Chapter 24: Don't Feed the Radroaches

Judas was one to tango with the big boys in the crime 'industry', so when some shifty looking dude in a duster just waltzed into his hideout's disguised entry building he was a little more than suspicious. The strange attire set off all kinds of alarms in the criminal's head; never before had some traveller simply walked into one of his hideouts.

The undercover cops were always dressed immaculately, never one of them thinking to rough themselves up a bit just to look the part. It was always crackheads and meth addicts who found themselves doing business with Judas; sometimes one or two of the big dogs if they were looking for some prime weaponry. He had been forced to relocate all too many times when some twat tipped off the cops for a measly sum of money that would barely last them one night.

A cop walked in, a cop showed up dead on TV the next day.

A druggy walked in, Judas walked out with a comfortable hand of lien.

A criminal walked in, Judas walked out with a light sack of lien.

An unfriendly criminal walked in, and unfriendly criminal showed up dead on TV the next day.

Judas was no joke, and everybody in the criminal underworld knew that.

So who was this dreadlock cowboy? If he was a criminal, he was a stupid one (or a stupid rich one). If he was a commoner, why had he found himself at the edge of the wall and away from the populace? If he was a cop… well, he would die.

Judas' brown eyes shone with question as he watched a scraggly henchman guide the man down through the metal hatch, into his bunker. His ears twitched as the man's boots reverberated against cold steel. An air of nerve fell upon Judas' own personal little underground black market operation.

He listened to the man walk for minutes on end, a violent click-clacking of weary rubber against young steel. It hurt his head.

One of the guards hanging by the door picked his nose with a sloppy laziness. He caught Judas' gaze; he replied with a snarl.

Judas silenced the urge to cap him then and there.

The visitor's footsteps continued to pulsate beyond the door before him.

His eyes followed the door as it groaned open.

The dreadlock cowboy prowled forth.

The scraggly henchman had disappeared.

Judas smiled.

Slowly, his hand rose from below his polished table, gesturing gently for the man to be seated in the facing chair.

Ulysses sat, slowly with the grace of a snake.

The man, no, the thing before him carried a reeking aura of pure psychopathic delight. He wore his crooked smile like Ulysses would his tattered flag, with pride and retribution clouding his mind; with a physical form of human appearance, the thing stared straight through him.

"Who are you?" Ulysses' voice echoed as it would throughout an empty chamber; the henchmen slowly shuffled out the door.

"I see the look in your eyes… A look of nothingness." His crooked smile twisted into a crooked frown, "You unnerve me… but they call me Judas." His words slipped like water from his mouth, but with a pained sound. His words were an aching whisper.

Judas' faded shirt and tattered jeans had seen more gracious times and his torn shirt revealed a jagged body layered with boils and burns. He looked as though he had been kidnapped by Fiends and left to cook in an oven for half an hour. Barbed wire dug into the flesh covering his skull, wrapped around the large man's head like a coil of wire. Blood leaked from the open seams on his head, though his strangely gentle voice harboured no pain.

Ulysses had never before seen one so null to his own agony.

"What goods do you bring to me this day, foreigner?" It was little surprise to Ulysses to be called a foreigner; he donned the look of an outcast after all. The Wastelander watchfully slid a plasma pistol over the smoothed surface of the table.

Judas' eyes lit up with an ancient longing, "Many years have passed since I have seen one of these…"

Ulysses pondered the words. Another Wastelander? Such was a possibility, the walk west was a simple, if not arduous one, but it was certainly not limited to just three people. If they had made the journey, heard the rumours, then there were obviously others who could have made the same decision and walked the same path.

His torn hands traced the worn edges of the sidearm. Plasma pulsed through his veins; a leisurely smile grew softly across his lips, bringing a nervous joy to his ragged face. His tongue danced a scared waltz over his lips, his hands shook with ferocious pleasure.

"You have no idea how beautiful I feel…" A small dribble of saliva slipped down his chin, brown eyes lit like beacons of joy as his hands continued caressing the aged weapon.

"Now we talk trade." Ulysses' voice remained as cold and emotionless as the steel beneath his feet.

His eyes seemed to blur as he promptly slid the plasma pistol to the edge of the table, keeping an attentive eye on the gun as he did so. His hands had seen experience, and yet they twitched with uncontrollable pleasure. Regardless of his hands' sporadic jerking, he managed to interlock his fingers and don a reasonably calm and fixed posture, leaning coolly back in his chair.

