WtDS - Beantown

Cold. It was always cold, up north. It had been a few weeks since the last time anyone had seen the sky, over Beantown. Thick, gray clouds hung heavy in the sky, casting a dark shadow across the frigid wasteland that was the New England wasteland. The ground was thick with snow and ice, as it always was, the snowbanks in places as tall as a man, some even taller. It was hard to believe that anyone would be able to live, let alone thrive, in a hell as frozen as this one. But humanity finds a way, even in the Apocalypse.

Beantown. The city that was once known as Boston not even a lifetime ago. Before the Great Emission, it was a thriving center of commerce and knowledge, the seat of some of the most esteemed colledges in the States - no, the world. A city with a rich culture and heritage. Even today, it's important to a lot of people. One of the major strongholds of the Enclave in the Wasteland, Beantown is one of the few gated cities the Enclave has. Cities where not every wastelander is allowed inside. The city was exclusive, allowing only Enclave citizens, valued traders, and a few others within its borders. All of the bridges to the city were exclusively for military usage now, the only routes permitted into the city being past The Wall, which seperates the city from the rest of the mainland, and by the port. Both heavily regulated. Often at gunpoint.

Outside of The Wall, you had Freebay. Just as active as Beantown itself, though more run-down. It was still Enclave territory, but all were allowed inside. Even with the Brotherhood of Steel patrols, it was still a wretched hive of scum and villainy. Originally part of Boston itself, back before the Great Emission, now the only territory recognized as part of Beantown proper was the Shawmut Peninsula.

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In a burned-out wreckage of a car, trapped in a snowbank just a few minutes walk from The Wall, a woman was taking shelter, for the time being. Pale, like many others of this
region, and with beautiful blonde hair. She was parked out on the driver seat, the car door having been detached from the vehicle at some point. The woman was leaning back in the car seat, which was barely still attached to the rest of the car, her feet propped up on the steering wheel. In her hand was a tin can that had been stuffed with jerkey made of God knows what animal. It was tough, dry, and tasted rotten somehow, but at least it held up well.

She was on the main thoroughfare through Freebay towards The Wall, Columbus Avenue, having stopped on her journey to Beantown to deal with dinner. Rather fittingly, the wrecked car was parked next to a diner and bar that had collapsed in on itself, a sign of the ruined building displaying the word 'Coda' in black print. Someone had come in later and spraypainted 'cobana' next to it in messy, white lettering. A couple of Wastelanders were standing in front of it, huddled around a metal barrel stuffed with paper, rotten wood and anything else that would burn, and were failing miserably at starting a fire in it. The wind was blowing hard and frigid, so most sane people were staying inside, around this part of the city.

Hope fished out the last of the dried jerky from the tin, forcing herself to chew the nearly rancid meat as she stuffed the now-emptied can back into her satchel. As common as that kind of thing was, she didn't like throwing anything away. Shuddering, she stepped out of the car, abandoning her piss-poor shelter to once more go out into the cold. It didn't bother her, she was used to it. Adjusting the strap keeping her rifle in place, she sighed and started trudging her way back down the path to Beantown.


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Elsewhere, someone else was heading the same direction, but on a different path. An older man, clad in a trenchcoat, walked along an old, abandoned bike trail along the river, not too far from The Wall itself. He hugged the coat tight around himself, the frozen-over trees lining the path doing nothing to shield against the wind. The river was almost completely frozen over, but from what Harkwell had heard, it was usually like that. The Enclave keeps a close eye on it for anyone trying to get into Beantown by walking on the ice. Most of the people who attempt that end up on the other side of the ice when the Brotherhood of Steel patrols are through with them. Harkwell wasn't the only person on the bike trail, though.

From behind him, the sound of crunching snow rose up just barely over the roar of the wind as a man,previously hidden behind a tree, stepped out onto the path behind Cotton. The ranger froze in place, casting a glance over his shoulder, to be greeted by the sight of something he didn't want to see. A man in a fur-lined coat, pointing a gun in his direction.

"Isn't too safe for old folks to be walking the roads in this kind of weather. Don't you know, old man? The 'clave don't send their boys out this far when the wind gets this bad. Hands where I can see 'em."

With a weary sigh, Cotton raised his hands, palms faced outwards, as he started to slowly turn to face the mugger. "We don't need to go through this, kid. Reckon we could just walk away and forget this whole thing?"

Chuckling, the mugger shook his head. "Don't think so. How about you put down everything you got on the ground, and I might not blow your head off."

