cause I'm polite means I won't paint the wall with tha contents of yer belly. I will ask this one... more... time." The gunslinger pulled back the heirloom weapon's hammer with her thumb.

"Who's runnin' tha show, and where do they hang 'round?" Cat asked. The woman did not appear to be bluffing.