Chapter Three: The Ghoul Who Arrives At Gloam

Ryan took a drag of his death-stick, relishing the hit before letting it out in a musk of delicious smoke. He winced at a punch to his shoulder, and glared at the offender.

"Fucker, not everyone wants to smell your stink." Roland sneered jokingly, he himself fishing out a stick before extending it.

Ryan rolled his eyes and flicked open a gold-plated lighter he'd gotten off a Feral's corpse. His friend covered it from the harsh winds, their position on the guard tower somewhat protected from the harsh elements.

After several flicks, the stick lit. His friend took a breath and smiled. "Fuck that's good."

The two fell into silence as they stared out into the void of a late setting night. It was summer and the storms were going to get even wetter, although at least it wasn't snowing.

"Hey, hey." Roland patted his shoulder, "Get that Night Vision."

Ryan rose an eyebrow, before rising from his chair and walking to an ammo box where they kept the Night Vision.

"Boss said not to wear it out." He said as he tossed the Night Vision scope over to his watch-buddy.

Roland didn't respond, turning the techy device on and looking out into the rather mellow storm bathing the cracked asphalt in a thick layer of water.

"Well, I'll be damn. Right on time." Roland muttered. The man walked over to a radio and turned it on. "Hey, hey! We got The Gloamer!" Roland crowed.

Their was a brief mumbled confusion through the device, before a few voices whooped in excitement and started a ferment of action to prep for the visit through the mic.

"Gloamer?" Ryan asked, shouldering his M4 Service Rifle. "What is it, some kinda Ghoul or Mutie?" He asked, moving away from the edge in-case it was some sort of attack.

"Huh, oh right. Forgot you're a new-guy." Roland commented, rolling his shoulder. "Well, I guess you can say he is a ghoul." Roland snickered. "Not feral though. Gloam or Gloamer is The Guy for Chems in New York. Like, the entirety of New York. Any fucker slinging out Chems claims that they're up to if not better than the Gloamer's. Word of advice, if they're dealing it like that, then its literal rat-poison."

Ryan hummed, "So, what, this guy apart of some big-time Cartel?"

"Nah, nah. He's an independent. Although, somehow he rolls up every once in a moon to start slinging massive amounts of Chems, quality Chems at that."

Ryan frowned, "How's he do that? Figure someone like that would've gotten either smoked by a jealous rival, or press-ganged into some gang." The unspoken 'like our gang' was unsaid.

Roland chuckled, "Its been tried, kid. Gloamer's something of a local NYC legend. The Hounds tried, but from survivors of battles with the guy, he's like a blur of motion birthed onto the battle field. One moment you have your gun half-way out of the holster, and the next you're missing a limb to plasma or eating lasers as your last meal. Hell, the guy stands up to the Patriots all on his lonesome!"

Ryan winced, "A gunslinger with a plasma pistol? A mutant gunslinger at that, likely bolstered by chems too..."

Roland nodded, "There are a few types of Ghouls in the Wastes, kiddo. The losers and pushovers that gave up on life, the insane and psychos who're one step away from going feral, and then there are those like Gloam. Although, Gloam takes it up to eleven; Badasses that figured out they don't age and that rads don't knock'em, but instead'll pick them back up. Dude's likely seventy or eighty years-old of grizzled veteran and moves like that Assaultron from a week ago to back it all up. A monster in melted human skin willing to play ball with us normies."

Ryan nodded, taking in the wisdom as best he could.

"Got it, don't fuck with the immortal drug dealer who has more experience in his pinky than I have in my entire life." He said with a sarcastic tone.

Roland snorted, "Words to live by, kid. Anyways, Gloamer doesn't take caps or old-cash."

Ryan interrupted, "Then what does he take?"

"I was getting to that, brat." Ryan snorted, "Any tech-stuff, scrap, robot parts, chemicals, tools, materials, food, drink, bullets, and obviously energy packs and plasma cartridges. He'll appraise it, and give you a more than fair trade for the stuff. All barter with Gloam."

Ryan frowned, "Little tilted, dont'cha think?"

Roland gave a so-so motion, "Gloam offers massive amounts of drugs in exchange for scrap. Its why the boss runs so many expeditions to grab all that tech stuff. The boss'll buy most of the scrap with the gang's pool, then the left over gets bought by personal wealth. If we don't pay or give shit goods, he'll give us a smaller cut and then leave to the next gang to sell his remaining stock. We get hostile, and well...I already told you why provoking him would be a bad idea."