This wasn't the first time Harkwell had been in a situation like this. And he was getting tired of upstart punks in general. Moving slowly, he reached into his coat with his right hand, moving towards the pocket at first. He could see how tense the robber was, and knew that he was ready to shoot at any time. Unfortunately for the mugger, he had picked the wrong person this time. Cotton's left hand shifted down into his coat, which had been opened by his right hand, and quickly grasped the handle of his revolver, pulling it up and out in a motion that he had repeated so many times throughout his life. At the same time, his feet spread apart, putting him in a better stance as the side of his right hand met the hammer of his gun, pushing it back. All of this took place in less than a second, and was punctuated with the sound of a gunshot.

The bullet tore through the robber's body, piercing a lung as it left a bloody hole straight through. The mugger's own gun discharged twice, but both shots went wild thanks to the force of Cotton's bullet. A second shot from the aged Ranger's gun was enough to end the scuffle. Cotton eased his revolver back into its holster, turning around and leaving the other man behind, bleeding out in the snow and ice.

In the area known as Freebay, winding down roads and doing a fairly fine job of not hitting any innocent bystanders, Mireya was racing towards the market before things shut down for the evening on her old dirt bike. Goggles down and cowl attached to her securely wound scarf up, the dark skinned woman maneuvered around obstacles (many of them cursing in the wake of her rumbling engine) with practiced, if seemingly reckless, ease, as she kept a look out for a certain stall.

It'd been a couple of weeks since she'd been in the Market in the Free Zone, or at least as a customer rather than a business woman. Today she'd been caught up in her shop, trying to piece back together an ATV some guy had hauled into her place. The interior was surprisingly intact, but the outside was dented to hell and there was hardly anything under the hood worth saving. Her suggestion was sell it to someone for 'housing', but she was getting paid to see if it could be brought back to running order. She'd try, but that meant scavenging for parts. Or going to someone who might already have them.

"Fucking loon," she muttered under her breath, but her lips curved into a smile as her eyes caught on the old, flashing Mr. Handy sign just down the road. She put on the breaks, rapidly skidding to a halt nearly in front of the stall in question. She popped the kickstand into place and hopped off the bike, walking into the stall as she called out, her heavily Southern-Cajun accent a little dull in her ears after the ride. "Hey, Steve! I've got me a list of parts as long as your arm for someone's else's pet project, cher, an' I could use a look at your stock t'see if you've got anything I'm needin'."

There was a sound of clattering metal and junk being kicked aside from somewhere within the little shop. Though it wasn't terribly large, Steve's market stall was cluttered beyond description with all sorts of detritus and random flotsam which he'd collected for sale. A treasure trove of trash, so to speak. A familiar "hey-ooo!" sounded from somewhere to the left as the lanky Merchant popped out of a makeshift doorway, from the back "room" he used for sleeping. He was actually holding a beaten up lunchbox in one hand, one of the old Vault-tec collectible ones from way back. In the other hand, he held what appeared to be the still-glowing fusion coil from an old Rob-Co space heater.

"Hey, Miri. Haven't seen you in a while! I was just trying to cobble up one of those little heaters people seem to like so much for Ms. Jenks and her kids down the road. Theirs blew a fuse the other day. What sort of parts are you looking for, though? The heater can wait."

With a rather absent-minded motion he tossed the fusion coil and the lunch box into a big milk crate stacked next to what he considered his "front counter", planting his hands on his hips and cocking his head. It was easy enough to tell when Steve was grinning, even with that ever-present mask. You could hear it in his voice and see it in his body language.

Steve's stall had more than just a visit from Mireya to look forward to. Amidst the snowfall and wind, a small group was making its way forward. Three of them, and by their appearance unmistakably with the Brotherhood of Steel. Two bore the metallic visage of powered armor. Between the gray coloration, the bulkiness, the jutting shoulderpads, and the helmets cluttered with lights, a breathing apparatus, and an adjustable scope, the model was impossible to mistake - the T-45d, the most common of its kind. And a sight well known to the people who lived in the Boston area, and everywhere else owned by the Enclave.

They flanked a third man on both of his sides, clearly guarding him, for reasons that were also rather obvious. The man between them wore a long overcoat, gray, which he held tightly around himself to ward off the cold. On his head was a black cap, bearing the symbol of the Enclave, immediately marking him as being some form of Enclave official. His face was the most striking thing about him, though. Nearly the entire right half of his face was horribly scarred, identifiable as burn scars to anyone familiar with how they look. His right eye was dark brown, contrasting with the green color of his left, suggesting that it isn't his original equipment, so to speak. The man was a common sight around Freebay, known as Captain Swaine. Not just an Enclave official, but also a Star Paladin of the Brotherhood of Steel.

Well known to the merchants here, Swaine was one of the men the Enclave sent out every so often to 'check out' the local stores and stalls, to see if anything significant to the Enclave was in stock. Swaine and those like him have a simple job, to find objects, most often rare, that the Enclave had a vested interest in. Most of the time, the Enclave is willing to meet a merchant's price for the object, but if it is too unreasonable, or if it wasn't for sale... it wasn't rare for the Enclave to confiscate the object. This was part of the Enclave's laws, something that every merchant that did business in their territory had to deal with. And as can be expected, some of the men the Enclave sends out to do this are moe trigger-happy when it comes to seizing a store's stock than others were.

