Silly Milly

Riley Rydin

Writer’s Club Assignment

02/26/2018

 

 

Silly Milly

 

To whom it may concern, 

Dear Whom. 

I am cruising down what remains of highway 15 just outside of Primm, Nevada. And, as per usual, there are no clouds in sight and I'm being rotisseried by the sun. 

According to this hand-drawn map given to me by a very peculiar stranger back in Nipton, I am now less than half a mile out from an unguarded supply stash. 

If you ask me, the whole situation reeks - if the supplies are unguarded, then why not just snag the supplies for yourself? 

No, better question: How would you even know such a stash exists? 

Either way, the Camaro is running on fumes and, unguarded or not, I need to fuel this sucker up bad.

 

Squinting in an attempt to see through the dusty glass which covered the fuel gauge, the man wiped the grime off the instruments with his thumb. This revealed a needle which had gone limp against the E. 

He wasn't even a cartographer or anything. Just a scraggly looking biker with a map.

He mumbled a grim and monotone: 

Andrews out. 

With this, his calloused thumb pressed the 'stop' button on his dinged-up, metal tape recorder. One hand on the wheel of the distressed looking hot rod, and the other steadying the device. Andrews awkwardly cocked his head so that he could pop open the spring door of the tape recorder with his teeth, dropping it into a trash bag chock-full of mini-cassettes just like it with a nonchalant motion. As he closed the door with his thumb and threw the tiny analog audio recorder into the torn leather backseat, Andrews felt a terrible knot in his stomach.

 

Although very competent with the R8 revolver at his side, his years of mercenary work had made him naturally somewhat ill at the thought of turning yet another person's skull inside-out with his trusty hand-canon. It was partially due to his developing case of shell-shock that Andrew even listened to the mysterious man in the long coat back in Nipton. Despite all the better judgement Andrews possessed, the charismatic but generally frazzled sales pitch for the crudely drawn map had caught Andrews in a particularly potent state of need as well as general weariness. This, combined with maybe a drink too many, created the perfect storm to coax a perfectly sane grown man into purchasing a crayon-clad navigational tool from an obviously distressed yahoo.

 

 Andrews then thought to himself, as he often did, about the possibility that if the man he saw in the bar was born fractured, or broken by the world in which he resided. Considering the barren nature of the wasteland and the lack of human interaction, Andrews' had made a hobby out of pondering questions that didn't neccisarily need answers. Maybe, he thought, one day the biker just broke. Like some kind of psychotic break which he and his hair never recovered from. 

Andrews contemplated this concept as he approached a range of hills, pulling off to the side of the road. He almost didn't notice the familiar sensation of smooth tires on hot, cracked pavement transitioning smoothly onto gravel. The crunchy, soothing sound coming to a stop with the dingy Camaro.

 

Sadly, Andrews couldn't sit and ponder the effects of the Southwestern wasteland on the human psyche for much longer, as a task was upon him. Confident he had stopped well out of any possible eavesdroppers earshot, Andrews pulled the key out of the ignition with a satisfying click. The dying engine's hum peacefully died out into the pastel blue sky as he daintily handled the burning hot keys and stuck them in his pocket. Not wanting to attract unwanted attention with unnecessary loud noises, Andrews smoothly hopped over the closed door of the convertible and landed in the dust in near perfect silence. 

While it could appear to the untrained eye that Andrews was displaying cowardice, the truth was quite the opposite. His years of hard living had taught him to be aware of even the slightest changes in the wind, and which tingles on the back of his neck to trust. Andrews quickly entered a Zen-like state as he calmly gathered a few tools and scant supplies from the backseat, hardly noticing the pain as his exposed underarm was burned by the metal door. However, the scorching became a non-issue as soon as he donned his thick leather trench coat, with padding and miscellaneous reinforcements sewn into the thick material. Bullet­proof vests were hard to come by, so this was going to have to do. The jacket could resist some blows if Andrews were to be attacked by common roadside savages, but a bullet would cut through him like a knife through warm cheese.

 

Geared up and deep in a reptilian mindset, Andrews stealthily scaled the sandy hill, reaching the top without breaking stride. Not even thinking, he fell to one knee and pulled out his binoculars. He ignored the countless scratches the coarse desert dirt had inflicted on the optics and peered into the valley below.

 

Years of patrolling the wastes meant that Andrews was very familiar with three things; sand, sun, and ghost towns. And this little hamlet nestled between two clusters of hills had all three of those oh-so-spectacular things. All the buildings were those one would expect to find in such a town. Small, ramshackle buildings of long-forgotten use dotted the valley and huddled around one central building. What the building was, Andrews could not discern, at least from this distance. He had to get closer. 

