New Vegas: Sheason's Story

Chapter 70: Gomorrah

Good evening to all my listeners out there in the Mojave Wasteland! You all look absolutely stunning tonight. It's just about time we get you some news. Many Veteran NCR Rangers are being pulled off the front line, following the recent departure of Ranger Chief Hanlon from Camp Golf. According to an anonymous source, this is part of a campaign to secure existing NCR territory west of the Mojave. Promotional consideration for this part of the program has been brought to you by Gomorrah: It'll be our little secret. More classics coming right up for you, so stay tuned.

By the time we'd said our goodbyes to all the Boomers and the Gearheads, collected everything, and started to head back to Vegas, it was starting to get dark. The ride back to the Lucky 38 was uneventful, but full of adoration for Hamilton's work on my car. Specifically, the fact that the car now had air conditioning. Funny thing about AC... if you've never had it, you never miss it, but as soon as you get it, it's the best thing in the world.

By the time I rolled through Freeside (trying to get through the crowds of people who all wanted a look at my car without mowing any of them down), and all of us were packed into the Lucky 38's elevator, it was definitely dark.

"So," Veronica spoke up as the elevator trundled upward to the presidential suite. "Are you going to keep wearing that? Is this seriously going to be a thing now?"

"Huh?" I looked at her, confused; she just pointed up. "Oh, the hat? Sure, why not?" Veronica sighed and shook her head.

"I kinda like it, actually," Cass chimed in, giving me a thumbs up. Veronica rolled her eyes.

"You'd be a spitting image of The Bandit if you shaved off everything but the mustache," Arcade spoke up, smirking at me. Veronica sighed again, and rolled her eyes as the elevator doors opened.

"I'm surrounded by rednecks..." Veronica shook her head as she stepped out of the elevator. One by one, everyone else all filed out of the elevator... but Cass stopped and turned to me when she realized I wasn't following.

"You go on ahead," I said, urging her on. "I'll be back in a bit."

"Goin' up t'see House then, r'you?" she asked, grabbing hold of the elevator door to keep it open. I nodded.

"Probably a good idea. If I don't tell him the good news, he'll probably pull me out of bed again," I said with a smirk that my emotions couldn't back up. Cass, understandably, looked a little concerned.

"Jus'... be careful, a'right?" She started stepping back into the elevator. "You know he's gonna send y'on another real dangerous job, an' I ain't gonna always be there t'pull yer ass out've th' fire."

"If I recall," I loosened her grip on the elevator door, and placed a hand on her shoulder. "I was the one to save you when you fell in that sinkhole."

"Wh... I mean..." Cass looked flustered, and her cheeks flushed red as she took a step back. "Y'jus'... shut up." I chuckled, patting her on the shoulder.

"Thanks for worrying. But I'll be fine." The elevator doors shut before she had a chance to argue further. As soon as the elevator started moving again, I sighed heavily and leaned against the back wall for support.

She was right, of course. Sending me on another dangerous mission was probably exactly what House was going to do, just as soon as I told him an alliance with the Boomers had been secured. But what else could I do? I felt stuck... maybe House really was right. I'm just a mailman, caught up in events bigger than myself, and far beyond my ability to control.

A voice nagged me in the back of my mind as the elevator doors opened onto the top floor: "The only way to win in Vegas is to rig the game for yourself..."

"Welcome back, Mr. Fisher," A metallic, feminine voice spoke up when the doors opened, breaking me out of my reverie. Two securitrons with female face-screens rolled into my view.

"Hello Jane. Marilyn," I tipped my hat to the two robots as I passed. I looked around... I knew Victor was around here somewhere, but I had no idea where.

"Mr. House is waiting for you, sugar," Jane spoke up, her face flickering slightly. I walked past the two of them, into House's office. Sure enough, before I even finished walking down the stairs, House's giant face flickered to life on the main monitor.

"Have you made any progress with the Boomers, Mr. Fisher?" House boomed. I walked down the stairs as calmly as I could.

"As a matter of fact, yes," I said, sticking my hands in my pockets as I came to a stop in front of the massive monitor. "Turns out, the Boomers are actually pretty nice once you get to know them. You just have to know what to say." I smiled up at the screen; House's massive face on the monitor remained immobile, so I kept going. "Did you know they've taken over that racetrack north of Nellis? That track is great fun, it's like an amusement park for car nuts! They've actually invited me back, so I was thinking I might-"

"Perhaps I should be more clear, Mr. Fisher," House interrupted me, obviously annoyed. "Maybe then you will stop wasting my time. Did you secure an alliance with their leaders, or not?"

