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Middle of the day, sipping the horrible scotch that is, nonetheless, the best that this cesspool of dissolute Waste-dwellers can offer, Mister Burke finds himself at a loss for action. It is an unusual state of affairs, and one that will not please Alistair Tenpenny. Even less so his true employer, who trusts his loyal scout to report back once events are laid in order. Like dominoes, if he can tip the fall of Megaton, then it makes the other settlements only so much easier to bring under control.
And he suspects that he is—horrors forbid—actually acquiring a taste for this foul liquor. It perturbs him on multiple levels; both his lack of standards, and his natural disdain for such substances that weaken the mind and clarity of purpose. These dissolute people are animals, caring only for survival and momentary pleasures. Humanity should be defined by the ability to overrule that fear, to be capable of the greater sacrifices necessary to return civilization to the Wasteland.
Sacrifices they will come to appreciate, in time.
The whore sits on one side of the bar, making inane small talk with the zombie bartender. Nova and Gob, two more examples of how degenerate this place is; the whore with no dreams of the future beyond her next hit of Jet, and the slave without the balls to rise against his shackles or the proper obedience to simply shut up about his lot. Instead, he wastes his time banging away at the radio in despair that he cannot hear the chatter of that foolish speaker, the one who cannot shut up about the Good Fight despite likely never having held a gun or taken another’s life.
Dissolute.
The door opens, and he glances up merely out of habit, an unwillingness to make himself exposed by simple inattention. This is a new face, a fresh face. Fresh from a Vault too; that is enough to pique his curiosity. She is wearing a Vault jumpsuit under a leather jacket with some sort of snake emblem stitched on the back, but Vault suits are easy enough to find; what truly marks her is that strange innocence, the shock and wonder that mar her features. She blinks just a little too much, as if battling sun-blindness from the outside world, recovering as she enters the dank interior of the saloon.
He continues watching discreetly as she approaches Gob. To her credit—or possibly a sign of how dazed she is—she does not react with shock or horror, instead treating him with a slightly manic sort of courtesy. Her words are a silver stream of patter, like cool rain on desert sands. Normally he would expect a woman to know her place as property, leaving the art of war and all its machinations to men, but perhaps her Vault education will prove a help.
He waits until she finishes with Gob, which takes a bit longer than expected; when Gob complains about the radio being on the fritz, she obligingly offers to take a look at it. The unexpected kindness (had the girl-woman even thought about charging for her expertise?) causes Mister Burke to seethe with impatience, that his own business might be delayed by her sense of altruism. He consoles himself with the thought that her familiarity with such devices hopefully extends to explosives.
Finally, after she apologizes to Gob and confirms Nova’s suspicion that something is wrong with the station, rather than the radio, he makes his move.
“My, my. Just when I had all but given up hope. My dear girl, I am very happy to make your acquaintance. I am Mister Burke.” He oozes charm and sophistication mimicked from a Vegas showman, letting it coat his words like poisoned honey. “And you, well, you are not a resident of this putrescent cesspool. That makes you a rather valuable individual.”
She turns, lip between her teeth and eyes wide and startlingly pale against her warm brown skin. “It does?” she asks, cocking her head to one side. Despite her initial reaction, this is no blushing damsel, reduced to helpless titters at the first sign of manly attention. In fact, just as he was studying her, she is appraising him in turn. Her eyes are cool blue, like cloudless skies under the brim of a rather silly-looking red baseball cap. He wonders if it is purely practicality or a more personal affectation.
“That it does,” Mr Burke replies agreeably. “Why don’t you take a seat? I do not mean to presume on your time, but you are obviously new and if you do not have any pressing matters to attend to, perhaps we may enlighten one another. May I have the privilege of your name?”
She pauses just a moment before answering. Her eyes—so wide and vulnerable—may be windows to the soul, but the shutters close against remembered pain as she speaks hesitantly.
“Jinx. It’s… the only name that fits me now, I guess.”
The young woman sits down in a nearby chair, taking off her cap. The hair beneath is dark and curling, tied back in a loose knot. It gleams with a reddish tint in the dusty light. Cleaner-looking than the glass he is currently drinking out of, much to his chagrin. He sets it to the side in disgust, having lost what little appetite he had for it.
