Nuka World Wasteland

Chapter 5- Violent Clientele

The remains of the United States of America festered for decades under the nuclear sun. Splintered groups all formed, trying to heal the land and its people in any way they could. Others emerged from the smoldering ashes and continued to spread the disease of violence. They killed and killed, but like a mutated bacteria, they always returned, just under different names and faces.

    These were the raiders. No matter what location of the broken country you were in, the raiders would be there as well. No matter how many settlements people tried to build, there would always be a raider gang who terrorized caravans, stole people as slaves, and killed simple survivors without mercy.

    Everyone was willing to kill to survive. Raiders were only the survivors who didn't care how far they had to go in order to live.

    That's why Zora never wanted to stay in the Combat Zone as she grew older. Years past and her uncle remained the same; sitting at the same bar, frowning with his same old ghoulish scars.

    Zora V. had decided one year that she had enough of the mundane routines of manning the Zone. She stole a large number of caps and left, not knowing who she would become, only that she was free to live for herself.    

    Now she stood in front of the Zone again, three years after she had run away from her Uncle's bloodshot watch. He'd finally see who she had become.

    She secured her shotgun on her back and made sure her two pipe pistols were loaded and holstered at her side and against her back. A brown hood rested around her head and a red bandana wrapped around her mouth, as she tried to hide as much of her face and skin as possible.

    She wanted to surprise her dear old uncle.

    Taking a deep raspy breath, she pushed open the door to the Zone. There was no going back now.

    As always, a heavy layer of smoke wafted up in the air as the cigar smoking patrons huddled around the bar and other tables, mumbling and drinking with each other.    

    A man she didn't recognize manned the bar and he was chatting up a woman who leaned in close, their voices a sultry murmur.

    Tommy sat at the bar, looking around at the patrons and drinking a shot of whiskey. Good. It would be easier with him out in the open.
Cait sat in the cage, just like when Zora had left. The fighter's arms were heavily bruised and blood dripped from her nose, but Zora could tell from the unconscious man in front of her, Cait had won.

She approached the bar and placed a small bundle of caps onto the scratched surface of the bar.

"Bartender?" She looked at the couple, still whispering in each others ears, the woman giggling occasionally.

"Bartender?" Zora coughed and jingled her caps in front of him, finally catching his attention.

"What? Can't you see I'm in the middle of something?" The man complained in a nasally voice with a thick Boston accent.

She turned to Tommy, "Are you fuckin serious? Your service is terrible."

Tommy glared at the Bartender, "Come on, show the woman some respect, she's one of our patrons," he gestured angrily at the man who finally whipped up a glass of vodka, slamming it down in front of her.

Tommy grumbled and wiped of stray drops of alcohol, finally looking at the newcomer.

"Or more like a new patron. I don't think I've seen you here before. Welcome to the Combat Zone."

"Finally. I take it that you're the owner?"
Tommy grinned with pride, "You're right young lady."

Zora smiled. He didn't suspect a thing.
She took out her pipe pistol and rested it on the counter as she started wiping it down.