"I thought that was obvious," I muttered under my breath. I cleared my throat. "Yes, Mr. House. I've secured their loyalty. They've promised to aid me in the coming battle." I tried not to emphasize the word, but I'm pretty sure I failed. "As far as you should be concerned, they'll do what I say."

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"Well done, Mr. Fisher. The Boomers and the firepower they posses will most certainly prove an advantage when the battle for Hoover Dam comes around."

"You know, we really have to work on your people skills, House," I said. "I think you'd get a much better reaction if you were a little more polite. Treated people like people, rather than tools. I mean, seriously, the Boomers are good folk, once you get past the artillery fire."

"Are you quite finished?" House at least waited until I'd finished speaking this time. "Their amiability is completely inconsequential to the task at hand. I am trying to secure the future of New Vegas, and I do not posses the luxury of common courtesy, or 'playing nice.' Caesar will not be forgiving if I stop to be polite, nor will the NCR's President Kimball. Now," House cleared his throat. "Shall we discuss your next assignment?"

Here it comes.

"Sure thing, House," I sighed, putting on my best fake smile. "What's next?"

"Don't worry, this next assignment won't take you far this time. I want you to check in on the Omertas, and their headquarters: that den of vice, Gomorrah."

"The Omertas are one of the Three Families, right? " I asked. Probably Two Families now, I thought, after what happened to the Chairmen at the Tops...

"Yes, although..." House paused for a few seconds. "When I recruited them, they called themselves the 'Slither Kin.' They were a vicious clan... not that that's changed really. They were nomads and capable fighters, but their specialty was betrayal. They would invite wayward travelers into their yurts, drug them, and then murder or enslave them. They took exceptional pride in their craft. I honestly don't think Omertas see other people as people at all. Everyone else who isn't them is just... prey. In a way, they reminded me of a certain criminal element Vegas used to attract. I told them some stories, gave them some clothes, and they ran with it. Quite fascinating to watch, really..." House's tone took on a slightly bemused quality at the end there.

"Alright, so they sound like a pretty... horrible bunch. What's the problem?"

"There isn't one." House said flatly. I did a double take, trying to work that around in my head.

"I'm confused. Run that by me again?"

"You must understand," House spoke slowly, as if what he was saying was obvious. "I've never expected real loyalty from the Omertas. A reliably underhanded tribe is just as constant to deal with as one that always runs true. But that's just it - lately, the Omertas' cooperative silence has been positively deafening. Not a single complaint? They're up to something."

"Alright," I sighed, rubbing my eyes. "I'll check into the Omertas for you. I guess if I'm sticking to The Strip, it shouldn't take that long..." Hopefully. "Any idea on where to start?"

"The Omertas are fanatically loyal to each other. Still, among any group, one can always find the occasional degenerate. One of Gomorrah's cashiers, a woman by the name of Rosanna, happens to be one. For years, she passed on whispers to my agents of what was taking place at their headquarters in exchange for payment. A few months ago, however, she clammed up. Odds are, she's scared, but I've had no way of approaching her directly."

"So why can't you just send in securitrons? Roll over the place?" I asked. House grumbled and sighed.

"Because, if I send in an overt show of force, any hope of finding out the truth of what's going on behind their walls will evaporate. I daresay they are just as good - if not better - at being Mafioso's than the original Sicilian Mafia. Any evidence would merely disappear, as if it was never there. And I cannot send any of my usual agents in - the Omertas thugs would recognize them immediately, and turn them away. That's why I can't get close to Rosanna. You, on the other hand, are an unknown. A wild card. Your reputation as 'The Courier' has grown since your arrival on The Strip, but your appearance is not yet widely recognizable. That will allow you to get inside. Find Rosanna. Start with her." And with that, House's face winked off the main screen, and out of view. I started to make my way out of House's office to leave, but I was blocked by a securitron standing in my way.

"Well, howdy pardner," Victors unmistakable drawl sounded off, and his smiling cowboy face flickered slightly. "I have to say, that's a mighty fine hat you've got there, buckaroo."

"Victor," I glared up at the robot as I came to a stop just in front of him. "What, are you here to manhandle me into the elevator like last time? I'd rather you didn't, I still have the bruises." Victor started laughing slowly; the sound took on a strange quality from the electronic modulation of his robotic voicebox, and it made the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.

