War. War never changes.

Driven by hatred, the Courier - Hunter of the Mojave – left a swathe of destruction in the scant months since he was left for dead in the town of Goodsprings. Killing Benny in cold blood, it seemed to many of the powers of the wasteland that the Courier could be seen as a potential ally, but it was not to be so.

When Mr. House called the Courier to prepare his upgraded, extended Securitron army, the Courier instead destroyed the army utterly, and the Platinum Chip in the process. When Caesar attempted to recruit him, the Courier killed every Praetorian in the room before shooting Caesar between the eyes. When the New California Republic told him to gather allies, he intentionally goaded the Fiends, the Kings and the Great Khans – bolstered by the addition of ex Powder Gangers - against the NCR, and gave the Brotherhood the knowledge and technology they needed to fight back as well. Having never met Yes Man nor killed Mr. House, the Courier’s plan all along was clear, a many-layered project to result in the relative independence of the region.

Though areas such as Jacobstown, Goodsprings, Novac and Primm survived, even prospered with the Courier’s aid, the lack of security both Mr. House and the NCR once offered took a toll on the safety of the roads, leaving Fiends, Gangers and worse loose along the highways.

In the end, at the Second Battle for Hoover Dam, the Courier and the Enclave Remnants took advantage of the battle, arriving to drive out the Legion one last time, killing their last leader and throwing their ‘empire’ into anarchy. The Remnants and Courier both disappeared without a trace, and were never known to return from the East side of the Colorado.

Even with the Legion crumbling once again into squabbling tribes, the NCR’s grasp on the region weakened. Renewed Fiend attacks and direct, organized attacks by the Great Khans saw great losses by the NCR, and renewed hostility by the Kings and Mr. House both saw them ejected from the New Vegas Strip and Freeside both. Regardless, the NCR stubbornly hold what military bases they can, even with their Monorail destroyed, Hoover Dam included.

Mr. House, his best-laid plans ruined by the destructive nature of the Courier, finds himself in a hopeless scenario. Riots in Freeside destroyed many of his Securitrons, and even with the treachery amongst the Omertas stomped out, his grasp on the Strip was weaker than ever before. Trusting the Families and his remaining Securitrons to hold a semblance of peace in the Strip without the NCR’s military to contend with, he retreats to make new plans to establish dominance, despite the impossible situation he finds himself in.

The day is June the 20th, 2281; exactly two months after the Second Battle for Hoover Dam.

June the 20th, 2281. 7:58am.
The crude metal gates of eastern Freeside swung open for Olsen, for the first time in more than two years. It was early morning; the best time to enter Freeside without getting set upon at every corner by thugs. Despite that, still the mercenaries and Kings members sat and called out their offers of protection through the streets as he stepped foot inside Freeside once again. Olsen didn't bother to stop and reply.

Despite the NCR leaving, and the newfound weakness in Mr House, it seems nothing had changed in freeside. Mick and Ralph's still stood open for business, albeit with some nailed planks of wood here and there, to hide damage from the riots to the walls and doors. A leather-jacketed man leant on a remaining wall of a collapsed building, a strange, suspcious smirk on his face. To the side, on the pavement, a man was asleep on a thin mattress with no covers, heedless of the dried vomit on the walls near him. Another could just be seen in the shadows the morning cast between the streets, twitching oddly, bright-eyed as a result of chems.

So much time had passed, so little difference had been made.

Breathing through his mouth to ignore the putrid smells of the city, Olsen began to walk down the familiar streets, leaving the bodyguards behind him. Almost immediately someone else called out, but unlike the bodyguards previously, the rasped words of this local stopped him in his tracks and turn towards the speaker. The speaker was a ghoul, a beggar by his clothes, that had escaped his notice, leaning against the edge of a dumpster just outside Mick and Ralph's.

"Don't know of many that wear the Followers Crest that would be entering on their own. At least not from the east. Been out of Freeside for awhile?"

----------

Meanwhile...
'This is it?'
When Markas had followed where rumour stated one of Enclave Remnants went, 'disappointment' was an understatement when he saw the cesspool of Freeside. What serving member of the Government could live amidst such filth quietly? Chem addicts and drunks staggered through the streets, children ran after giant rats and other pests for meat to cook, while criers offered the services of prostitutes further inside the city. He had yet to see this 'Silver Rush' that criers had yelled at him too, but he doubted anyone in such a town could possibly have any geniune expertise on Energy Weaponry.

When Markas had tracked down the Old Mormon Fort where the Remnant apparently inhabited, however, he saw something different. The 19th century building did seem a somewhat more civilized dwelling, ironically, than the city around it, but its wooden gate and open top - save for the visible, if miniature, towers - seemed hopelessly impractical. He wondered what type of weaponry the locals had had during the riots, because a grenade could be easily thrown over those walls, and cause a heck of a mess inside.