With an agile leap, Andrews fell feet-first onto the loose, sandy face of the hill and shifted his weight with ease. Sliding with increasing speed, Andrews skid his way down to the cusp of valley and transitioned smoothly into a sprint as the ground began to level out.

 

Not slowing, Andrews made a beeline towards what he assumed from the lavish structure was once a church, coming up on the building with such speed that any onlooker would assume he was going to flatten himself against its tan stucco wall. At the last second, Andrews leapt up in the air, sticking his boot out in front of his body and planting it securely against the wall. 

Using the brief moment of momentum he had, Andrews utilized the traction of his boot pushed against the wall to throw himself and his arms upward, grabbing onto a piece of roof tile. Not wanting to waste any precious velocity for his next move, Andrews pulled himself up with a mighty jerk and slowly crawled onto the crumbling rooftop, slipping only once on the thin, chalky red dust which adorned the shattered shingles. 

 

With a solid three points of contact on the roof, Andrews inched up little by little until he could see over the peak, which had begun to droop with age. 

As soon as the large building he had previously noted came into view, Andrews pulled out his binoculars and focused on the front of the building which held a striking resemblance to the one sketched on his map. His inquisitive gaze was met by grandiose pillars, lights, and dead neon. 

"A casino..." He whispered under his breath, unable to repress his surprise. To find one in a little hick town like this was quite rare, although somewhat expected considering the nature of the old Mojave.

 

Confident in the location and nature of his target, Andrews slid down the rooftop and landed with a thud on the ground. A bone-dry cloud of sand appeared briefly, kissing the tails of his coat before settling back onto the ground once more, returning to its state of searing hot death. Deciding that, now well out of the open and well within the confines of the town, stealth and observance should be valued over speed. Andrews relaxed and eased into a strut as he slowly walked through the eerie and empty town. His footsteps, muted by the shifting sands, were silent and steady, in spite of his relaxed stance. His eyes were wide open and wild, constantly scanning - something an onlooker wouldn't notice beneath the brim of his sun-bleached ten-gallon hat. His hands, seemingly idle in his pockets, were tingling, ready to fan the hammer of his R8 at any second if the situation were to arise.

 

Despite the seemingly peaceful nature of the environment surrounding Andrews, he couldn't help but sense a palpable nervous energy in the air which he couldn't say with certainty he had ever felt before. This feeling alone was enough to put the grizzled raider on edge. The whole situation was goofy as hell, and he didn't like it one bit.

 

Resisting the urge to light a cigarette, Andrews arrived at the front door of the casino, feeling altogether alone, and not in a good way. Giving one last check to his six, and finding no

baseball-bat wielding savages to speak of, Andrews gave one last look at the exterior of the building before him and noticed two perculiar details. One, a long rope was tied to the lightning rod at the peak of the rooftop, dangling before a large picture window. Two, the front of the building was tagged in large lettering. "Silly Milly's" was scrawled with haphazard care on the front door.

 

Concerned that his free loot stash may very well be another person's residence, Andrews drew his gun. He knew from experience that wastelanders weren't exactly ones for a whole lot of talk when it came to trespassing, and the only way he would get out of this without unloading at least one bullet from his 8-round clip would be if the casino were abandoned. Unfortunately, Andrews thought to himself once more, this was something he seriously doubted. The relatively untouched nature of the Casino considering it's proximity to the freeway was alarming to say the least.

 

Heart racing, Andrews took a deep breath to steady himself. A million thoughts were racing through his head, and it seemed he was sweating from more than just the sun's oppressive heat.

 

No chains, no bars, no locks to speak of. The neon spray-painted door beckoned him to grab its handle and pull, like a moth to flame. Andrews slowly reached for the brass handle and pulled it open with the delicate touch of a surgeon.

 

The room he entered was massive and airy, with gaudy, trashy, brightly-colored relics of the pre-apocalyptic city of sin. Open gashes in the infrastructure gently wailed as desert wind strained against crimson red drapes which were used to patch the holes in the scaffolding. Filling like the sails of a sailboat, their repetitive but uneven slapping against the still-cold marble cut through the silence. In the middle of the casino sat many happy patrons, their painted smiles and fashionable clothes adorning their rigid mannequin bodies. The echoes of life, much like everywhere else, had long since rung out and dissipated into the empty Mojave sky.