"Don't you worry, pardner. There won't be a need for any more unpleasantness between the two of us cowpokes... just so long as y'all remember who you're working for." Victor prodded me in the chest with one of his metal claw-fingers; it was like he was trying to push me over, but I held firm against him. "Do we have an understandin', pardner?"

"Yeah, Victor," I pushed his claw away, and stepped into the elevator. "We have an understanding."

Before I headed out, I stopped off in my room to arm up. Sure, this time I wasn't going all that far... but that didn't mean people weren't going to try and kill me. Halfway through checking my guns and gear, I was interrupted by a voice from the door.

"Preppin' fer a fight?" Cass asked as she leaned against the doorframe. Damnit, I was hoping to do this without anyone noticing. They'd done so much for me these last couple of days... I couldn't keep asking them to do stuff like this just because House wanted it done. Besides, if House was right and this was just a stealthy fact-finding mission, then the less heavily armed and armored boots on the ground, the better. Didn't want them getting spooked and going to ground.

I just shrugged, trying not to convey any of my thoughts on my face, and put That Gun in the holster on the back of my belt.

"Not really. Just going for a walk, that's all." Cass didn't look convinced - especially when I put the 12.7mm submachine gun into my underarm sling.

"Uh-huh. Jus' goin' fer a walk. An' that's why y'look like yer armin' up t'storm th' Fort, is it?"

"Hey, we got mugged in Freeside the other night, remember?" I said, sliding the Ranger Sequoia into my underarm holster. "You regretted not brining your shotgun. It's no more than being prepared."

"So, what did House want ya t'do next?" Cass walked in, and started checking out the Anti-Materiel rifle leaning against my desk.

"Didn't say," I grabbed the switchblade and the brass knuckles off the desk, sliding them into a concealed pocket inside my Riot Gear chestplate. "He thanked me for the good job with the Boomers, then said he'd tell me the next assignment in the morning."

"An' y'expect me t'believe that?" Cass hefted up the massive rifle, looking down the scope, not really aiming at anything. I shrugged, putting my duster and my hat back on as I left.

"Probably not," I smiled, patting her on the shoulder. "Don't worry, I'm just going for a walk. I'll be back soon."

Gomorrah was probably the least impressive casino on The Strip. It sat there like a gigantic square-headed cement block next to the pavement, 15 stories high. The sign over the door was lit both from within and above with fire, spelling out "GOMORRAH" in an exotic script. On either side of the sign, there were two black silhouettes of reclining women with hourglass figures and their legs in the air; they almost looked like the mudflap girls I'd seen on big-rig trucks, back in NCR territory. Aside from the female cut-outs ringed with lights, everything about the casino looked like it had been set on fire: the only colors I even saw on the building other than black were dark reds, burnt oranges, and browns.

I reached into my leather duster, and pulled out - DAMN! I was out of smokes. The box I'd stolen from Dean had finally run out. When did that happen? Had that happened earlier and I just hadn't noticed?

"Hey there, friend," I heard a voice cut through the noise and bustle of the crowd on The Strip. "Need a light?" The voice belonged to a redheaded man in sunglasses. He had a full beard, a dirty white suit with grey pinstripes, and a dark tie hanging loosely around his neck. He was leaning against one of Gomorrah's outer walls, completely indifferent to the nearby crowds. I walked toward him, showing him the empty box.

"No, but I am in the market for smokes. Got any?" There was a nagging part of my brain, yelling at me for picking up the habit again. I guess it's true what they say: nobody ever really quits. The man in the dirty suit shook his head.

"Sorry, friend. Cigarettes aren't my business." I raised an eyebrow.

"And what is your business?" I asked. He smiled at me again, and held out his hand; I shook it, almost without thinking.

"Name's Mister Holdout. My stock in trade? Protection. All kinds of easy to hide weapons for slipping into and out of casinos. Stuff small enough for the guards to miss when they're patting you down, or checking for iron on your hip. With my product, they won't give you a second glance." I raised an eyebrow at him.

"And what makes you think I need protection?" I asked, honestly. He just shook his head.

"I suppose protection is the wrong word... See the only way to get weapons into casinos is to sneak them in. One fellow I knew was able to slip a pistol past the guards, but you?" He looked me up and down and laughed. "Mister, I have seen fewer guns in an armory. You walk in looking like that? They're bound to stop you." Maybe that's the idea, I thought to myself.