That was, he had been assured, the dwelling of the Remnant, and also the major point of operation of the Followers of the Apocalypse in the Mojave region. Markas had come across them in his time, and knew that many citizens idolized or appreciated their efforts in spreading medicine, technology and aid across New Vegas and beyond. Admirably trying the impossible, it seems: cleaning up the wastelands.

Still doesn't explain what a Remnant is doing there. Only one way to find out though.

As Markas approached the wooden gate of the Old Mormon Fort, one of two guards standing on either side of the entrance stepped forward in Markas' path, holding out a hand respectfully.

"Sorry, but if you would like to enter, please hand over all weapons you are carrying. We do not wish for there to be any more violence inside the Fort."

----------

Meanwhile...
Gus groaned, wiping the sleep from his eyes as he sat up in his hired bed. The bed wasn't exactly casino quality, in terms of hygiene nor comfort, but Gus had decided long ago that he'd prefer the beds at the 'Seventh Bullet' bar he had frequented for years. The bar's owner, Pyke, while he didn't tend to use his spare rooms for much besides storage, always offered Gus space to sleep for a few caps, and in return Gus made sure to make the Seventh Bullet the place to spend his prospecting profits, as well as to pick up all the supplies he can get there. Besides, considering what goes on at the Atomic Wrangler every night, Gus wouldn't trust the beds there, despite the inflated price.

Gus stretched as he stood. He planned to enjoy his time off since his big haul. Not many prospectors in the Mojave who could honestly say they had the caps to just live a little for a few days. Getting into his clothing, he slung his pack over his shoulder and drew open the door, making his way down the steps to the bar below. Pyke was already behind the counter, cleaning out a drinking glass with a rag that may or may not be dirtier than the glass itself. Pyke was an older man than Gus, being in his late fifties - not a bad feat for anyone in Freeside. Pale skinned, clean shaven with short, cropped black hair and a hooked nose that had clearly been broken more than once, Pyke had never mentioned what he did before he fixed up and ran this low-interest bar in Freeside, but Gus knew firsthand of his talents with a pistol. The Seventh Bullet didn't survive the riot because there weren't any thugs who thought they could loot it, but because there weren't any thugs who survived any attempted attack or looting.

Pyke looked up as Gus approached, putting aside his rag and glass to lean over the counter.

"Hey, not ten minutes ago a message came for you. Some youth from the Followers left a message from Julie Farkas. Wanted to thank you for the supplies you sold them from your last haul, and offered a job. Something about striking a deal with the Crimson Caravan Company. Sounds like a way to make caps easier than prospecting, if you ask me..."

Freeside "Still the same rotting cesspool I left you in." Olson said as he bypassed the typical welcoming committee of iron-fisted lead brained brutes mustered about the entrance way, offering their protection to anyone with enough caps. Funny irony there was, as Olson knew, if they knew you had the caps to spare for their services, you'd just as likely end up with a shiv in your backside while they cleaned you out and moved on to the next hapless target.

Two years and more Olson had been gone, since the day he returned to find the NCR had pulled out of their alliance with the Followers of the Apocalypse, his wife and daughter slain in their reclamation of property turned violent outbreak. Since then, the NCR had been reduced to their own hideaways and plottings, while Mr House fought vigilantly, albeit seemingly in vain, to reclaim some semblance of control over the region.

Olson wasn't sure why his path had brought him back to this accursed place. It had been here that his life had been given purpose through the teachings of Nicole, facilitated by the kind words and patience of Elsa, the woman he came to marry; and her daughter Faith. It was here, that he had been educated, and instructed into something more than a gun toting miscreant with a misguided view of might equals right into a man with a cause, and a sense of pride in what he was doing.

It was here that his world had been torn asunder, and he had taken to the road with vengeance and a vigilante mindset gnawing at his conscience, to fill the void left by the loss of his loved ones, replace it with anything but sorrow and rage.

But here he was, overlooking Mick and Ralph's, the typical assortment of strung out junkies, and profiteering whores. It seemed like the Followers still had their work cut out for them. Perhaps it was time to pay the old homestead of the Old Mormon Fort a visit.. pay his respects to the dead he left behind so long ago.

Almost immediately someone else called out, but unlike the bodyguards previously, the rasped words of this local stopped him in his tracks and turn towards the speaker. The speaker was a ghoul, a beggar by his clothes, that had escaped his notice, leaning against the edge of a dumpster just outside Mick and Ralph's.
"Don't know of many that wear the Followers Crest that would be entering on their own. At least not from the east. Been out of Freeside for awhile?"

Olson turned, his hand still resting between the 3rd and forth buckle of his trenchcoat, resting upon the hand carved grip of his custom 9mm. As his cool eyes turned to fall upon the speaker, Olson took in the ghoul and at his inquiry merely shrugged. "You could say that. Had some.. business take me away. But that's taken care of now and back I've come. What's the word around here?"