 

Andrews would have been lying to himself if he were to

deny the uneasy feeling in the pit of his gut, but lie to himself he did, as he inched his way from the foyer into the casino itself.

 

Then, he felt it. Almost indiscernable through his thick leather boots, the tug of fishing wire on his shin. Fight or flight took over as he pulled his gun up to chest height and his eyes began to dart wildly around the room, searching for some sort of alarm or trap which he had tripped. It was easy to follow the trail of the wire now that Andrews was aware of its presence. It went up, over, around...

 

A pop, followed by a loud crackling noise, barged into the silent room at an ear-piercing volume. Andrews quickly put two and two together and realized that what he had activated was the tone arm of a turntable in the very center of the casino floor, something he had assumed was nothing more than a non­functioning relic used for decoration. This was also his assumption for the massive CRT television above the grimy bar, which whined to life unexpectedly not long after the needle dropped.

 

The song roared to life over crackling, partially blown-out speakers located all around the casino. Andrews recognized it immediately. It was Silly Milly, a song which he remembered listening to a lot on a salvaged 8-track himself. Andrews actually liked the song quite a bit, but he assumed that after the coming shitshow, he won’t be too keen on hearing it ever again.

 

Andrews kept an unwavering gaze upon the fuzzy CRT across the room, carefully studying each line as it came into focus.

 

After some time, Andrews could finally make out who he was looking at. Through the muddied DV tape video being displayed, he could make out the lines of a girl's face, bleached and exaggerated by what must have been at least three showgirl's entire makeup kits, sloppily applied in a way which made her look garish and manic - an opaque shell which smothered her features, leaving them listless and without much form. Her thin, painted lips were twisted into an unnerving grin, her eyes peeled so wide that Andrews felt like she was looking straight through him.

 

"Hi there!" She said in a giggly tone. "What's your name?"

 

The overdressed girl stared in silence at a stoic and silent Andrews, not saying anything in response to the pre-taped message.

 

"What a fun name!" she chortled. "Allow me to introduce myself." The girl responded to Andrews’ silence, expressing proper poise, complete with a curtsy.

 

"My name is Silly Milly, and I'm going to kill you!"

 

Before he could even react to the outlandish and terrifying video, Andrews felt something behind him and remembered that the door to his six was still wide open. Tipped off by both a sixth sense and the slightest breeze on his neck, Andrews turned around and met face to face with the wild looking teen wielding a very sparkly frying pan.

 

His plan for some sort of threat or nonviolent option was cut short by the sensation of his extended arms being smashed to the side by a Bedazzled cast iron skillet, loosening his grip and sending the R8 skipping across the casino floor. Unable to react, he flinched violently as the soft, worn toe of a technicolor sneaker kicked him in the mouth, making his face

hot and numb.

 

Dazed and acting purely on instinct, Andrews stumbled down the few short steps of the foyer onto to the casino floor, chasing after his gun which had been bashed away from his grip. Although, anyone watching would have assumed that he was just falling down in a particularly lucky direction and happened to have his feet moving in unison. Andrews himself wasn't exactly sure which of these two he was demonstrating, but all that mattered in that moment was that he got his hands on the gun before the whacko did.

 

To Andrews’ legitimate surprise, the young girl had not run after the gun like he had anticipated. In fact, she was nowhere to be seen. Deeply concerned by this, Andrews holstered his revolver and, now relatively sound of mind, gave himself a quick once-over to ensure he was still in fighting shape. A quick slap of his arms reported that the jacket had done its job, and nothing was broken. Whether or not he'd be able to lift them the next morning was a different discussion altogether, but for now, at least before the inflammation kicked in, he could still shoot.

 

Years of experience out in the open wastes taught Andrews two things. One, everybody wants you dead. Two, you can avoid the unpleasant consequences of #1 by getting to higher ground, preferably with a decent amount of cover. Not waiting for natures painkiller to wear off, Andrews hopped on the closest piece of scaffolding he could find and began to scale the unfinished building, which, he thought to himself, must have had it's construction halted by The Great War.

 

"Shame," Andrews contemplated dryly. "These people never got their crown jewel." 

Sensing he was near the top, Andrews returned his focus to his climb, looking up towards the summit of the rebar and plank tower.

 

"Why hello there, Mister Raider!" tweeted a ghostly white face, playfully peering down at Andrews with her nose so close to his he could smell her foundation. She pulled

her head back and rose from her vulture-like crouch over the edge, standing in a mockery of a model's pose. 