The Captain and the two armored mooks came to a stop next to Mireya at the front of the stall, Swaine casting an acknowledging, polite nod to the woman, and for a moment finding her familiar somehow, but from where he couldn't quite place. His attention turned to Steve as he leaned against the stall with a sigh, the sound of his voice making it quite clear that he wasn't thrilled about having to be out in this kind of weather. "'Llo, Steve. When you get a minute, you know the drill." The drill, in this case, being a look through Steve's stock. Something that every businessman, especially scavengers, had to weather on an often too-frequent basis.

"Oh, ya know how it goes, cher," Mireya said, her smile growing more broad at Steve's greeting. "Things break down every day in this place, an' if I'm not the one fixing 'em, someone else will, and then I won't have as much food on my plate or roof over my head."

She chuckles softly, and she imagined her grin was as wide as Steve's was. She enjoyed her encounters with Steve - he was a fair business man, amiable, and he disliked the ass bitingly frigid climate of this northerly locale about as much as she did. If her job didn't keep her hopping, both within Beantown it's surrounding area, she imagined she would drop in on him a good deal more.

She opened her mouth to tell him about the needs of her current job and started digging through her coat pocket for her list, but the sound of heavy, booted feet made her head turn. She barely swallowed down an 'Oh, shit' and kept her face neutral when she saw the two B.o.S. soldiers flanking someone she definitely didn't want to talk to, let alone be in the vicinity of. She was really only familiar with Captain Swaine by sight - he'd been an associate with both of her parents, given all of them were Paladins of high rank, though she'd kept to herself as much as possible in those instances. More importantly, the scarred man had also been on the committee for her court martial.

Neither of those circumstances were good, but maybe if she didn't really acknowledge him beyond what was respectful, he'd provide the same courtesy. Or better yet, if unlikely, wouldn't recognize her at all. She offered the man a polite, short nod in return before turning her attention back to Steve. withdrew the folded bit of brown paper, the kind used for old grocery bags, covered in careful words in charcoal and handed it out towards Steve. "Well, cher, that ol' scavenger Garrison wants me to restore an ATV to workin' order. The inside ain't bad, ain't bad at all, but I've pretty much got to build it a new engine. Wrote down e'rything I'll be needin', an' if ya've got any of it an' can save me the trouble huntin' it down, I've got the caps to pay."

Steve blinked behind his mask, his smile dropping when he saw just who was coming into his shop. He hated having the B.o.S and Enclave thugs come through; they usually took stuff he either needed or had JUST traded for. Oft times this meant he was S.O.L. when it came to getting some of his more complex projects, like revamping an old Stealth Suit, up and running.

"Er...Yessir. Don't have much, I'm afraid. Got a few old fusion coils I'm using to cook up space heaters, and I got a crate of those old Magnetic Grenades in. Found an old truck half buried in the side of a building; looked Military, but I couldn't get any of the bigger crates open or out of it. I can give you the coordinates to it, if that'll work."

Steve took the offered list from Mireya and turned it over in his hand, laying it aside on his makeshift counter and offering her a polite nod as he moved back into his shop, deep enough that he disappeared from view. Soon, though, he returned with a large green crate, sort of akin to an Ammo Crate used by the military. Inside were about two dozen soda can-sized canisters, gray-green with large black plates on one end and a simple priming ring on the other. Type-46 Electromagnetic Grenades; an old U.S. armory model used for homeland defense. You just pull the pin and stick the grenade to a metal surface, say a tank, and watch the shape charge blow a nice, molten hole right through the sucker. "I've got about twenty-six of 'em, and I can see to parting with twenty-four. I want two to barter with one of the other merchants around here with; he promised me some parts for another customer. Is that alright?"

When the badly scarred officer heard Mireya speak, he knew exactly who it was. He only knew three people who sounded anything like that, and it was pretty easy to narrow down from there. He turned his head towards her, frowning. "Be sure to keep your hands where Steve can see them, Smoke. Times are hard enough without thieves making it worse." As harsh as his words were, the sound of his voice was more... tired-seeming. Apathetic. Mot of the time, Swaine sounded like he didn't care about anything, like he was too jaded to have real emotion.

His attention returned to Steve when the masked man returned with the crate, his hand dipping inside to take one of the small canisters out, gingerly handling it as he looked it over in his hand. After a moment, he let out a small 'hmmm' before returning it to the crate with a nod. "Hit me with the price. We don't go up against much armor these days, but can't hurt to have them around."

