Caped Crusaders. . .Or y'know, not. (Canterbury Commons)

"FUCK! What the HELL are you doin' woman!?"

"I'm removing the bullet your dumb ass pranced in front of! Now sit still and quit your bitchin'!" The red head snapped, slapping her hand down on the man's knee as it twitched away from the tweezers in her hand. The slug was a .32 and hadn't gone very deep, but with the way the stranger was whining you would've though it'd hit his femoral artery or something. It was about as harmless as a bullet wound got in the wastes and under normal circumstances, with someone who wasn't such a WUSS, she would've had the metal removed and wound stitched already. Unfortunately this man insisted on stopping her every time the tweezers got anywhere near injury, for every random reason he pulled out of his ass.

'Are those tweezers sterilized?'
'We're in the Wasteland you moron, of course not.'

'Don't you have any med-x?'
'Yes, but I use that on people I like who have real injuries!'

'Is this going to hurt?'
'No. Not at all. Removing a chunk of metal from your skin always feels like sunshine and rainbows."

'I only have five caps.'
'Get the hell out. I hate you.'

It turned out that the man DID in fact have more than five caps, he had just been hoping for a handout. For a brief moment, dark eyes directed skyward, Fiona contemplated homicide but only minutes later her conscience (a teeny tiny bit of fluff somewhere in the pit on her stomach) kicked in, and she finished the procedure with little to no excess bloodshed. She was, admittedly, quite proud of herself.

It was only when she had the caps in hand and was locking up her make-shift operation room that she allowed the scowl to slip away and moved at a relaxed stride down the main (and only) road in Canterbury Commons. She skirted around the giant ants and paused to avoid laser rifle beams from the robobrain on the other side of the street. The Tin Man and Ant Lady were having another one of their daily tiff's smack dab in the middle of the Commons. Maybe a couple months ago a woman in an ant suit and a man in a metal tuxedo would have bothered her...at the moment, they were just making her late for dinner.

Dom had herded Roe and the others back into the diner and Fiona slid onto the bar stool next to him, nodding a thanks to Joe as he passed her a four ounce glass of tequila. From beside her Dom snorted, "Gonna need something bigger than that Red, this looks like a long one."

Grimacing, she agreed. She had heard the battle start about half an hour ago, and they were still going strong. With a look of resignation she knocked back the shot

Outside the AntAgonizer shrieked, "Attack his tin toys my pretties!"

Fiona reached for the bottle.


-

((tada. basic intro, though i'm still mildly dissatisfied. >_o will now find somewhere that makes sense for her to show up for interaction. :] also, she definitely calls them her pretties in canon. ))

For the first time since the fall of Project Purity, Enclave Eyebots were seen today, again; at least, floating by themselves, instead of being somebody's helmet. This particular Eyebot would float into Canterberry Commons, taking a peek at the civilians, and taking great care to avoid the two nutjobs in superhero costumes. Thankfully, they were too busy sending their minions after each other to notice the small, discreet floating robot. Just as the robot, with its improved AI, got past the two fighting armies of insects and robots, began broadcasting the recorded speech near a glassless window of the diner. The voice of the propaganda message was not that of John Henry Eden, or even that of Colonel Autumn; rather, it was a much younger-sounding man, spoken in as ever an optimistic tone as John Henry Eden did.

Secretary Isaac Horrigan wrote:

"Good evening, America. My name is Secretary Isaac R. Horrigan, of the Enclave. I regret to inform you that President John Henry Eden was assassinated on -insert date here-. However, all is not lost - your government is still here for you, and we will never, ever abandon this great nation.

Despite the fact that Project Purity has been wrested from the hands of the Enclave, it appears that the terrorist organization, the Brotherhood of Steel, is doing a fine job of distributing their 'Aqua Pura' to the people. I see no reason to take action, if the Brotherhood is not keeping the pure water to themselves. Despite the Enclave lives that the Brotherood has taken, I commend them for helping those in need.

I know that a certain 'radio DJ' has said many bad things about the Enclave. Those slanderous lies are simply not true. We are here for you, America, and for no one else. That is why I have taken the time to speak to you, tonight. The Enclave will soon begin a sweeping campaign to suppress the Super Mutant population. We have heard of the Super Mutants taking innocent Americans, and then infecting them with their hideously mutating disease. We have heard your cries for help, dear America. That is why we are currently working tirelessly to create a vaccine that will be freely available to any and all Americans, that will inoculate everyone against the Super Mutant menace and their Forced Evolution Virus. These hulking abominations will be eradicated, mark my words.

The Enclave is here, America. We will continue to work around the clock to see our great nation restored to its former glory. Until next time, this is Isaac Roosevelt Horrigan. Good night, and good luck."

After the speech, "Hail to the Chief" would play. Yay for patriotic music.