"I would gladly talk trade." The words hissed in agony from his mouth, "My attention is wrought."

"Looking for history." He had repeated those words too many times, in too short a time span.

"History… I carry that currency in plentiful abundance, friend."

Ulysses' past voice echoed deep in his mind.

"So, what history do you seek?"

"I seek knowledge of the past, ancient times, before… this."

Judas' grin grew tenfold, enveloping his punctured face, stretching his hardened skin and drawing yet more crimson rivers. The blood slid from his face, falling and patting the ground, creating its own metronome.

"I hope you have more fun piled in that bag…" The pain in Judas' voice manifested itself into agonising insanity. Whatever brain this man had… the blood loss certainly wasn't helping his sanity.

Ulysses unzipped the duffle bag. The zipper made an uncomfortable noise amongst the metal casing of the bunker. He stacked five energy cells on the table. Judas appeared pleased.

"I'll skip the common knowledge, and anything you'd find in a book…" His smile was unmoving, unnerving.

"Grew curious, found no mention of our home in the books, wondered why. You have answers. Or can lead me to them." Throughout his research into the new land, Ulysses had found no mention of anything beyond the common landmasses (which he found in maps) and the four major kingdoms. No mention of the Old World.

"Yes, I have answers… Will I give them to you? Perhaps at some later date. Don't want to go giving away such precious information to strangers now, do we?" he tapped the wire tangled around his head. It rattled.

"But perhaps I can offer one or two satisfactory answers, since I am seeing a certain invaluable currency before me." His eyes flickered over to the plasma pistol and then quickly back to Ulysses. The Wastelander placed a few more energy cells on the table. Judas' smile was unbreakable.

"I'll be honest with you… I have no idea how you got here. I have an idea how I got here, but not you. If you came the same way I did, I would be able to tell." Ulysses glanced down to the boils covering the man's chest. They bubbled as though they were alive.

A momentary period of silence followed, filled only by the groaning metal structure of the bunker, dirt pressing down on its walls.

"Mayhaps we could come to agree on a mutually beneficial arrangement, fellow Wastelander? The way I see it, your technology," he drooled over the word, "could prove useful to me, and in return I give you the answers you're looking for."

Ulysses was never one to work in tandem with another, regardless of the situation. Of course he had cooperated with others before, but overall it was an idea the man was not overly fond with. Much history had taught that there were mistakes to be had when putting one's trust in another; working alone meant that he would only have to suffer from his own mistakes, and not the mistakes of others. Besides, he did not need others. The Courier had once shown him how a single individual could change history, or erase it.

But Judas was trouble.

A deal with the Devil was a deal best never made.

Ulysses gathered the energy cells and reclaimed the plasma pistol, shoving them all into the duffle bag and slinging it over his shoulder.

'He'll be back'

Judas simply sat in motionless thought for the next few moments, his fingers occasionally drumming against the metal table, resonating a slight echo as the criminal pondered his position.

The key to success had just walked through his front door, and walked straight back out.

Ulysses, known not amongst the Wastes; a rather subdued and quiet figure, Judas had only heard his name once and even that was a vague mention. As far as he could recall, Ulysses was mentioned alongside a tribe of some sort. Whatever tribe that was, the man certainly didn't look the part.

He scratched a patch of dried blood on his face. The wire tugged at his skin, drawing more red from his veins. The door opened; a guard waltzed in.

"Is Taurus still here?" Judas' fingers continued drumming monotonously against the table. The guard shook his head in reply and Judas simply sighed in acknowledgement.

"Get Ciar here please." The guard simply returned Judas' request with a blank stare. Judas groaned.

"Just use some assets to find him, I'll never use them for anything better anyway."

"Ciar Yahto…" General James Ironwood held his face in his hands, attempting to control his discontent before it spiralled into anger, "Please remind me exactly why you have decided to prolong my mission even further."

Ciar slammed his fists down onto Ironwood's desk and the General could have sworn he heard a crack from the man's hand.