Taking a moment, he leaned more heavily against the stall, bringing a gloved hand to his mouth as he had a small, rough-sounding coughing fit. Something that anyone who knew Swaine would be familiar with. Most people knew it was from an incidence in his past, but he generally didn't like to talk about it much further than that. He wheezed for air afterwards, taking a few long moments to collect himself before he eased away from the stall. "The coordinates would be acceptable, too... Probably won't send any teams to deal with it until after the weather clears up."

Mireya bristled at Swaine's words, her lips forming a thin line and her eyes behind her goggles as she peered at the man. While she didn't exactly try too hard to hide her past indiscretions from her Scribe days, the last thing she wanted was this bastard bandying about her history in front of a business associate, let alone a friend… Especially a bit of 'her' history she hadn't been fully responsible for. Besides, as far as she could remember, she'd never had any trouble with her kleptomania around Steve… Or at least none she hadn't rectified by bringing the item back as soon as she realized she'd palmed it.

It was all she could do to bite her tongue and not say something to set the man or his bodyguards off, and she just worked on calming herself down as the man observed Steve's cache of grenades. She forced her hands flat against her thighs - she hadn't even noticed that they'd curled into fists - and sucked in a deep breath to try and force the tension from her body. At his coughing fit, she shook her head, reaching up to pull her hood a bit further down as she peered towards Steve, speaking briskly. "I'll be back tomorrow. You're busy with Captain Swaine, and you'll probably need time to check your stock for the items on my list… You have a nice night, hon."

She turned about, giving the Captain and the soldiers as wide a berth as the small stall allowed. She paused, peering towards Swaine with a hard glance. "Maybe it'd do your health better t'mind your own business, sir, than concern yourself with my impulse disorder… Good evenin', gentlemen." She then stepped out into the cold evening, making a beeline for her bike.

Steve was about to say something when Mireya bid him goodnight. He frowned behind his mask, having hoped she'd stick around and talk for a while once Swaine was gone. He enjoyed her company, and really considered her one of his only friends since he'd come North. They knew a couple of secrets about each other, ones that they kept to themselves more than anything else, and it was nice to have a confidant.

What Steve didn't expect was Mireya to take a verbal jab at Swaine, the masked merchant wincing slightly as she left the shop. He spoke up a moment later, clearing his throat and glancing toward the grenades. "Well, since they're magnetic, I figure they'd be better as clearing charges, yeah? Breaching old doors, clearing rubble, that sort of thing. Saves fuel for machinery and manpower, right? Average market price for any grenade runs twenty caps a pop, or thirty-five of most other barter currencies. I'll sell you these for fifteen a piece, though. You'll get more use out of them than I will. And the co-ordinates...Well, I don't know what there might be, or if it'll be valuable. Fifty caps and a chance to pick over what you find, when you get the time to clear it? I don't want anything too high-tech. I'm mostly looking for parts and the like, as you know. Particularly old, common gun parts. I make my livelihood off of weapon repair more than anything else. Does that sound fair?"

Steve sounded hopeful. The deal was really a loss for him, but if he was allowed to pick over the items from those crates, maybe he'd find some of the parts he needed for his modified Stealth unit, or even some good gun parts. He knew a merchant down the road who needed a few rifles repaired, and he figured he could get a premium on those. Hopefully he and Swaine could cut a deal quickly; maybe he could still catch Mireya...

Swaine scowled a bit as the woman spoke her mind and began to head away. He turned towards her after she had made it a short way, calling out to her over the sound of the wind. "Smoke! For what it's worth, I wanted your folks to be on the jury. It just wasn't up to me to pick the officers." His voice grew steadily more coarse as he spoke, raising his voice to be heard over the blizzard definitely not doing his throat any favors as he raised his hand for another, longer fit of coughing. Shaking his head as the fit subided, he turned back to the stall, planting his hands against it to steady himself.

Looking up at the masked merchant, he grimaced a bit and shook his head. "I'll take the 'nades for 20 caps each, with the coordinates for 50. I can't promise anything when it comes to getting a chance at the truck yourself after we get a few boys out there to salvage, but I'll see what I can do." He reached into a pocket of his coat, pulling out a folded-up sheet of stained paper, what amounted to an IOU for the Enclave, more or less detailing how much money is to be paid, why it is being paid, and whatnot. Pretty standard for these kinds of deals, generally. Swaine pulled out a cracked, black-stained pen and filled out the small sheet in moments, the ink faint but at least somewhat legible.

With most of the fields filled out, Swaine looked up at him past the brim of his hat, his mismatched eyes peering at Steve. "Got a deal, Steve?"