Spinning 'round on her stool, Fiona watched the eyebot bob past the blown out window of the diner with narrowed eyes and pursed lips. She was still sober enough to recognize that the voice floating from the speakers was not, in fact, President Eden's (to the announcement that he had been assassinated she could muster up a mutter of 'good riddance') but that of another annoyingly optimistic politician who claimed to have the Wastelanders best interests at heart. She was sober enough to recognize that he HAD commended the Brotherhood of Steel and sober enough to know that despite this, the Enclave was still the Enclave and whatever their agenda was it WASN'T for the good of people -- it never was.

And so, she was most definitely sober enough to pull her shotgun from her back, level it at the flying piece of scrap metal and watch happily as it exploded into a fireworks display their ancestors would have been proud of.

They made ugly-ass helmets anyway.

-

An hour later found her meandering back to the former barber shop she called her home (at least she figured it had been a barber shop, that's what Dom had told her those spinning posts out front used to mean) and office. When the former Merc and his tagalong had moved into the autoshop during her absence, she had convinced Joe Porter, Dominic and Roe to help her clean out the corner building, claiming that with the two law enforcers taking up her former space she needed somewhere to work out of.

Since the shop was two floors, both in at least livable condition, the first floor became Canterbury Commons' first official clinic and the second became Fiona's living quarters.

Half of the second floor had caved in, but there were two rooms still in tact, one that held her thin mattress on a metal frame and the other that became a work room for all her more mechanical projects, complete with a work bench Dom said they'd never use anyway. The ground floor had two metal tables, reclaimed from the auto shop, a desk, another two flimsy bunks for the few times she'd had more long term patients, plus a locked metal cabinet housing all manner of drugs and painkillers and a metal tray on wheels where dangerous looking operational implements rested.

Of course, both floors had their share of pre-war junk that Fiona hadn't bothered to remove (or ask anyone to remove), like shelves, cabinets and broken typewriters or the half-functioning Nuka-Cola machine in a corner of the clinic. There was a lot of rubble and dirt and all the other nastiness that came with any pre-war building, but Fiona was just happy to have her own space.

Dropping the small leather satchel that held her medical tools onto one of the low filing cabinets the red head tromped up the stairs, kicking her boots off into a corner and sliding onto the mattress. She had made the mistake of collapsing onto it in exhaustion a few weeks back and stabbed herself on a broken metal spring protruding from the thin fabric, needless to say she was a tad more careful now.

Upon encountering no similarly harmful objects this time around Fiona stretched out and fell into a half-restful sleep.

((that...is a whole bunch of nothing. i apologize. >>; but it shows where she lives and such. . .so. . .yea.))

The sun had just reached its apex, pouring its light and minor radiation down over the Wasteland. That was when he strode down the main street of Canterbury Commons. He stood six and a half feet tall, was broad of shoulder, and barrel of chest. He wore a long, black leather duster over black leather armour accented with crimson trim. He had a Chinese officer’s sword sheathed on both hips, and the bulge of a gun showed beneath his coat, under each arm. He was also a Ghoul, the skin on his face and his hands, or lack thereof, making that abundantly clear.

It had been a few years since he had been there. Machete stepped out to confront him, but Dom stopped her with a firm hand on her shoulder and a whispered word. She hadn’t been there when last the visitor was. Uncle Roe guided Derek inside their home and stepped out to confront the arrival a few steps away from a dead ant.

“What are you doing here?” Uncle Roe asked, sounding a little more confidant than he felt.

“Looking for you, as a matter of fact, Roe.” What was left of his nose twitched a little on what was left of his face. “I’m here regarding business. And what have I ever done to receive such a poor reception? You shuffle the boy inside and know one even introduces me to the new arrivals. I always liked coming here, Roe.”

Roe and Dom traded an unsure glance. “Well, you’re alone now.” Roe replied. “Makes it easier to trust a, uh, a man if we know he has a friend to vouch for him.”

The ghoul threw back his head and laughed. It was a surprisingly jovial laugh that rang out through the streets. “I didn’t think you’d have that prejudice in you, Roe. You don’t want a ghoul here without a smoothskin holding their leash, eh? Well my ‘handler-’” his ruined fingers flashed up to make air quotes-“is dead somewhere in D.C. And as for someone to vouch for me, can’t you do that? I’ve worked for you before, Roe. Or how about Lucky Harith, master of the martial arts? Remember who trained him? And Crow was always a friend to me, even if it was sometimes awkward.”

Roe reached up and rubbed the back of his neck. “Look, I’m sorry Kincaide. I’ve-we’ve just seen some of the things you can do. And you can’t exactly trust everyone these days. What did you need?”

