Fandom FNV: V&V

[Pat]

Maurice Miller chose to reside within the Holiday Motel during his brief vacation away from the suspicious packages and dangerous clients of the Mojave Express on the Las Vegas Strip, jewel of the wastelands. Frequenting its bar was a welcome distraction, at least, until half of the occupants evacuated the premises when four strangers sauntered in and handed over a veritable armory of guns over to the bouncer. They weren't from the city, to say the least. Each wore the sophisticated combat armor and bullet hole ridden duster combination distinctive of the desert rangers comfortably, as if was an extension of themselves, at no more than what a cursory glance could tell.

"A round of snake squeezins for the supreme jerks of Team Echo!" Shouted a young man across the room for the bartender to the cheering of his friends at the table they claimed for themselves. They each wore the sophisticated combat armor and bullet hole ridden duster combination distinctive of the desert rangers comfortably in the hot seedy bar, as if was an extension of themselves at a cursory glance. The man on duty behind the counter noticably grimaced at the order yet nonetheless complied with the request, taking a bottle off the top shelf to bring over to the group. It was common knowledge snake squeezins was actually fermented cactus juice laced with snake venom fathered by Johnathan Faust, founder of the Vipers raider gang of the Core Region, to originally use in his tribalistic cult's rituals. It was the hardest and most expensive moonshine on the market nowadays, guaranteed to make anyone black out for hours; the sickening sweet nectar that numbs the tongue was highly addictive too, if you couldn't hold your liquor well. Hardly anyone on the Strip would so much as touch the stuff, but desert rangers made a tradition of drinking the vile concoction after particularly intense gunfights.

He could simply get up and leave now while the going was good, Maurice knew. It was often said wherever four desert rangers go, someone ends up dying. Good intentions or not, trouble usually came in their wake and they were often fond of exacting their frontier justice on their authority alone without so much as a warning. Rumor was that Mr. House hasn't annihilated them yet only because it was bad business to wipe out the peacekeepers.

Xanthos .

 

[Xanthos]

Maurice was wearing a brown leather vest on top of his dirty white long sleeve dress shirt, tucked into his blue jeans. Two .357 long barrel Magnum revolvers named Python and Cobra holstered onto his belt with his combat knife of the left side, and a satchel on the right. He enjoyed drinking their bitter bargain brew out of dirty glasses, and small talk with a barfly. He was enjoying her company until she said "I have to go home, my son isn't feeling well it was nice drinking with you, I hope to see you again" he thought something was up, but kept it to himself. "Get home safely, Johanna." She her hurry out along with half of the bar should have been a sign to leave, especially when four brown coats made their grand entrance into the bar. Maurice couldn't help but to smile to the cheering of the 'peacekeepers' of the American Southwest. He drank in silence to their honor. He counted his caps out, and said to himself heck it. "Bartender, give me what they're having!" he pulled out at least 40 caps from the satchel on the right side of his hip. He's seen his share of gunfire while out on the road. The current set of clothes he was wearing didn't have any declarations of the Mojave Wasteland. He looked like a mix of a cowboy, and a resident of Mr. House's New Vegas Strip. In secret Maurice idealized the Desert Rangers, and was sticking around to see trouble go down. He would stick to himself and watch the Desert Rangers from the mirror on the other side of the counter.