"Hmm." Ryan affirmed, before looking over the tower ledge as he started hearing footsteps.

Held up in a massive concrete skyscraper with windows and entrances boarded up, the Raider Gang known as The Odds were a strong group in the Raider sphere. The entrance of the raider's compound was by the underground parking garage, held shut by a metal gate controlled by an adjacent and makeshift guard tower who could signal another guard inside to open the gate.

Coming up on that same makeshift tower were two figures. One was a strange bot that neither men recognized from any featured magazine or advertisement, looking like a strange mash-up of man and dog with digitigrade legs carrying a truly massive amount of boxes on its relatively small back. Standing next to the bot was a man dressed in Ranger Armor, at his hips were two holsters holding a pair of ergonomic pistols.

One was a boxy and stubby looking Laser Pistol, and the other was a more rugged and sturdy looking Plasma Pistol than the models shown in magazines. On his back was a billowing scientist's coat, stark white due to the rain that was pelting it, foiling any dust building up in the reinforced and well-taken care of fibers. Underneath that was a sturdy looking assembly of armor and Kevlar, knee-pads, dark black boots shining in the spotlight affixed to the tower and a pair of glowing blue lenses glaring up at them from the mask of the Riot Helmet.

His shoulders were covered by a pair of combat armor pauldrons, while his right arm was covered in a similar bracer while the left covered by a Pip-Boy. A gorget protected his neck with the numbers 666 emblazoned in red lettering on the green paint. On the side of his green helm was a faded red cross, along with the words 'I Don't Want To Set The World On Fire' in white before being underlined by 'Just Want To Start A Flame In Your Heart' in a poppy neon green outlined by red; plasma green and laser red.

"Hey, hey!" Roland yelled down to the man. "You Gloam?" The man nodded. "Say something, guy's got a one of a kind voice!"

The man chuckled, and dear god was Roland right. "Didn't know my fame extended even that far." Ryan got shivers down his spine. Not only was it deep, like 'bones of the world' deep, while also holding the rasp and gravel that all ghouls had, but it held an...energy to it that sent shivers down his spine.

"Haha, I'm letting you in now, Gloamer." Once again the merchant nodded.

"Well kid, I'll hold down the fort. I ain't got anything he'll be into. Spot me a few puffs of anything you buy, 'aight?" Roland slapped Ryan on the shoulder with the younger man smiling and dropping down from the tower. The young man winced at the rain pelting through his leathers and gear, before walking deeper into the drive way to the underground parking lot. Only when he left the rain did he realized he was standing next to the Gloam.

'holy shit.' Ryan thought quietly. Standing next to the man was entirely different to looking down at him from a tower. The ghoul was jacked, even through his lab-coat and armor, his muscles were very apparent inside of said gear, and while certainly no Super Mutant, he also didn't have the ugly bloated look most Buff-Out junkies had like the boss.

The Ghoul was tall too, as Ryan himself was a tall if lanky one at six foot one, but Gloam stood at a wagered solid six foot six while being built like a soldier.

"Done staring, kid?" Gloam asked, extending a hand.

Ryan blinked and shook the man's hand tightly. It was a good and solid hand-shake.

"Sorry, you're...imposing."

An amused snort left the man, "Ha, kinda the point. So, got any goodies for this wandering merchant?"

Ryan scratched his cheek, "I dunno, I'm from Boston, see, and I managed to get a few pieces of tech from a store-shed. Don't really know the purpose of 'em."

"I'll take a look at it, tell you what its worth in caps and the like if you don't want to trade it for chems."

Ryan smiled, "Thanks. Thought you didn't deal in caps, though?"

The man nodded, "For chems? No. If you want my chems, you need to pay up with shit I'm actually interested in, not some pieces of tin or paper that fluxes in value every decade. A drawback of living so long, eventually you figure out nothing has value except the things you personally care for. Trick is to make the things you care for valuable for others so that they have to bend down to your wants and needs for them to get theirs. Bartering in the most basic of senses."

Ryan nodded, and his attention was taken away by the gate rattling open.

"Still, stop by. I'll be negotiating with Old One Eye, so take your time. I'm out in a few hours though, so don't take too long."

Ryan nodded, and they soon split up.