Kincaide grinned, his ruined flesh pulling back to reveal a full and pearly white set of teeth. His eyes lit up like a child’s on a pre-war Christmas morning. “Textiles!” He exclaimed, beaming at everyone around him. “I have a brahmin loaded up with textiles with me, and the stock and caps needed to really succeed.”

The silence that followed was long and awkward for everyone but the beaming Kincaide. “Textiles? Like cloth?” Roe asked, more than a little confused.

Kincaide clapped Roe heartily on the shoulder, causing the man’s knees to almost buckle. “Exactly! Textiles! I know you don’t have a lot of control over the merchants, but Canterbury Commons is the place for mercantile activity! We can talk to the others, work me into the rotation. With your help, soon I can be spreading the finest textiles across the Capital Wasteland!”

Uncle Roe looked to the others, then back at Kincaide’s grinning face. “I can see you’re excited about this, but I can’t really see textiles being that much of a market.”

“Nonsense! Wolfgang sells junk. People buy his junk. Ergo, people will also buy my textiles.” Kincaide’s rebuttal was delivered swiftly. “So, Uncle Roe, c’mon, you’re the top dog when it comes to this.”

Uncle Roe shrugged in defeat. “Fine. I’ll see what I can do, and I’ll set aside some space here for some of your, uh, inventory. I can’t make any promises though, and folk may not want to buy from a ghoul.”

Kincaide almost leapt for joy, he barely managed to restrain that urge, though a barely detectable glee shudder ran over his body instead. “Thank you, Uncle Roe! I’m sure I’ll be able to talk my way to a sale. Oh one more thing.” Kincaide pulled open the left side of his coat, revealing the 10mm pistol he carried in a shoulder rig. And the large bloody wound between his ribs and his hipbone. “I got shot. Do you have a doctor? Or a massively irradiated bed I can lie down on until this naggy gunshot type feeling goes away?”

((OOC: Uhm, don't mind me, I'm new here and thought I'd jump in. ))

By the time Adam had wandered into town, the everlasting battle between bug and machine had ended. It took him a few seconds of staring before he took a few tentative steps towards the quiet battleground, sniper rifle strapped tightly to his back. He was careful where he stepped, giving the ant corpses a wide berth, though he had no trouble sticking his hands into the backs of the dead protectrons and rummaging around until he pulled out their valuable insides, pieces of scrap metal and sensors of all shapes and sizes. He had a good eye for these things. He knew what he could put in a gun, what would look good on a suit, something else for a little extra protection. Each robot wasn't just a tin can but a dead husk filled with treasures.

He tried to be as unobtrusive as one possibly could with their arms elbow deep in robot, though his brows furrowed as conversation drifted past him. Prejudice. Martial-arts. Textiles. He stole a glance up and over at the two men talking. Oh. A ghoul. Tall, especially for a ghoul. He remembered to pull his eyes away when he realized he was staring, and that probably looked like he was eavesdropping. Which he was. Sort of. His eyes flickered down to the protectron, then back up, his interest being pulled away flimsily from the robot and back towards the ghoul and the portly man.

Adam knew that ghouls did not always smell the prettiest- at their best, they usually had that peculiar, sweet odor of a man on his deathbed, which could be easily covered up with enough cologne or perfume. At their worst, they smelled rotting and decayed. However, he had noticed something odd, and his suspicions were confirmed when the ghoul pulled his jacket back to show off his wound. He thought he smelt blood. He ought to find some radiation- maybe he should pipe up about the large puddle of water he saw not too far from here, or-

Hands were jerking him upward by the shoulders, and Adam yelped, twisting around and practically jumping out of his skin. Machete was glaring at him, dusting her hands off as if she had just touched something vile. He stared at her, licking his lips nervously, trying to keep his hands from shaking. "Hey- what the hell are you doing- you think you can waltz in, start going through robots, creep on Uncle Roe's business?"

"I... I-" He glanced back towards the two, then away, then towards his feet all in a matter of seconds. "I wasn't- I mean-"

Kincaide looked back over his shoulder at the yelp, to see the new girl dusting off her hands while the new guy stuttered. I don't know anyone here. He thought. Hopefully they're interested in buying my textiles. "Hey," he barked. "New girl! He's just pulling things out of other things. And possibly eavesdropping, but it's not like we're talking about something I don't mind people knowing."

He turned, too quickly, and grimaced with pain. He held a hand over his wound. Here goes. "Hey kid, wanna buy some textiles? We can talk about the various weaves, patterns and materials I have available. And then we can make a deal! For textiles! If you want to."

Machete looked over to Dom. "You're scared of him?"

Dom nodded. "You just haven't seen anything other than textiles, girl."

Adam blinked. "I wasn't-" It didn't really matter anymore. He shakily dusted himself off, placing the bundle of wires he had pulled out neatly into his knapsack. He pulled it tightly closed, and instead of slinging it over his back kept it clutched tight to his chest. Machete scared him and while Dom seemed harmless, Adam was always overly wary. Better safe than sorry.