“Dear Jinx… even a newcomer such as yourself must have noted the… disarray in this city. Its ramshackle nature and the sheer lack of foresight in constructing itself about an atomic bomb,” he says carefully, watching her eyes to gauge her reaction.
“I have… noted that irregularity,” she responds, twisting the brim of her cap in one hand while her heels drum the floor. Rather than nervousness, there is a slow, almost relaxed pace to the unconscious gesture, as if thinking. Good.
“I represent certain… interests. And those interests view this town, this ‘Megaton,’ as a blight on a burgeoning urban landscape. You have no connections here. No interest in this cesspool’s affairs or fate. You could assist us in erasing this little accident off the map,” Mister Burke proceeds smoothly, voice low and inviting her to lean in closer.
She does, though her eyebrows are crinkling inward. Time to unveil the plan and sweeten the deal.
“The undetonated atomic bomb for which this town is named is still very much alive. All it needs is a little motivation. I have in my possession a fusion pulse charge constructed for a singular purpose—the detonation of that bomb. You’ll rig it to the bomb, and then you’ll get paid. Handsomely,” he drawls, emphasizing the last word with a deliberately drawn out smile. Whatever the appetites of the other dissolute women of this town, he doubts this clever little Vault-child has much experience with flirting. If caps alone cannot sway her, perhaps a bit of charm might.
She tilts her head to the side, examining him in a peculiarly analytic fashion. Her bird-like posture puts him in mind of some avian creature examining a shiny object… which happens to be him. A few silent moments pass before her face lights up with a wide smile, leaning in.
“I have a ‘proposition’ of my own. Would you like to hear it, Mister Burke?” she murmurs, still smiling. Her eyes are dancing, illuminated with some sort of devilish joy.
Mister Burke can barely believe she is so easily persuaded, and cannot resist smiling in turn as he leans in to meet her, almost brushing his nose against hers.
“Color me intrigued. Go on,” he replies. When she responds, her warm breath tickles against his cheek. She smells faintly of mint, a rarity in the Capital Wasteland.
Her voice is sweet and low, caressing his ears as surely as if she were running her tongue along their spiral curl. “You see, I plan on living here, lover. And surely you wouldn’t want to hurt me…”
This moment. This strange, shattered moment—this is what he will remember for the rest of his life.
Once, as a young boy on a scouting trip with an older mentor, they had ventured to the mountains. A frigid, snowy, nasty place—white sodden flakes falling from the sky, and a whole lake freezing solid. The younger Burke had ventured across that lake, not realizing the fragile nature of the ice. Unknown, unfathomable—something he thought he knew, until the gentle cracking started beneath him. Not even audible, really, but striking through the core of him as he abruptly realized that the nature of the game had shifted.
Reality had shifted.
Or rather, his perception of it.
And staring at the young girl from the Vault… he experiences that shift again. The bottom dropping out from his chest. Behind those pale eyes is potential, a near-limitless source of vigor that he hesitates to snuff before having a chance to see how she shines.
“Well… I… I mean… Of course not… I must admit, I’ve never met a woman quite like you before,” he babbles, fully aware of his foolishness. This silly girl-child—he has only exchanged a few words with her, really, and this effect? No; there is more to it. The realization that she is just as cunning and ruthless—or attempting to be—in her dealing as any Frumentarius. Her knowledge, her potential—she would make a far greater prize as an ally than shackled…
Gears are turning, and he rapidly reconsiders his plans.
“This changes everything… I’m not sure what I’m going to tell Tenpenny… I’ll think of something, don’t worry,” he hastens to assure her, playing the love-struck fool for all it’s worth.
“You wait here my dear. I have some important business to attend to. But you won’t be waiting long. I shall send for you soon. Until then…”
They are so close already that he barely has to dip his head to kiss her full on the lips. Her startled response—the subtle tension in her body, the way her first instinct is to draw back rather than lean in—confirm his suspicions. The would-be seductress truly has little experience at all, and her interest in him is feigned at best.
“Take care, little bird.”
He dips his hat to her, leaving the dirty saloon.
He cares little for Tenpenny’s reaction—the sheltered fool was only one piece in a larger game. Destroying Megaton, weakening the Capital Wasteland—ah, that was the true goal.
But that can wait. He will consider how to best recruit the little bird.
And if she cannot be recruited…
Birds sing just as beautifully when caged.
And the Legion will come regardless.