"Thanks for the offer," I said, shoving the empty box of cigarettes back into my pocket. "But I think I can manage without some second-hand guns from a guy with a fake name. No offense." He rolled his eyes and shrugged, waving me off.

"Suit yourself. It's not my fault if they find your body dumped in Freeside."

A few minutes later, I was walking through the front doors... and almost immediately after stepping foot into the casino, I was stopped by a big burly thug in a dark grey suit, matching fedora hat, and sunglasses. Why was everyone wearing sunglasses? The sun went a couple hours ago!

"Where d'you think you're going pal?" He grabbed me by the shoulder, stopping me in my tracks. "No one but Omertas are allowed to carry guns into Gomorrah." As he spoke, he patted a sawn-off shotgun hanging off his hip.

"Alright, fine," I sighed, looking up at him. He led me to a nearby desk. I sighed, knowing what he was implying. "Right, but you asked for it."

I reached into my duster, and pulled out the 12.7mm submachine gun hooked on the sling under my arm, and set it on the desk with a heavy thud. Followed by the MP5 attached to a sling on my belt. Followed by That Gun. Followed by the Ranger Sequoia. Followed by a .357 magnum that I pulled off my right-thigh holster. Followed by a sawn off shotgun that I pulled off my left hip. Followed by the combat knife on my boot. Followed by a switchblade - which I switched open, and shoved into the desk blade-first.

"Do not lose these," I said, pointing at the thug, and then at my small pile of weapons on the desk. He reached beneath the desk, and handed me a small metal tab with a red "42" painted on it.

"That's your claim ticket. Don't lose that, and you'll get your guns back on your way out." He gestured to door leading deeper into the casino. "Enjoy your stay at Gomorrah."

It wasn't until after I was well out of sight and into the casino that I let out a small, satisfied smirk. My plan worked: put on such a show, getting rid of my weapons, that he wouldn't think to pat me down. I couldn't possibly be carrying any more guns after all those, right? And that meant I still had Roscoe, tucked securely (and rather uncomfortably) into the back of my pants, underneath the Riot Gear. Plus, I still had a pair of brass knuckles... and a spare switchblade.

Tell you this about the Mojave: certainly makes you more prepared. I never used to carry this many weapons everywhere I went. Didn't feel I had the need. I wonder what that said about me?

As I walked around the casino floor, I couldn't help but notice that the interior seemed to match the exterior: a mass of reds, burnt oranges, and browns. The whole room was filled with a miasma of swirling smoke, giving the whole place a dingy, shabby sort of charm. In the center of the main casino floor was a massive fire pit, and above it was another lounging female silhouette like the ones on the signs out front - except this one was spinning. All around were the sounds and sights of people gambling their money away, smoking just as often as breathing. Aside from the fire everywhere, it seemed like a pretty normal casino...

Of course, that's about the time I looked up. Hanging from the ceiling were half a dozen black steel cages, all with stripper poles in the middle, and every single one of the cages had dancing girls inside. They were all in various states of... well, half naked was probably being generous. I think one of them was just wearing tape.

"Well that's... different." I said aloud. I couldn't think of anything else to say. I think the last time I'd seen cages like that was when I'd been captured by raiders up by Klamath. They had people in cages hanging from the ceiling, too... except none of the prisoners there were dancing. At least, not unless one of the raiders got bored and starting taking potshots at the captives. But that's another story.

I shook off the bad old memories, and looked around. House said I was looking for a female cashier named Rosanna. The cashiers desk was off on one side of the wall, and when I looked at the three cashiers on duty behind the thick brass bars, only one of them was female. The dark-haired girl in the turquoise dress was too busy counting bills to notice when I approached.

"Hey there," I said, giving her my warmest, and hopefully most disarming smile. She looked up immediately, putting the NCR bills off to the side.

"Hello, and welcome to Gomorrah," she said with a fake smile. Fair enough, mine wasn't exactly genuine, either. "How would you like your chips, sir? We accept caps, NCR dollars, and Legion coins as acceptable currency."

"You're Rosanna, right?" I said, keeping up my smile. Hers, on the other hand, faded. "Thought so. I'm actually not here for chips. I'm here to collect on an outstanding balance: one for some information." She closed her eyes, grimaced, and sighed heavily.

"Damnit," she said under her breath. "I knew someone would call in that mark eventually. What do you want to know?"