Swaine's hoarse shout made Mireya pause for a few moments, though she didn't turn back. A grimace formed on her face - she didn't know if having her parents on the jury would have made her trial any fairer, or shifted things for her favor. She hadn't exactly been on good terms with either parent before then, and her short career with the B.o.S. hadn't exactly been stellar due to 'indiscretions' she couldn't really help. Still, maybe Swaine wasn't a complete bastard.

Mireya started moving for her bike again, shuddering as the snow kept coming down harder. It looked like it was going to be a real bitch of a storm, and she debated going back to Steve's and asking if she could stay the night. Riding through this back to her garage in Beantown might be hazardous, and if she did make it back, there was a chance she'd get snowed in with how hard the snow was coming down…

But she left because she didn't want to stir up trouble in Steve's shop if her temper got the better of her - she already regretted that parting remark, rather than just biting her tongue and going. And it wasn't all that long a ride on her bike, not as long as it'd be on foot. With a shuddering sigh, she fished her key out of her coat pocket, climbed up onto her bike and slid it into the ignition. Her eyes widened when she didn't even get a rumble in answer when she turned the key, but then they narrowed into slits behind her goggles, a soft hiss passing between clenched teeth.

"Oh, you fuckin' putain, don't you do this to me now!" She growled under her breath, turning the key a few more times before she got off and crouched down near it as she reached for the saddle bag that had her on-the-go tools. "C'mon, baby, you were workin' just fine 'fore I went into Steve's. You can't keep pulling this shit on me."

Steve made something like a soft, clicking hiss under his breath, a sound very peculiar and quite particular to Steve alone. He nodded briskly, actually quite pleased with the outcome. Five more caps per unit than he'd asked for, and even if he didn't get a shot at any leftovers from the crates, he'd done a community service. "Absolutely, Sir. I've always been reliable, and I wouldn't dream of changing that now. I know you're good for the money; you guys have never failed to pay out before. As always, it's a pleasure to help the powers that be...Ah, by the way, Sir? If you'd like, I could look for some components from a Mr. Healthy, particularly the respiratory wellness suite. I imagine it could do you a lot of good."

Steve trailed off as he glanced past Swaine briefly, noticing with some measure of pleasure (and a bit of guilt) that Mireya's notoriously iffy choice of transit had once again managed to fail SPECTACULARLY at the worst possible time. He hoped if she wanted to save face she'd just go around back of his stall and sneak into his private quarters, but if not, she'd probably just wait for Swaine to leave.

"If there's nothing else that I can help you with for now, Sir, might I suggest you try Jakson's Electronics down the way? I heard he got hold of a shipment of old fusion breeder cells, believe it or not. Might be right up your alley..." True, he'd heard that the skinflint down the way had gotten hold of just those items, but he wasn't giving Swaine the lead out of the kindness of his heart. He was hoping to get the B.o.S. mooks and their boss out of his shop so he could close down before the storm came in; he hated having the front flaps open when the chill wind really came tearing through the streets.

Swaine finished up writing the details on the scrap, pocketing his pen and sliding the paper back over to Steve with a nod. "Thought about it. Most of the good 'bots are out west, by Springfield, though. The boys out there need medical attention more than we do, with how much hell the 'muties have been giving us." Springfield, one of the largest cities in Massachusetts, and the site of one of the three Zones of the New England Wasteland. The B.o.S. have been fighting a very bloody campaign there for the past three years, ever since the Super Mutants have been multiplying at a faster rate. Taming a Zone is near about impossible, though that hasn't stopped hundreds of power-armor clad soldiers from giving it their best damned effort. Not helping things is that Springfield is also the site of the headquarters of Smith & Wesson, so the Mutant army was quite well-equipped indeed.

Stranding back up straight, he reached up and readjusted his cap, his scowl still firmly set in place. "Thanks for the tip, Steve. Anyway, it'll probably be a few days before we have a guy come out here to pick up the 'nades. You can pass the coords along to him when he shows up, since we won't be able to take a crack at it until the weather gives out anyway. And if the treasurer gives you shit like last time, ask to see me. If he won't go along with it, then let me know next time I'm around. I'll personally go put my boot so far up his ass that the snow on it will give his tongue frostbite." The scarred officer turned and started to head back out, one of his guards giving a subdued, slightly-mocking 'hey-o' at Steve as he turned to follow, making the other guard let out a little chuckle.

When he came closer to Mireya and her ATV, he let out a couple of harsh coughs before drawing his coat around himself tighter. "I'll let your folks now you're doing alright, Smoke. Take care out here, looks like the weather is going to be getting even more hellish."

The sound of booted feed sidetracked Mireya from trying to fix her dear piece of shit bike, and she looked around to peer up at Swaine as he exited the shop. She fought to keep a frown off her face, wishing her bike had just started and she was gone, but that couldn't be helped now. Her expression softened a little at his words, though, and for a moment she was sorely tempted to ask how her family was. She put that thought aside, though - it was only getting colder and snowier, and neither of them wanted to linger in this weather.