"Did you hear about that movie where the scumbag raider attempted to ransack the home of a poor, lonely little girl?” She twirled the skillet around, taunting Andrews with the reality he knew was coming.

 

"Milly, no. Please." Andrews pleaded, frozen in fear and unable to comprehend how she could have made it to the top before him.

 

"Me neither." Milly said, barely able to contain herself. 

"It was PANNED!" Milly screeched, dropping the 12-inch cooking tool onto Andrews below. Unable to move, Andrews let go with his right hand and attempted to swing out of the way, but he was too slow. Milly's plastic-encrusted pan smashed itself into his right shoulder with a solid crack. Blinded by pain, Andrews’ weakened grip on his left side gave way, causing him to slide halfway down the scaffolding, and fall down the rest.

 

The head-pounding Blue Swede faded into silence as Andrews desperately fought the blackout that he was slipping into. His cheeks felt numb and his vision was narrow as he struggled to regain feeling in his legs. As soon as the music, the room, and the pain came back to him, Andrews slowly stood up on his own two feet.

 

This self-check proved a whole lot grimmer than the last, as his right shoulder was most definitely fractured. Andrews swore under his breath. Pain was one thing, he could work through pain, but this level of structural damage made it impossible for him to use his right arm for anything useful. He needed time to think, and he couldn't very well think out in the open like this. Suddenly, a glint of sunlight caught his eye. 

An office, which he assumed was made for the manager of the joint, stood across the room. It's golden plaque bearing no name shined in the mottled darkness of the unfinished building, beckoning him with the same allure of the brass handle from earlier. Without thinking twice, Andrews limped towards it as fast as his traumatized body would let him.

 

Yanking the door open, Andrews gave the cramped room a quick scan to ensure that there weren't any skinny, neurotic, cookware-wielding psychos in mismatched socks. Ensuring that the coast was clear if just for the moment, Andrews locked the door behind him with a graceless slap and collapsed to the ground with his thoughts.

 

The first order of business, which was the question of how Milly made it to the top of the scaffolding before he did, was thrown out pretty quickly when he remembered the rope and picture window out front which led to the top floor. The second order of business, which was whether or not he should continue to look for the supplies or escape, proved to be a dilemma. Even if he wasn't too keen on killing her, Milly was still nothing more than a disturbed little girl in funny clothes. The only reason why she "got the drop", pun intended, on Andrews was the fact that she had the element of...

 

Andrews’ train of thought reached the station as soon as

he locked eyes with a mysterious object in the corner. A massive, clunky, DV tape security camera was staring him in the face from across the room. 

Power this strong, strong enough to power an entire building, was very hard to come by. The only way to generate that many watts is with a generator the size of a small car. 

It clicked then and there; turn off the music and follow the sound of the generator. It wouldn't be easy. If the utter silence of the building when he walked in was any indicator, Milly managed to soundproof the thing - and well. But, if Andrews really listened, he could most likely hear it if he got close enough.

 

With a solid plan in mind, Andrews decided that the best option at this point would be to wait. If he shoots out the camera, Milly will surely hear over the Blue Swede, now somewhat muted by the door behind him. For now, he should just collect himself and get ready to make a mad dash for the turntable.

 

As Andrews stood by the door, right hand on the handle and R8 in the other, he took a moment to ponder the single piece of furniture in the room. 

A simple wooden table, maybe a foot across, held a portrait of a family. Two happy looking parents held an unseen baby in swaddling cloth in their hands. Their gaze was right into the lens, and Andrews felt like their smiling eyes were directed towards him.

    

“I see you..." echoed a voice from above. Milly was speaking with the condescending tone of a parent playing hide and go seek with their child. It was time to move.

 

In one smooth, continuous motion, Andrews unlatched the door with his lame right hand and kicked it open the rest of the way. Not skipping a beat, he began to sprint down the casino floor towards the record player. Uncontrolled laughter and rapid, soft footsteps followed in hot pursuit.

 

Andrews was sure he could survive an attack from behind, especially since he knew exactly where Milly was. Ensuring its destruction, as soon as he reached the turntable, he yanked it up and pulled it out of the wall socket, smashing the plastic, toy audio player to the ground. The music ended with a flurry of unpleasant sounds as the analog system was obliterated, and Andrews turned around, gun drawn, to face Milly behind him.

 

Andrews froze in fear. He was correct in assuming that Milly had been chasing him. However, he had not anticipated that her shaky, ghostly white hands would be gripping a shotgun instead of a frying pan, and her rainbow-painted nails were on the trigger. Only one thought was running through Andrews’ head: warm cheese.

