High Stakes and Hound Havoc

Date: 10.14.2224
Location: Lucky 7 Casino, Duson

What started as a detour became a full-blown raid—casino lights faded, bells ringing in a ghostly echo, mutant hounds charging like rabid slot jockeys. Pinball cut us in; I barely had time to read the faded glitz before chaos erupted.

Tables flipped, roulette wheels used as cover, grenades tossed like the wheel of fortune itself. Green ichor splattered walls, tiles slick with what had been alive seconds before. Hounds? Gone. Just mess, and the smell of spent luck.

Larry—the Swindler—was no help. He ate dirt, got knocked around, muttering like a busted high-roller. He’ll survive; the guy’s too slippery for an end like this. Pinball wasn’t so lucky. One hound tore through servos, left him dead weight. I’ll scavenge, I’ll rig, I’ll restore him—but it takes time.

Near the first aid kit, I found something grim amid Daytripper and Berry Mentats: skeletal remains, long dead, tucked like a grim footnote. Timothy Laurent? Could be. No ceremony, just the trace of a life cut short, a reminder of the terrain we move in.

Clancy had no clue. He’d been posted outside, cutting the treeline, watching for ambush. When he stepped inside and saw the aftermath, he boggled, eyes wide at the carnage. He’s gonna help with Pinball—manual labor, wiring, torque, the works.

The armor? Absolutely needed. I wasn’t scared... I was behooved. That frame is a reminder that preparation is principle. No hesitation, no overconfidence; just a tool that allows discipline to assert itself in chaos.

I set camp behind the poker cage. Secure. Shelves stacked with chips I’ll never cash. Larry still groans, muttering. Pinball’s offline, circuits fried. The world waits, and we wait with it.

Tomorrow, we repair, we restore, we move. Clancy assists. Pinball comes back online. Larry’s whining continues, but it doesn’t dictate the track. The world isn’t safe, but neither are we helpless.

Lafayette awaits. We follow the track laid by discipline, not chance.

—The Big Chief