Instead, she gave him a short, sharp nod, and said "Thanks. Have a trip back into town, sir." Immediately she turned away from the departing Swaine and his escorts and began unlashing the saddle bags on her bike. She didn't have the time to try and get it running again, and while she wasn't too worried about someone stealing it in the middle of the night - the chances of anyone going out to do anything tonight were slim - she wouldn't risk someone taking the tools, extra food, or other things she kept in them on short trips. Once she had it off, she tosses it over her shoulder and dashed back into Steve's stall.

She looks towards Steve, a flustered smile on her face, as she reached up to push her goggles up onto her forehead. "Well, my darling bike crapped out again, and the weather's gettin' nasty. Want a hand with closin' shop or an unexpected overnight guest? I'll cook."

Steve's eyes narrowed as the mook mocked him on the way out, considering how easy it would be to shoot him in the back of the head if he really wanted to. He stepped over to the opening to his stall/shop, pausing there and listening to the exchange between Mireya and Swaine. Once Mireya came back inside he smiled behind his mask and offered a little shrug.

"Honestly? Wouldn't be the first time you've shared my food and my bed. You know space is at a premium, though..." He trailed off, leaving the implication hanging as he usually did when they talked about certain things. He chuckled and moved away, stepping outside. "I'm going to move your ride around the side and put it under the tarp, though. If you don't mind, you could pull down the shutters and put the insulating tarp up on the front entrance. I'll come in the back. Already got a hot plate on and some Cram and Beans ready to go. Oh, and I traded a friend of mine for a few bottles of Cherry Nuka and some whiskey. Figure we could warm ourselves up with a cocktail while we're at it."

With that, the bandit-turned-merchant stepped outside and started pushing the ATV around to the side of the shop, whistling a cheerful little tune even against the harsh winter weather. He was very fond of Mireya, and having her staying over was always a treat. Frankly, the life of a merchant outside Beantown was pretty bland, so you took happiness where you could get it.

Things were surprisingly busy for being such a snowed-over day, as the trenchcoat-clad gunslinger, Cotton, passed by the front of the stall. The weather was bad, and he knew that he wouldn't be able to get into Beantown. Not without the proper papers. Being out in a blizzard without shelter wasn't a good idea, no matter who or where you were, and not being a local, he wasn't exactly one who knew where to find said shelter. He caught sight of Steve out of the corner of his eye, though, and decided to see if he could fix that problem while he still had a chance to.

Stowing his gloved hands into the pockets of his coat for warmth, he trudged through the snow towards the masked merchant, stopping behind him. "S'cuse me, sir. I'm new in these here parts, don't s'pose you'd be gracious enough to point an old man in the direction of a place to ride out the storm?" His accent wasn't exactly common, this far north, and could be pegged for the Southwest by someone with any familiarity with that kind of thing. But most people these days weren't, since only the most well-travelled of explorers could boast to have been on opposite corners of the states, with how dangerous it was to stray so far.

Mireya could hardly help a wry smirk and an arched brow at Steve's insinuation, her head shaking ever so slightly. Steve's playfulness always put her into a better mood, and she certainly needed a better one after today. The mention of something warm in her stomach helped it, too, and she offered him a small nod of agreement as he started out the door. She set her bags on what passed for the counter and heading for nearest shutter as she called out. "Got it, cher… And I've got some flatbread left from my lunch. Might go with dinner well enough."

She didn't know whether he'd heard her, but never the less, the thought of dinner, drinks and an evening of Steve's company made her glad her bike had broken down. She hustled about the shop, making sure every shutter was tightly shut and the tarp over the door was secure. She was glad she'd locked things up at her garage before she'd left, but wasn't looking forward to having to dig her way back into it when the weather let up.

A soft frown spread across her lips at the thought, but she banished it as she went back into Steve's more private space. She was too cold yet to want to take off her coat, but she did unwind her scarf with its attached hood and slip her goggles off. Before she could find a place to set them, though, she thought she head a voice outside over the wind, but couldn't make out whose it was. Frowning lightly, she made her way out through the back and went along the side, raising her voice and shuddering in the cold again, "Steve! You alright, hon?"

Steve paused when the stranger approached. He didn't normally feel nervous about people coming his way this close to town, so he didn't much worry. Once the individual spoke up, he knew just the right place. "Oh, yeah. Just follow this road down past the next three stalls. There'll be a little shop off to the left, and next to that there's an old, run down gas station. Go on in and tell 'em Steve sent you; they're pretty much a flop house, but they're cheaper than the hotel three blocks up, and I know they're good people. If you need anything else, just come by after the storm passes. Name's Steve. Welcome to town, by the way."