The ghoul's eyes flicked to the hand of the ex-Follower, before back to Olsen's face, unthreatened.

"Well I'll give you a tip, buddy, if you can spare a cap."

The ghoul raised a hand, holding it out palm-upwards.

Olson looked upon the ghoul and he chuckled. "As i said, some things never change." Fishing out a single cap from his pocket, he approached the ghoul and held the cap just above his hand. " A man, no matter his appearance is only as good as his word..." Placing the cap into his palm he looked the ghoul in the eye and smiled. "Whats the word?"

The ghoul gave a thin smile, pulling his hand back to place the cap within the folds of his loose, torn clothing.

"If you're a Follower, then I'd suggest you watch out. There's been many cases of violence towards the Followers by locals, and no-ones quite sure why, despite the Kings' best efforts to stop it. The squatters have suffered too, with no NCR to protect them."

The ghoul's decayed face shifted as he held out his hand again.

"There, wasn't that worth a cap? Could you spare another, buddy, before you walk off?"

"More violence, means more people in need of medical attention. Which invariably means, sad to say though.. more business for a would be patcher such as myself." Olson took three more caps from his pocket and laced the ghoul's palm with them. "Telling me, or anyone else in this crazy life that violence is a likely possibility may not be worth the cap, but honesty, and having an ear in the right places certainly are. I can handle my own, though I appreciate the warnings. Go find yourself a warm meal, and a safe place to stay if you can. If trouble finds you while I'm here then find me. I'll be headed to the Old Fort." Olson extended his hand to the Ghoul.

"Names Olson Macdonald.. Though I suppose that's a name left behind some years ago. Lately jus' been answerin to the "Gun Doc. Got a name friend?"

"Well..." Markas pulled out the plasma defender, one of the last things he had left to remind him of his old life...and one of the last things he had to keep himself safe.
"...are people likley to attack me with a gun like this by my side...and are they more likley to attack me without it? So, if you do let me in with my sidearm, then will that not serve to reduce violence? Also, if I do decide to fry a few brains with this weapon, since this place is so violent it'll probably be those of the more...destitute, ie: those who can't afford weapon like this to keep themselves safe."
Markas' vaguely unnerving grin hung between the men. He had hoped that his words would, at the very least distract the two guards from his still-concealed trench knife, reffering back to the defender and how he was likley to use it 'should' imply that he had no other weapons...should being the operative word in that assumption.

Olsen Macdonald
The ghoul raised his vague outlines of eyebrows, arching them over the cloudy blue eyes. He withdrew the caps back within the folds of his clothing to join the rest, but held his hands out in a cautioning fation rather than accept the offered hand. He didn't seem to want to inflict upon Olsen the soft and probably unhealthy touch of mostly decayed hands with peeling skin. The ghoul chuckled, smiling.

"Heh, a Follower to the end, huh? Thanks buddy, and the name's Rotface. Here's a safe as place as any for me, so I'll save the caps, thanks. Allow me to give you a friendly heads-up for your charity, though. A man in some mechanics uniform came by here this morning. He seemed somewhat too repulsed by me, but spoke to another guy down the street. Gave the guy a couple of caps, asking about where the Old Mormon Fort was. Seemed like he was looking for someone there, and the plasma pistol he had looked in too good condition to be a scavenger's. Watch out for him."

"That's all I can help you with. Tell you what, though, I'll keep my eyes open for anything more about the anger against the Followers and pass anything onto you next time you come by for a couple of caps."

----------

Markas Jaden
The guard looked less than impressed, holding out his hand for the weapon.

"Hah, a regular philosopher, huh? There will be no violence within this Fort, and we'll give you back your pistol on your way out. Hand it over, please, and you can go in."

Neither guard seemed to even hint or see a sign of another weapon. The trench knife was far too well concealed amongst the clutter of kits and small packs of scrap and parts Markas carried around. As the closest one awaited for the weapon, the other moved forward, preparing to open the wooden gate for the newcomer.

"A fair warning, and taken to heart. Thank you Rotface. " With eyes peeled and direction chosen however, Olson moved towards the Old Fort, anxious to receive some information, perhaps an assignment, but mostly, he just wanted to look over the simple plot graves of his family once more and ask forgiveness and guidance from the woman he loved; something he had done many times over their relationship he recalled.

"Alright." Markas grimaced, handing his weapon gingerly over to the guard. "Now, perhaps you could tell me where the...warrior who fought at the battle of the Dam could be found?"
What was it they had called the man...a 'Remenant' an all too accurate description of what was left of the Enclave for Markas' tastes. One that would change.

