Chapter Text
It’s been a long, long time since Cait felt surprised.
Everyday for the last three years had been the same. Dragging herself up off a dirty mattress on the floor and stumbling around the Combat Zone; skivving passed-out raider’s leftover food and booze as her first meal of the day. It was hardly considered breakfast at one in the afternoon. The previous day’s crowd would filter out slowly, and the new night’s raiders would congregate again in a few hours. Those few hours when the Combat Zone was empty were the worst. Tommy’d be pissed if she shot up too much before the fighting started: the line between a psycho-fueled prize fighter and an uncontrollable beast was a damned thin one.
So, no fuckin’ Psycho. Well, not none. But not enough.
She usually spent the quiet hours picking over any dead raiders the crowd had left behind, or modifying her bat, or working on opening whatever locked container Tommy needed into next.
Like any other day, she stands up from her position on the floor when the raiders outside started getting noisy. She stretches out her arms and grabs her bat, taking a few warm-up swings. She heard Tommy riling up the crowd: her own personal cue to break out the Psycho and Med-X. The first few fights are always painful: the Med-X hasn’t kicked in to numb some of the pain, and the Psycho is still ramping up. If she took it any sooner though, it wouldn’t last the night. And it’s always the last few fights where she needs it the most, and Tommy didn’t always let her re-up.
Cait’s nose is pouring blood: dripping off her chin as she steps over the limp body of her challenger. Tommy grabs her hand and lifts it in victory. She’s fucking tired. But she eyes the crowd, and knows at least one more of these stubborn fuckers will step up. Arrogant enough to think they’ll have better luck than the hundreds she’s fucked up before them.
Something catches her eye; two people who’ve just quietly entered. They don’t look like the usual raiders. They look…almost clean. One’s a lanky, younger guy in a cap and trench coat, rifle slung over his back. The other cuts an unusual figure for a wastelander: easy confidence and a vault suit that clings to the curves of her hips and thighs. She’s also decked head to toe in combat armor, except for one mismatched metal leg. She taps her taller companion on the arm and nods in the direction of the ladder a few feet away. He doesn’t seem to acknowledge–not that Cait could hear them from the stage if he had said anything– but he quietly drifts that way anyways. Cait’s attention is dragged away from the first vaguely interesting people of the night as Tommy shoves a rag at her face and tells her to clean herself up before the next fight.
“What’s the fuckin’ point if I’m just gonna make ‘em bleed all over me again?” Cait sneers.
She puts a damned amount of effort into getting to the chair near the back edge of the stage without stumbling: no use showing any weakness before the last fight is over. Her left leg is aching, but she can’t let a fuckin’ raider know it. Cait dips down behind a curtain, and unlocks the chem box and jabs her leg with half a dose of Med-X. She doesn’t wait for it to kick in – it’ll be a minute and she knows she’ll only stiffen up if she stays still.
The next guy is…average. Average looking, average build, dirty raider leathers, and a big overcoat. Tommy yammers on, riling up the crowd again. It’s not as easy this late: most are intoxicated to varying degrees, and Cait could make good money if there was a betting pool on who’d pass out first.
Her challenger is raring to go, though. He was one of the ones who’d helped dragged the last one off the stage, and she recognizes him as a regular. Cait didn’t know much about him though: all these idiots bled together, and she only bothered socializing on the rare occasion she felt like dusting off her pickpocketing skills.
She dodges the first few hits easily, and lands several of her own. He’s not half as good as the last one, and while a part of her is pleased at the easy money, Cait always rankles at a fight that’s too easy. He swings again, and she slips closer in as she dodges: her hands pull at his right shoulder as the hand flies through the air, forcing his belly to connect with her knee. It’s a hard hit: and he slumps on the ground as she steps back, and turns to jeer at the crowd. A few of them roused in interest, unreadable expressions more intense than they had been before the fight.
The man is coughing behind her, wheezing as he tries to regain his breath. She can hear the squeaking scrape of his leather on the floor, and knows she has a few more moments still.
She scans the crowd, looking for the vault girl and her skeevy looking companion. The man is out of sight, but the woman is easy to spot.The Vaultie has apparently been leaned up against the back wall for sometime, watching silently. Something must catch her attention, because she suddenly kicks off and strides down the center aisle with intense purpose. Slinging a long plasma rifle over her shoulder and raising it to eye level without hesitation: short scope obscuring part of her face.
Cait hit the ground as the piercing sound ripped through the air. The formerly mildly interested rabble erupted into chaos. Cait scrambled to her feet, eyes ricocheting from the molten hole left in the metal cage’s side, to the scorched, half-melted off hand that was still clutching a short serrated blade. The fuckin’ lil shite was gonna—
More plasma blasts ring out amid the gunfire. Cait’s legs were instinctually moving, staying low and steady: her shotgun was hardly another couple of meters. She dropped off the stage, and held steady behind some flipped furniture. The plasma blasts were becoming less frequent. If that stranger’s aim was purposeful, she’d saved Cait’s sorry ass. Whose side am I on anyway? Doesn’t matter. Shotgun, hunker down until somebody wins. And hope they think Cait’s on their side long enough to get out of this shithole alive.
The gunfire and voices were slowing in frequency as Cait waited for a break in fire. A few voices she knows weren’t the soft looking Vaultie’s had halted: some sputtering out final breaths. A few beats of silence and Cait bolts, heading for Tommy’s office. No bullets trail her steps: seems the few remaining were focused on each other, which was well enough for her as her hands reached her shotgun. She whirls around, ducking into partial cover to survey the scene: this time as an active player. There’s one raider at her level: a guy a bit older than Cait, but far from new to this scene. He was holding out, but not for long, his beer-reddened face looking increasingly desperate. It wasn’t long until he popped out of cover, and had his greasy head blown off, though Cait noticed it was a normal red spray, no green glow of plasma. Must be the Vaultie’s friend from earlier.