Steve glanced sidelong when he heard Mireya, raising his left hand and waving to signal he was alright. He knew she didn't like being out in the cold any more than he did. "It's fine! Guy's looking for a place to crash. Told him to hit up Carl's place. Go on in, I'll be there after I finish tarpin' up your ride!"

The ranger nodded, glad to find any port in the storm, no matter how shoddy, in this kind of weather. He wasn't made for this kind of climate, the difference between the arid, barren southwest and the perpetual frigidness of the northeast being as stark a contrast as night and day. Though, that wasn't the only reason he had approached the masked man. The person he was searching for wore concealing clothing, too, but even though he hadn't gotten a good look at Steve's eyes, he was pretty sure that this wasn't the one. Too young sounding. And friendly, at that. "Thank y', sir. Might just do that, when it ain't stormin' so much."

Turning, he started to make his way back out through the snow, struggling to find his way through the snow. Snow was just something he wasn't built to handle, it seemed. Still, maybe he wouldn't have to worry about it too long. If he found what he was looking for in this city, maybe it would mean he could finally make the long journey back home. Or he would be dead. Either would be better than this frozen hellhole, in his mind.

"Alright then, cher. I'll see you inside." Mireya offered Steve a small nod, peering past Steve towards the stranger. She raises her hand in a short wave, then turned about and hightailed it back inside. She rubs her gloved hands together as she peers about, not noticing any major changes since her last visit, before she went to her bag to get out the bread from her cloth-wrapped bread, setting it on the nearest surface before she went about seeing what she could do to help get dinner ready to go. It was the least she could do while Steve got her bike covered, and besides that, it helped warm her up to keep moving.

Steve watched the stranger walk away, raising a hand to scratch the back of his neck before he gave a little shrug and went back to what he'd been doing. Soon enough, he had Mireya's dirt bike tucked away and locked down, safe from snow, scavengers and anything else. He came in through the back door of what passed for his home and shop, the relatively small stall actually having a bit of extra space in the back "room" for living.

A comfortable enough bed with some old but soft Bighorner wool blankets, an old steamer trunk as a makeshift table and storage area, a nook to hang clothes and a little coffee table with a couple of chairs, a fusion battery hooked up to a bulb, and a hot plate sharing the same circuit. Steve had been cooking, pretty much, when things had gotten active. He had a pot of beans on low simmer, and an unopened can of the popular pre-war (and even more so post-war) spiced sandwich meat called Cram. It wasn't the best thing in the world, but it seemed impossible to irradiate, kept damn near forever, and could be used for filler in damn near any recipe due to the mild taste. He also had a block of Bighorner cheese set to one side with an old butcher knife in it, and a case of old Nuka Cola Cherry sitting in a bucket of snow by the only real window in the place, with a garden trowel sticking out of the bucket to get more snow for chilling as needed.

Steve made a little "Whoof" noise when he came in, walking over to the bulb and cupping his hands around it briefly to warm them off the ambient heat. He hadn't turned his heater on earlier, which might've been a mistake, but he'd correct that soon enough. "Sorry that took a little bit, Mirry. Snow's coming down fast, bogged your bike down."

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Down the street, at Carl's place, something of a scene was unfolding out front. An absolutely enormous figure of a woman stood in front of the doorway, met by a pair of armed males in their thirties, one with a sawed off shotgun and the other with a baseball bat. She herself was armed with a considerable weapon, a Gatling Laser hanging from a support harness at her side, her right hand rest on top of the device. The back-mounted power pack was actually over her coat rather than under, a dim red glow visible from several of the readouts. The woman was dressed in a black coat, scarf and a rough, worn winter hat, leftover from one of the old post-war, pre-nuke confrontations from the looks of it: Fur lined and sporting a rusted red star badge on the front. When she spoke it was with a distinct accent, and a tone of great annoyance.

"What do you mean there isn't room for me? I just walked through this damn storm to get here, and now you're telling me I can't even find a place to stay the storm out?"

The man with the Shotgun grunted, glancing back over his shoulder before speaking. "Listen, we don't want no trouble, but we don't want no muties in here, either. Who knows what's wrong with you? And don't tell me you ain't one. No woman gets as big as you unless she's got a touch of the Wrong in her."

The man by his side nodded, frowning and glancing toward the advanced energy weapon the woman had. He'd never even seen one before; they were usually mounted on trucks or rigged to permanent mountings, not carried by a person. Energy weapons as a whole had been military only, and most of those had been experimental. He didn't want to think about the trouble it might cause.

"So my caps aren't good enough for you, because I'm...What, tall? You think everyone tall is a mutant? Why you insufferable, intolerant little...Ugh. You know what, fine. You're not worth the trouble." She huffed under her breath and turned, trudging off into the snow a short distance before selecting a spot to just sit and wait: Right on an old, warped bus route bench, just across from the flop house. If they wouldn't let her in, she'd hate-stare the fuckers into discomfort. Katya was just sort of spiteful that way.