Gus woke in the morning with a stretch, the gritty light coming through a small window layered with dust. The 'Seventh Bullet' was a small hole in the wall place, but it was still in business and the same man has owned it for ever so something is going right.

He walked out of his room strapping up his tight fitting overalls and smiled at Pyke while he headed to the bathroom.
Striking up a conversation on the way, Pyke mentioned something about the Old Mormon Fort.

"Hey, not ten minutes ago a message came for you. Some youth from the Followers left a message from Julie Farkas. Wanted to thank you for the supplies you sold them from your last haul, and offered a job. Something about striking a deal with the Crimson Caravan Company. Sounds like a way to make caps easier than prospecting, if you ask me..."

Gus stopped for a minute, and drew his hand to his chin rubbing his stubble.

"Ah, well that there sounds dandy. I'll make a trip right over as soon as ah' get me somethin' ta' eat. First thing though, I gotta' freshen up."

Freshening up as much as he could in the bathroom, he came out and sat at Pyke's bar, ordering a quick something to eat, not really caring what it was as long as it filled him up.

Over his meal, Gus thanked Pyke once again for the message and meal, paid his way and left four caps in a tip jar that was on the counter.

Gus was once again on the move, going through Freeside as easily as if he was a native. He had been through here more than he could remember, and the fort was something that you couldn't easily miss. Stepping over downed poles, piles of rubble and dodging dirty children he always kept his hand in a pocket near his 10 mm pistol just in case any thugs thought they could get wise. By now though, most beggars and thugs at least knew his face and his business around town, so they didn't jump him... as much.

Gus stepped up to the gates of the Fort, and gladly handed over his weapons to the familiar faces as he did so many times before, and entered in, hoping to hear from familiar voices with good news ringing. A deal with the biggest caravaning company in the west could give him enough caps to maybe even start back up in his old ways, and make it back out to California.

Markas
The guard took the weapon, but frowned at Markas for a moment as the second opened the gates.

For a moment, it looked as if he suspected something, before...

"There's no...he's...not available. Are you with the NCR?"

The Follower Guard blocked Markas' road, clearly desiring a reply before he'd be let in. As he did so, a passing figure, scarred yet clearly better off than the average local, turned from the streets to pass the guards as well, the second guard by the now-open gates taking the offered Machete and 10mm Pistol from the man, letting him pass with familiarity despite the weapon-like shovel and pickaxe still on his back.

----------

Gus
Gus may not have known the name of the guard, but they knew each other's face, and the Follower didn't give him any trouble besides taking the offered pistol and machete graciously. Gus paid little mind to the man mere meters away, clearly having an issue entering, instead heading inside the fort.

The Follower's were busier than Gus had ever seen them. Doctors literally ran from tent to tent, while runners brought out packages of medicine from inside the chemistry labs within the towers, only to run back with the empty containers to restock further. More guards than before lined around the opening, while others could be seen atop the towers - a new level of security. Gus suspected many may have had to be hired, something the Followers are usually reluctant to rely too heavily upon: Mercenaries. In the center of it all, through even greater number of tents and makeshift covered areas, was Julie Farkas. No-one ever had difficulty recognizing her despite her basic lab-coat, the mohawk was a giveaway.

She seemed to currently be talking quickly, discussing something rapidly with a doctor beside her. As the doctor nodded, moving off to tend to another patient within one of the tents, Julie caught sight of Gus, and waved him over.

"Mr Gus, was it? I take it you got our message?"

----------

Olsen
The gun doctor made his way throughout the streets of Freeside without notable incident. He'd chosen the best time to travel, after all. He approached the gates of the Fort just as one man entered, another being stopped by a guard. The one stopped was wearing a mechanic's uniform...

"Oh, trust me, he's available." Markas looks up at the guard, his eyes gleaming. "And as for the NCR...if the sixty shots I carried were enough to stop them, then they wouldn't be around to agitate either of us."
"As for my reasons for seeing him...I've got something for him, from Nevarro, don't worry, it's not a weapon, you took it already, remember? So, unless information is lethal you'll let me in."

Markas Jaden
"Oh, trust me, he's available. And as for the NCR...if the sixty shots I carried were enough to stop them, then they wouldn't be around to agitate either of us."

"As for my reasons for seeing him...I've got something for him, from Navarro, don't worry, it's not a weapon, you took it already, remember? So, unless information is lethal you'll let me in."

Skill-Assisted Dialogue used: Speech (Coercion)
[22/??] = Failure.
The Follower looked at Markas. He wasn't angry, but it was clear he was thinking on what he'd said. Finally, he spoke. Dangerously quietly.

"He's busy. And you're hardly keeping yourself subtle, speaking out against the NCR yet knowing of Navarro. And on top of all that, you're looking for Arcade. Take your weapon and go, we're much too busy to deal with this."

He held the Plasma Defender out, meaning to hand it back to Markas. Carefully.