"I need to find out what the Omertas are up to. And that means I need you to tell me who to talk to about what's been going down in Gomorrah." I smiled at her again. "Can you do that for me, sweetheart?" She looked around, casting furtive glances all around the casino floor, and then she leaned forward, surreptitiously gesturing for me to do the same.

"All I can tell you," she whispered to me through the bars, "is to find Cachino. He's the lowest level Lieutenant you're going to be able to talk to. Some of the girls say he's been involved in some shady business the Family wouldn't approve of. Ask him about it."

"Where can I find him?" I asked, my voice matching her whisper. She leaned back and shook her head weakly.

"Uh-uh. I've done too much already." From beneath her counter, she pulled out a small metal sign (CLOSED) and set it on the counter in front of the hole in the metal bars. "You want to find Cachino, you do it yourself. Balance paid. Tell whoever sent you that."

The deeper I ventured into Gomorrah, the more commonplace the dancing girls became. So did the fire pits, actually... Eventually, I found myself in a bar that wouldn't have looked out of place in one of the strip joints on New Reno's Virgin Street. The ceiling was easily two stories high, and against one wall was a stage, with a floor-to-ceiling stripper pole directly in center stage... and a topless dancer spinning upside down halfway up. On either side of the stage were more dancing girls in cages. Instead of lights ringing the stage, there was a line of fire, and a few pots that occasionally spit bursts of more fire into the air.

At least they were consistent.

The place was packed. There were hardly any empty seats at all, and every one of them was filled by men drooling over the girls dancing on stage and in the cages... and more than a few women drooling as well. Eventually though, I did find an empty seat: at the end of the bar, on the opposite end of the room from the stage.

"Can I get you anything, sweetheart?" I heard a silky voice say from behind me. I turned around, and saw a young woman behind me. She was wearing a tight torn black tee-shirt, a leather collar around her neck, a torn miniskirt, almost stupidly high heels - but not much else - and was holding a tray of drinks. "Whiskey? Vodka? Or maybe somethin' a little..." She eyed me up and down, smiling. "...stronger?"

"Maybe later. Got any smokes?" I asked. She smiled again, and reached into her shirt, down her cleavage, and pulled out a fresh packet of cigarettes. I couldn't help but laugh. "Nice. What else you got down there?"

"Maybe later you can find out," she winked, holding the packet just out of reach. "That'll be 10 caps, honey." I gave her the caps; she gave me the smokes. She even held out a light for my first one. It may not have been sincere, but... have to admit, it felt nice.

"Thanks," I took a long draw, letting out a long trail of smoke that mingled with the rest in the air. "Oh, before you go - do you know where I can find Cachino?" She just smiled sweetly again, and snapped the lighter shut.

"Don't worry," she said, shaking her hips as she slowly walked away. "I'm sure he'll find you soon."

She was right, of course. I'd barely been alone for five minutes - I hadn't even gotten the beer I'd ordered from the bartender - when a hand grabbed me from behind, and spun me around on the barstool. The man responsible looked middle aged, and barely had any hair on his head. He was wearing a dark grey suit, with a red button-up shirt the color of blood underneath, and no tie. Needless to say, his expression was a massive scowl.

"I hear you been askin' questions about me, dickweed," he got right in my face, grabbing me by the collar of my duster. "The fuck do you want?"

"You Cachino?" I asked, brushing his hand away and getting up off my stool.

"Who's askin'? Who the fuck are you?" I tried to ignore the spittle flying out of his scowling face.

"Well, if you are Cachino, I'm here to talk some business you might be interested in." He took a step back, planting his feet; I think he was expecting me to take a swing at him.

"Business? What the fuck do you mean, business? You lookin' to get yourself burned, fucker?" He prodded my chestplate armor several times. "Now, you start talkin' real clear, and I mean absolutely-fucking-crystal-clear, because I am about to lose my patience. You don't want to see me when I lose my patience, ya piece of trash!"

"Straight to the point then," I said. "I hear you've been dealing with some business that is... off the books. I-" Cachino shoved me and got back in my face before I finished.

"I don't give half a dick what you've heard, fuckhead! Now, you best stop talkin' shit, and get the fuck out of my face before I burn your sorry ass!" Cachino shoved me again, and turned on his heel, walking off.

Well. Not exactly what I was hoping for, but... it was a start. I shook the tree, and Cachino fell out. If I could find out what he was up to, get something solid to use against him, maybe I could get him to help me... whether he wanted to or not.

I needed to find some leverage.