Cotton hadn't caught the whole conversation as he got near the flophouse, but he had heard enough to get the general gist of what was going on, as he watched them turn her away, a grimace forming on his face. His hometown wasn't near any of the several Zones that littered the States - and the world, for that matter - but by now he's well-traveled enough to know a few things about mutants. And to be honest, the woman was... definitely tall, but she didn't seem to have tumors, claws, two heads or anything else of that sort. Shaking his head, he turned direction away from Carl's, to head towards the bench, muttering under his breath. "Damned paranoid northerners..."

The older gunslinger stopped beside the bench, rubbing his gloved hands together for warmth as he glanced sidelong at the woman. Especially at the massive weapon at her back. He had seen something like that before, but never carried by a person. At least, no person not wearing the larger powered armor the Enclave favors. That an unarmored woman would even be able to carry something like that was impressive to him, to say the least. Just getting hold of hardware like that without being a big-shot in the BoS would be challenge enough.

After a long moment of silence, he turned his head towards her and gave a friendly little nod, before stuffing his hands back into his coat. "S'cuse me, ma'am. Was reckonin' on headin' over there to get a place to stay the night, but after that little sight, I reckon that I won't be doin' that. Folks're a bit too jumpy for me. Mind if I take a seat here?"

When Steve finally came back in, Mireya was hovering over the beans on the hot plate, giving them a stir, flashing him a smile as he walked in. She had gotten herself busy while he was getting her bike covered, as the man could see once he was a little more settled. She'd found the plates and utensils - or what passed for them - and set the places, dividing her bread as evenly as she could between them and cutting some cheese for each of them off the wedge. Just a minute or so before he came in, she'd noted that the heater hadn't been turned on - which surprised the hell out of her, since he'd seemed to be settling in for the night before the disruptions - so she'd taken the liberty to turn it on.

It hadn't been on long enough to remove the chill from the room, or encourage her to take her coat off, but it would in time. She had taken her gloves off and set them on the trunk, and her goggles and scarf were hanging up. At his words on he bike she clucked her tongue against her teeth and let out a quiet sigh. "Mmph… Thanks for gettin' it stowed, cher. You didn't have to… No one would touch that piece of junk with a ten foot pole, 'scept my dumb ass."

She chuckled softly and cast Steve an appreciative smile. "Really, thanks. Why don't you sit down and get comfortable, and I'll serve. Shouldn't be too much longer before we can eat. Sorry to have kept you from gettin' to it sooner."

The woman glanced toward Cotton as he approached, hardly taking heed of his presence in her steaming state. However, when he spoke, she turned her gaze fully on him and stared for a long moment. She made a quiet "Tch" sound and shrugged, motioning to the bench. "It's a free world, stranger. I don't see why you'd be worried, though. I doubt they'd give you a second glance. Me, on the other hand.... You grow up a little wrong and of course everyone thinks you're some monster waiting to grow tentacles and eat their children. Pigs."

She trailed off then, shifting in place and adjusting the strap that held her weapon to her body. It hung at her side, apparently quite heavy but evidently having little to no ill influence on her. She was either mutated, or just abnormally strong and large. Either way, it was clear she wasn't in the best of moods. She mumbled under her breath after a moment. "I swear to God, if Swaine doesn't have work for me I'm just going to come back and burn this hovel down myself."

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Steve actually blushed, although Mireya couldn't see it, when she thanked him so profusely for his help. He gave a little shrug and settled down at the table, leaning with his back against the wall as he just let the heater do the work of keeping him comfortable. "No worries, Mirry. Out here, we do what we can, yeah? Must be different in the city itself, but we're still better off than out in the waste. You and I both know that. At least we've got the little creature comforts, huh? Good company, decent food, and the protection of the Enclave and Brotherhood on our side."

Cotton brushed off a rather large amount of snow from the spot beside Katya before slumping down onto the bench, the chill from the weathered, snow-caked wood of the bench barely standing out amongst the freezing wind and the frost that already pervaded much of this corner of the world. This was around the point that Cotton started to wish that he hadn't lost his hat. "Be that as it may, ma'am, but those folks ain't my kind of people. Makes me miss the hospitality of the south."

He leaned forward on the bench, holding his hands together for warmth as he looked out across the street. With the snow this bad, it was pretty hard to get a clear picture of anything past about a dozen feet or so. And it was just about impossible to make out a single thing at twice that distance. Until he had first come this far north a few years back, Cotton had never seen snow. And he had already seen enough of it to last him three lifetimes. Shaking his head a bit, he turned to look at Katya for a moment before offering a hand to her. "Name's Cotton, by the way. Cotton Harkwell. Some folk know me as Fields."