The resounding shot faded into silence–the air as quiet as it has ever been in the Combat Zone’s honored fucking history–and Tommy’s voice rang out to break it.
“Whoa, easy there. Let’s work something out, you and I, no need for things to get out of hand.” He soothed, syrupy and nervous. He raises his hands in the air, and a plasters a smile over his features.
After a moment of consideration, the wooden structure above Cait’s head creaks, and she hears two pairs of footsteps echo in the eerily quiet auditorium: one set from above her, and the other farther away.
Tommy huffs a nervous chuckle, and waves Cait over. Suspicion holds her with tension, but she slowly moves out of cover towards Tommy on the stage.
The Vaultie and her guy from before are the only two left standing. The man is paused on the bridge above the aisle, his slight form and long sniper rifle standing watch over the scene as the woman confidently traverses the distance. It’s no wonder why: she’s swapped her plasma rifle for a heavy, mean-looking pistol that she holds casually and her vault suit is clean as far as Cait can tell. No one even got close to her. Not one of the nearly 15 late-night regulars even got close enough to leave a blood splatter in remembrance of their miserable life.
Cait’s hard eyes finally find the stranger’s face. The vaultdweller’s warm, dark gaze capture Cait’s attention wholly. She feels like a radstag in the glare of a security spotlight: frozen, but nearly vibrating with the need to run. The fixation ends–abruptly, it feels like to Cait–and she doesn’t understand the uncomfortable feeling skittering behind her ribs.
The Vaultie’s attention is turned to Tommy, who’s rambling on, clearly trying to save his skin. Trying to understand why in the sweet hell some lady just shot up his establishment.
The woman’s clear, almost cavalier tone severs Tommy’s own sentence, “I don’t like rigged fights, and I dislike the people who run them even more.”
Tommy grimaced, “Yeah, well, that bit wasn’t planned, I assure you. You caught the tail end of that fight, what’d ya think of Cait’s work?”
Those dark eyes return to Cait’s briefly, addressing her directly, “You’re clearly talented.”
Cait breaks eye contact and crows at Tommy, “See? At least someone knows skill when they see it!”
“It ain’t your skill I’m worried about.” He hisses at her, before ignoring her in favor of the stranger again. “So here's my predicament. I suddenly got no audience. No audience means I got no caps coming in…” Cait's stomach drops as he finishes his thought, tone a little softer, “...And if you aren’t bringin’ in caps, little bird, you're a liability. To me…and to yourself.”
The Vaultie raises an eyebrow, indicating he should continue. Tommy says, “So here’s what I’m thinking, what do you say I let you take over her contract? She goes with you, watches your back–you’d be doing me a favor while I get this place back in line.”
“Me? And her?” Cait interrupts in disbelief. Tommy’s always been a schemer, but this seems to take it too far. The stranger seems to think the same, questioning Tommy’s reasoning. He gives her some half-assed answer about not wanting to watch Cait kill herself in the arena.
Cait isn’t listening–not really. A numbness has taken hold, and it’s spreading fast. Tommy isn’t the warmest guy, but they’ve taken good care of each other over these last years, given the circumstances. How the hell did she fuck it up so bad he’s pawning her off on the first random gunslinger who walks in? And he has the fucking gall to try and pretend he's doing her a favor. Maybe the old man really doesn't want to watch her die. She nearly scoffs at the thought: she must actually be loosing him money then.
“Don’t I get a say in this?” She spits.
“That ain't how a contract works. Besides, you really wanna to stay here? No audience. No caps. No one to talk to but yours truly.” Tommy can barely meet her eyes.
She grimaces, “Jesus. Point taken.” Cait is a lot of things; but she won't stay where she's not wanted.
Tommy turns to the Vaultie again, “So what say you, then? You’d both be doin’ me a favor while I get this place cleaned up.”
The woman hesitates, slowly eyeing both parties before settling. “What the hell, sure. I could use an extra gun watching my back.”
Tommy is as thrilled as he ever is, and Cait lets out a vaguely irritated sigh. Tommy and the vaultdweller talk some more, and Cait moves to gather her meager belongings. It doesn’t take long for her to pack an old military rucksack – not even half full– wait for them to finish. Not much has changed, really, has it? Still traded like Brahmin, she thinks bitterly. She shoves down the stinging feeling, and starts mentally assessing her options, irritated at how clouded her thoughts are by the red of psycho. It's just a soft vaultdweller with a big gun, and a skinny guy, also with a gun. She's made short work of meaner opponents. If worst comes calling, she'd be alright, she assures herself. So what if the odd looking pair wiped the floor with a dozen or so raiders? She'd beaten all of them a few times over.
Cait's contract with Tommy was binding only through her debt at first, and later her begrudging respect for the ghoul. This woman inheriting a debt didn't mean shit, and Cait would split the second shit hit the fan, or something better comes along. Had to be some other rich arseholes looking to bet on fights or in need of a bodyguard in the Wealth. It would just take some time to find them.
Her new contract holder gestures something at the man on the bridge, and nods at Cait: it’s time to go. As Cait leaves, she calls out to Tommy, “You’re a real son of a bitch, you know that?”
“You ain’t gotta tell me!” He jokes, and she ignores the edge of worry in his voice as she walks out of the Combat Zone, knowing she might never make her way back.