Fallout Kink Meme Part IV: Closed to prompts, open for fills.

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Scorpion Honey, 2a/?

[(Anonymous)]

They lapsed into silence, emptying bottles and filling ashtrays as they pretended to ignore one another.

Moore was starting to look and feel drunk, but Cass was as collected as she had been an hour and a half earlier. The colonel’s hair was coming out of its twist and her eyeliner had smudged, but Cass’s hands and voice were steady when she ordered the next round.

Their eyes met in the mirror, and a subtle shift in posture turned the sidelong look into a challenge. Moore squared her shoulders and ordered another drink, snapping at the bartender when her glass wasn’t refilled fast enough. Cass dropped her gaze, laughing behind her hand.

Moore was a drink past decorum and two past caring. She turned on her stool to face Cass.

“You looking for a fight?” she demanded.

“Not with you,” Cass said. She wasn’t slurring, but her cheeks were almost as read as her hair.

Her tone set Moore’s teeth on edge. “I was in the Rangers,” she spat. “I hit you, you hit the ground.”

The redhead snorted. “Maybe five years ago. You’re past your prime, sister.”

Moore’s hands clenched at her sides, fisting in the pretty fabric of the useless dress. “I’m giving you one chance,” she said, her voice low and clipped, “you shut your mouth.”

“Fuck you, bitch,” Cass said. “If you were gonna hit me, you already would have.”

Moore didn’t hesitate. Her fist connected with the other woman’s face, and the entire bar heard something crack as Cass slipped backwards off her barstool. The look of utter shock on her face was so sweet that Moore smiled, despite herself.

“Bitch,” she said, and then she was surrounded by casino security.

She was very calm as they hauled her out of the bar and into the dimly lit offices. She was led through a dull, concrete maze and ushered into a nondescript office with stained wallpaper and discolored, water-damaged chairs. As soon as the door closed behind her, Moore realized that she’d left her purse sitting on the bar.

The Omertas kept her there for nearly an hour. She paced restlessly, and the movement cooled enough of her agitation to keep her hands at her sides when the floor manager finally found the time to deal with her.

Re: Scorpion Honey, 2b/?

[(Anonymous)]

He was a pompous, condescending asshole, and his oily voice aroused the anger that had cooled since the fight. He tried to talk her into making an apology, and she bluntly refused. She was Colonel Cassandra Moore; did he have any idea who he was dealing with?

Her raving made him nervous enough to call for security. Two enormous, identical guards arrived as soon as he pressed the panic button. The floor manager followed at their heels as they escorted Moore to the exit. He told her, in no uncertain terms, that she was no longer welcome at the Gomorrah.

She stumbled when they shoved her through the doors, blinded by the brilliance of the Strip’s innumerable colored lights. The sun had set when she was indoors, and the casinos had turned on their floodlights and neon, and she couldn’t help but be dazzled at the display.

The lights had seemed tacky and ostentatious under the unforgiving light of day, but at night, they were almost beautiful. She stared up, almost in wonder, and let the burgeoning night crowd carry her away from the Gomorrah.

She ended up at the Strip’s North with no clear idea of how she got there. The NCR embassy was a shabby, nondescript building at the other end of the packed Strip, and Moore decided she didn’t want to force her way through the crowd. She was starting to feel feverish and faintly ashamed of her drunkenness. But the night was beautiful: clear and cool, and the walk back to McCarran seemed like what she needed to clear her head.

Not much of the Strip’s light made it over the wall and into Freeside. The streets were darker and dirtier, the buildings smaller and shabbier with missing windows like black eyes. Moore felt less sure of herself with every step away from the North Gate. She thought she had known the way, but she was realizing that the slum was a maze of dead-end streets and indistinguishable buildings.

The air smelled like urine, vomit, and human misery, and the stench caught in her throat and made her gag. She leaned up against one of the sooty buildings tried to regain her bearings. She’d made too many turns to remember which way she’d come. The Strip’s neons had reduced the constellations to smears of distant light, and Moore couldn’t remember how to use the stars for navigation, anyway.

Her stomach was churning, her head was spinning, and panic was finding the cracks in her unflappable exterior. She pressed her flushed cheek to the cool brick exterior of the ruined building behind her, desperate to clear her mind.

A craggy male voice broke her concentration. “You lost, beautiful?”