After two years of caravanning, Flak was sick of the Wasteland, and after the last tour through D.C. that had almost gotten the lot of them killed several times he was sick of being a caravan guard. But there was little else he could do, so his life wasn’t likely to change anytime soon.

Entering the marketplace of Rivet City was a blessing; coming in from the oppressive heat outside the cool, shady hangar was as inviting and promising respite as an oasis to a traveller in the desert. Flak entered, with him the three other guards, and was almost shot dead. The bullet impacted two inches beside his head.

“The fuck?” He drew his gun, as did his companions, when they realised it had only been Quentin.
Quentin, the weapon dealer in Rivet City who was getting on a bit in years, had – again – forgotten to unload one of the guns he was about to repair. “Sorry, guys!”, he yelled merrily at the mercenaries on the stairs and returned his attention to the rifle he was tinkering with.
Flak shook his head with a sigh and lit up a smoke. The years hadn’t been kind to Quentin, especially not to his mind, and it could occasionally be a little tedious to get the right type of ammo from him. Every time he came to Rivet City Flak secretly hoped the poor old man would’ve met his maker, but he clung as stubbornly to life as he clung to keeping his shop. Sooner or later, somebody would get hurt.

As he passed the stall he cast a cautious look at the gun Quentin was struggling with and realised it was a very nice hunting rifle, a scoped one even, and that Quentin was banging it onto the table to get a bullet out. He cringed and walked around the counter.
“Wait a second.” Smoke clamped firmly between his lips, he took the rifle out of the old man’s hands and cautiously unloaded it, realising as he did so that the repeater mechanism needed some maintenance. “You wanna be gentle on the scope.”
“Bah.” Quentin snorted. “Who needs those fuckers anyway? I used to be able to hit a fly’s wing on hundred yards without one!”
“Some sight to behold, I’m sure.” Flak puffed his cheeks and let the smoke escape again as he spoke. “But there are those who ain’t as fortunate, and those might find a scope a very handy thing.”
Quentin huffed and held out his hands. Somewhat reluctantly, Flak handed the rifle back and thought it a shame that most likely, it would be hardly more than scrap by the time Quentin was finished with it.

“Oy”, a voice said, and Flak looked up to see two young men with SMGs head for the stall. “We need some ammo.”
Flak looked at Quentin, but the old man was engrossed in fiddling with the rifle and either hadn’t noticed his customers or was busily ignoring them. With a shrug, Flak opened one of the drawers were Quentin kept the ammo, rummaged around until he found three packs of 10mm, and shoved those across the counter. Since he was a regular, he knew what Quentin usually charged and as he put the money into the till, Quentin suddenly pointed the rifle at him.
“Hey”, he said happily, squinting through the scope. “I can see the hairs in your nose.”
Had Flak not unloaded the gun himself, he probably would have hit the old man, despite his age. As it was, he gently pushed the muzzle of the gun out of his face and down. “Don’t point guns at people you don’t mean to shoot, Quentin. It’s not polite.”
Quentin pouted at him, another sight to behold as Quentin lacked most of his teeth. Flak tried not to think of things with warts that lived in swamps.

“Say youngster”, Quentin said after a moment without pausing to fiddle with the rifle. “You seem to know your way around guns. Mind giving old Quentin a hand? My eyes ain’t what they used to be.”
It wasn’t only his eyes, but Flak refrained from saying so. He had caught glimpses into the cabinet and different drawers on occasion, and the higgledy-piggledy chaos on every shelf and in every drawer had made him wince. It was no wonder the old man couldn’t find his parts and his tools anymore.
“Well...”