 

Andrews had never been in a duel like this before. Usually, they would start with the guns in the holsters. But this time, both participants had the other's life in their hands from the start.

 

In this brief moment of hesitation before Andrews squeezed the trigger, the raider was caught off-guard yet again. Milly's laugh had stopped. Or rather, transformed. The girls face began to twist as the smile left her eyes, then her cheeks, then her lips respectively. Her manic laughter began to fall apart, melting into a whimper, then a sob, and before long tears were digging deep trenches in her powdered face. Her grip on the shotgun loosened, the gun shaking as it bounced around loosely in her open palms. 

Seeing that she was in no state to shoot right now, as her crying was shaking her entire body, her gasps for breath jostling her about like a puppet on a string, Andrews calmly holstered his revolver. Once set, he reached out for the crying girl's gun.

 

"NO!" screamed the girl through her sobs, steadying herself enough to hold the gun in a somewhat threatening way to Andrews’ chest, who raised his hands in submission. 

"I'm not going to let you get away with this. I know what you raiders are capable of. I've seen what you savages are willing to do for a rotten can of meat." Her cheeks were almost black from mascara as she muttered her piece through gritted teeth.

 

"Hey, hey. It's okay. I don't want to hurt you." 

Andrews wasn't lying, he regretted taking the map in the first place. 

"What's your name?" Andrews asked in his most diplomatic tone possible.

 

"None of your f*****g business." the girl hissed. "Now, I'm going to give you two options. One, I blow you into so many pieces that they'll only be able to ID you by your dental records. Or two, you help me escape."

 

Andrews quickly assessed his options. Although the casino itself wasn't a half bad eternal resting place, he knew if he died here, his ghost would haunt these halls forever, and that would mean listening Blue Swede again. Compared to that possibility, having a psychotic teenager as your copilot didn't really seem all that bad.

 

"Where to?" inquired Andrews, getting a bit weary of staring down the barrel of the girl's shotgun.

 

“Nipton.” The girl croaked. 

Andrews knew better than to ask why.

 

"Lose the shotgun and you have yourself a deal, sweetheart." 

Unamused by his condescending language, the girl dropped the shotgun onto the marble flooring with a crack. 

"Now we're vibing.” Andrews crooned with a smirk. "Meet me outside with a Jerrycan, and I'll have you home in no time."

 

	____________________________________________________________________________

 

"You're lucky, you know." the girl chirped at Andrews. "I usually don’t give your kind a choice at the end." 

Somewhat shocked at the first break in the silence in over an hour, Andrews hastily concocted a reply.

 

"Why did you give me the chance, then?" Andrews asked in a disarming tone, looking at the girl through the rear-view mirror, eyes straining against the dust and sun.

 

The girl refused to relax despite the newfound comfort of conversation, continuing to stare off into the desert, squished as hard as she could be against the car door. 

"I don't know. I don't really remember much whenever it happens, but for some reason I didn't forget the way you begged on the scaffolding." Andrews, too focused on driving and paying attention to this rare bout of communication as a whole, let the strange nature of her phrasing slide. "It told me that maybe, just maybe, this one isn't too far gone."

    

Andrews nodded. "Thank you, that... means a lot." As if she were one to judge other people's sanity.

 

"Whatever." She huffed, resting her chin on a part of the door which was somewhat shaded from the burning sun by her headrest.

 

It wasn't for another five minutes until she spoke again. 

"You aren't going on the highway, right? You remember how I told you to get to Nipton?"

 

"Yeah, yeah. Don't worry about it,” Andrews said in a reassuring yet slightly agitated voice. The kid's route took

45 minutes longer than the highway, but she seemed pretty set in her decision and began to make threats if her needs weren't met.

 

Another five or so minutes passed, when a low, rumbling hum began to echo behind the Camaro. Initially both the girl and Andrews thought it was nothing more than the car itself, but it quickly got close enough to be clearly heard.

 

"Hey, do you want to see what that is? It's in my blind spot." Andrews casually requested.

 

The girl, in a state of relative apathy, slowly picked herself up off the car door and turned around, squinting a little to see clearly. Almost immediately, her eyes widened to the size of saucers.  Andrews noticed the movement to his right when she cupped her hands over her mouth.

 

"What's the matter?" Andrews asked, suddenly anxious.

 

"Punch it." The girl pleaded with Andrews, deep and morbid fear in her eyes.

 

"W-what?" Andrews stammered, still in the dark. "Why?"

