Getting Situated

"I think we can all agree that we ain't goin' nowhere in our skivies," comments Crow, recieving nods in understanding.

"So, how about you give us our gear, doc, and we get this show on the road, eh?" adds Midnight.

"Now, hold on a moment," replies Doc Mitchell. "You four were half-dead when you showed up on my doorstep. I can't rightly let you go wandering off into the Mojave without--"

"I'll look after them," interupts Reaver. "I'm a doctor, I can take care of them if anything happens." Doc Mitchell looks at the four and then sighs in defeat. He agrees with a nod, and motions towards the foot-locker across the room.

"Your gear is in there. Unfortunately, you didn't show up with your weapons."

"Perfect," complains Midnight. "Do you know how hard I searched to find that Gatling Laser?"

"Screw your gatling laser, what about my **** carbine, tiny?" asks Crow. "I built that thing from from the ground up, you know!"

"You know what, pretty boy? I'm about two seconds from--" Vex steps between them, a hand pressed against either of their chests to hold them apart.

"Fighting will get us nowhere," Vex tells them. "We all have the same goal, want the same answers. If we expect to get them, then we should start acting like a damn team."

"Fuck," grunts Midnight. "Whatever." Reaver has already approached the foot-locker, searching through it and retrieving a set of combat armor. The others do much the same. It's amazing that it holds their gear but when they're finished they take stock of one another.

Midnight, standing proudly in scarred power armor. One particular dent presses in over his left peck, black scorching surrounding it. It's nothing short of amazing that it still functions with so much damage.

Reaver and Crow stand in combat armor. The only difference is Reaver's armor is reinforced, rather then standard, and black combat armor. Vex wears armor all of them are familiar. The black duster of the ranger armor, sports several holes in it.

"Ex-military?" ventures Midnight. "Shoulda figured. You act just like a damn ranger."

"Do I?" asks Vex. "I hadn't noticed. Regardless, I'm just a merc now. The same as you two."

"Whatever," replies Crow, tightening his half-knuckle gloves. "As long as you can shoot I don't really give a damn."

"Same here," adds Reaver. "Let's go."

"If you're looking for work, I'd recommend you speak with Sunny in the Prospector Saloon."

"Thanks, old man," comments Midnight, his voice garbled through his helmet. "We'll definitely check it out."

"And here." Doc Mitchell hands each of them a 9mm pistol. Like the professionals they are, they each examine the weapon for a moment before checking for a chambered round. "They won't match any Legion or NCR troop weapons, but they'll keep you alive."

"Thanks again," comments Reaver, holstering the pistol. "I...I don't have anything to give you in return. All my caps were taken."

"Son, if I wanted money then I wouldn't have taken you four in, now would I?" Crow produces a few Legion coins and hands them to the doctor.

"I can't stand the damn Legion, but their money spends good enough," Crow tells him. "For helping us out, doc." The four leave Doc Mitchell's home, stepping out into a small town.

"Where are we?" asks Midnight.

"Goodsprings," retorts Vex. "We should start heading towards Vegas. It'll be dark in a few hours."

"What about the saloon?", asks Crow. "We said we'd check it out."

"No, Midnight said he would check it out. We don't have time to get side-tracked with some drunks in a bar."

"We should at least see what's going on..."