"I refuse to have you send my men on a bus with a one way ticket to hell without my approval, General! Just because I have been forced to submit to your authority, does not mean that I will blindly throw the lives of my soldiers into your filthy corporate hands!" A fixed snarl plastered Ciar's face

"Mister Yahto, your operative has been filed as MIA, not dead-"

"For all I know that fucker could have castrated my man and shoved his balls down his own throat!"

"Mister Yahto please calm down-"

"I'll calm the fuck down when you find my fucking guy Ironwood!"

"I can assure you that we-"

"You can't assure shit, you lousy Atlas pricks! You're all in the pocket of that fucking Schnee cunt!"

"Mister Yahto, need I remind you who has authority in this situation? You're a mercenary, I'm a military leader."

"I don't give a shit about your 'political authority' bullshit! You'll be ten years dead by the time they catch me!"

"Mister Yahto-" A rough crackling interrupted the General's retort. Ciar reached for the radio on his belt as a voice crackled through.

"Sir, we got some White Fang insurgents in Warehouse B-6, commencing with Failsafe Mojave, repeat, Failsafe Mojave."

Ciar replied, "Affirmative soldier, hold strong."

Ironwood let out a jeering snicker as Ciar re-attached the radio to his belt, "You should use a better fake name than 'Mojave'"

Ciar's sneer solidified once more, "Yeah? Well fucking knights don't exist anymore, so maybe you should rename your stupid fucking 'Atlesian Knights' you twat."

"Judas…" despite audibly groaning, Ciar's disappointment seemed to portray itself on his face as well, "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Judas gave a painful smile, but a genuine one, as he replied with a mock bow, "I think you have a vague idea, Commander."

Ciar's face was blank, "You're not to call me that anymore, Judas. We are on Remnant, my name is Ciar Yahto and your name is Judas Altan, and need I remind you how illegal you are? That being said, I have no idea why you have chosen some washed out back-alley to hold what is obviously an important conversation… and in a criminal hotspot at night, no less."

"Well," Judas shrugged lazily, "You got the area on lockdown, right?" He tugged idly at the barbed wire digging into his face.

"You crazy masochist bastard…" Ciar muttered beneath his breath.

"Hmm? What was that?" Judas raised an eyebrow, once again the wire tugged at his flesh.

Ciar growled, "Yes, I have the area on lockdown and my most trusted men are the only ones within audible vicinity of this conversation, now hurry up and start talking on subject."

Judas hummed with glee, producing a folded sheet of paper from some hidden pocket in his tattered outfit and handing it over to Ciar who impatiently snatched the sheet from his hand. As he unfolded the paper, Ciar's eyes widened.

"Where did you get this?" His mind raced as he stared at the image of a genuine plasma pistol, held in Judas' very own hands.

Judas simply smiled before Ciar proposed another question, "Why is this just a picture? Do you not have it with you?"

Judas continued grinning, "Well, I don't exactly own it just yet, but I will soon. That snap is from the CCTV in my place."

"…So this is it?" Ciar folded the piece of paper before producing a lighter.

"Indeed it is!"

The tattered paper melted away, engulfed by flame, "We can finally continue to the next phase… Can I trust you to procure the adequate technology?"

"Oh don't worry; I'll be able to get my hands on some juicy stuff soon enough. Hey, maybe you can melt that old idiot Ironwood's brain away one day!" Judas imitated somebody's head exploding rather than melting.

"And I'll do my best to divert attention from you." Ciar smiled. Finally, after so many years of waiting, so many years of plotting and planning… finally, they were ready to take action.

Something stirred in Ulysses' stomach.

He dumped the mercenary uniform behind a pile of trash bags and tossed the rifle away, not caring for where it landed or how much noise it made.

There were more Wastelanders here, and those were two of them. From the look of him, Ulysses had made the safe assumption that Judas was a Wastelander, but the other one… he just looked like a regular mercenary. Furthermore, this 'Ciar' was tied to Judas somehow, and very closely at that judging by how Judas made a point to refer to him as 'Commander'. From where Ulysses had been observing, there was no tell-tale signs that pointed to Ciar being military, and why would somebody like Judas, a high-status criminal, refer to a mercenary as 'Commander'? Things simply didn't add up all too well.

But still, with this information perhaps he could get what he needed out of Judas. Whatever they were talking about sounded important and elaborate, perhaps even threatening to one of the Kingdoms.

The best chance he would have to get what he needed was to bluff it.

Hopefully that would go his way.