 

"PUNCH IT!" the girl screamed, tears welling in her eyes as she entered the fetal position.

 

"Alright, alright!" Andrews barked, slamming his foot on the gas and feeling the muscle car lurch forward. The engine hummed with growing intensity, slowly building to a roar as they careened down the dusty road.

 

The pursuer was now directly to their left, and Andrews got his first good look at the man who had been trailing them. He was driving a scrappy little motorcycle, most likely built from scrap. His long trench coat flowed in the wind, and on his left shoulder, he held a massive cassette boombox.

 

Andrews looked to his right, and the girl was cupping her ears and screaming at a throat-shredding volume. 

"HOW DID YOU FIND ME?!" she repeated over and over.

 

"How do you know this guy?" Andrews yelled over the growl of the motorcycle engine, genuinely concerned as the pieces began to fall together.

 

Getting no answer from the cloistered girl, he returned his gaze to the motorcyclist. The man was instantly recognizable. His frizzy hair and dull gray trench coat were a dead-ringer for the biker Andrews had met back at the bar. He watched in horror as the map-salesman pushed a crusty finger into the "play" button. 

 

"Sitting in a bathtub, singing silly songs!" The boombox screamed over the vehicle's engines.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Andrews heard a familiar psychotic laugh, followed by the cold sensation of his R8's barrel being pressed under his chin.

 

 

 

Author's Note

This was originally typed on a typewriter and was then scanned to a digital document. This means that there are spelling errors and formatting errors galore, so please feel free to mention any you find!

Reviews

[Emily]

Yeah, I liked the setting you picked, especially since I've passed through there and it already is kind of a wasteland. Milly's character is compelling, and I want to know her backstory. But I do have some notes. The first is that while you establish that Andrews is an agile, stealthy person, some of the things he does seem impossible- like sand-skiing down the hill. There are more believable ways to establish his traits. And there are a few grammar errors (Only one word was running through Andrews’ head: warm cheese.), and in general I would put more commas, but that's my preference. The most memorable line was "a bullet would cut through him like warm cheese." Gross, but accurate. Good job!

[Guardian Of The Lost]

Definitely notice the grammatical errors and I was thinking you could type up your stories to work out the kinks and then copy them to a typewriter for funsies if you care to. Haha. There are some run-ons and over-description that detracts from what you're trying to say. Remember to not use "as" in lieu of "since" or "because". "As" describes something happening at the same time something else is occurring. Review this sentence for syntax, "Despite his apparent cowardice, Andrews had been hardened by years of surviving in the harsh conditions of the Mojave wasteland, and quickly entered an almost Zen-like state as he calmly gathered a few tools and scant supplies from the backseat, hardly noticing the pain as his exposed underarm is burned by the metal door." Warm cheese? Hahaha. Nice. Sparkling frying pan? Bahaha.

There's a tense shift within this sentence, "Although, anyone watching would have assumed that he was just falling down in a particularly lucky direction and happened to be moving his feet in unison. Andrews himself wasn't exactly sure which state he was demonstrating, but all that mattered in that moment was that he gets his hands on the gun before this whacko did." No way this girl has a diamond-encrusted pan, in the Mojave, and isn't already dead. Lol. I don't know the exact time frame here, but you do mention this is a dystopian setting and it has a Fallout: New Vegas vibe, right? With that being said, I don't think it's believable that anyone would care to find out who died in that casino let alone use dental records to identify the body. I don't know enough about Andrews, but I am finding it hard to believe that a teenage girl is capable of beating the crap out of a grown man, haha. Like, Emily said, if this guy is agile I find that he wouldn't be so easily blind-sided by a less experienced girl.

While I do find the ending kind of fun I still feel like it isn't very realistic. If this is a setting like New Vegas then when she lowers the shotgun in the casino that would be the opportune time for Andrews to blow that little b***h away with his hand cannon. He may not be that kind of person, the little girl killing kind, but he's lasted for some time in the wasteland, so he knows some s**t. Lastly, I do really enjoy your writing, and like me, I think you could benefit from the "less is more" mantra. Connor has given me similar advise that he's given you and I think we should help each other with that. I appreciate your use of words and their variety. After reading this I want to go play New Vegas now, lol. I enjoyed so much of this and with some refining it can be a real treat to Fallout fans and other alike. We should definitely write a story together.

[Salz Verkopen]

I loved the way you cast your setting, and then sprinkled believable and dynamic characters in to the setting. The twist was brilliant, and I was thoroughly engrossed.