"Textiles?" He nodded slowly, eyes going from the ghoul's face to his wound, then back again. "...Yeah. I could use some. I mean. As long as they're not too expensive." His hoodie he wore during the colder nights was getting a little threadbare. He could at least afford to patch that, and maybe buy some interesting bits of cloth that struck his fancy. He had been contemplating creating a few extra pieces of armor to sell to wastelanders he met while wandering around; clothes weren't too far from armor. The only difference was that armor was meant to help stop a bullet and with clothes he could simply cobble something together. He approached Kincaide carefully. "But, ah- don't you want to get patched up first?" He gestured vaguely towards his wound. "You look like you're in pain."

Pushing her goggles up past her forehead, Fiona paused in her tinkering at the noise that floated up from the street through the hole in the wall she called a window. With an annoyed grunt, she dropped the screwdriver and wire cutters back in the tool box with a jarring clank! and pulled off the thick gloves she used for her mechanical work, figuring she might as well get down there now - if there was a problem someone was going to get shot or stabbed or what have you and wind up bloodying up her floors anyway, she might as well be proactive.

Tromping down the stairs and out into the almost unbearable midday sun, a quick sweep of the center of the town focused on the odd group gathered there. As she approached, she heard Roe's attempt at pacifying words (directed mostly at Machete) stutter to a stop as his eyes fell on her.

"A-ah! Fiona here is our doctor. She can patch you up and then we'll discuss this...textile business." There was a certain amount of doubt in Roe's tone, and Fiona quirked an eyebrow at the word 'textiles', but didn't dwell on it. Hey, to each his own...or whatever. "Fiona, this is Kincaide...he's...been shot."

She blinked at the abrupt declaration, eyes swinging around to fix on the ghoul's hands which pressed against his side.

"Damn. You're built like a tank, doll. Let's see the damage." Lips tilted in a faintly amused smile, Fiona motioned for him to release the injured area and moved closer, oblivious to any tensing on the part of Uncle Roe or Dom. They'd have to go back to the clinic regardless of how serious the wound was, but there was no harm in taking a look at now it the bright daylight.

"D'you know if the slug is still in there? If it is, we need to get it out and then I can get you some irradiated bandages (an idea courtesy of Doc Barrows), some water and you'll be good to go. If it's not we can skip the whole extraction process and move on to the bandages and happy ending." The smile flickered back from a brief moment before she redirected her gaze at the entry point. " 'Course, even with the bandages you'll be sore for a while -- I've got an open bed if the clinic if you need it. Decidedly not irradiated, but it should do just fine regardless." The last part was spoken in an off-hand fashion, her eyes taking in the spread of the wound and limited blood flow, it was the same offer she'd give to any other injured party that passed through, provided they didn't piss her off.

As long as they weren't trying to gnaw off her face, Fiona had no problem with ghouls. Sure, when she had made her first trip to Underworld they'd scared the shit out of her, but she WAS a doctor, and they were merely people who had been exposed to too much radiation. She honestly didn't see what all the fuss was for. Besides, they were relatively easy to heal. Give 'em some radiation and they practically fixed themselves...it wasn't like you could give them stitches. That didn't end all too well.

She took a step back, so that she didn't have to crane her neck to meet his eyes, and jerked a thumb toward the clinic. "Come on over this way and we'll get that taken care of."

Kincaide grinned broadly at his prospective client. "Oh, you are in for some exciting textile related business dealing, good sir." Then he turned his attention back to the bright haired doctor, moving his hands to let her get a good look. He returned her smile with the his own broad grin. "No, the slug is still in there, 10 mm round, I'm pretty sure, confusion of the firefight and all." He grimaced a little. "And the non-irradiated bed well do just fine. Don't worry about my being sore, doctor, I've had plenty of time to get used to it. " He replaced his hand after she stepped back, then turned to look at his potential customer. "I suppose our dealings will have to wait until after the procedure. My apologies, sir, I'll give you a discount." Then he turned back to his fiery haired health care provider. "Lead on, doctor. And, say, you wouldn't happen to need any textiles?"

Textiles. The word was being thrown around so much that it was becoming numb to his ears. He rubbed the back of his head, glancing at the ground. "I- I'll be pleased to look at your textiles." His tongue, too, treated the word as if it was heavy.

"I can wait. That's fine." The ghoul didn't have to give him a discount. He felt sort of bad now. He bit his lip, quickly adding before he forgot: "I hope you feel better." The lady had loud hair and liked to look at wounds in open, unsterilized spaces but she was probably a good doctor, especially if the other two thought she was. Ghouls were hardy and if he did somehow get worse.. well. He just wouldn't be buying any textiles anytime soon.