Larry's Offer

A knock echoed through the door of my room at the Titanus Hotel, interrupting the quiet hum of the Pip-Boy. Standing on the other side, with his usual wide grin, was Larry Breaux—freshly patched up from whatever trouble he’d crawled out of the day before. His wounds, mostly healed, told the tale of a man who found refuge here between journeys.

“Chief, how 'bout I show you around the resort? You haven't seen anything like it,” Breaux offered, his smile too eager, too perfect. Truth be told, after a quick glimpse, the place felt like any other pre-war structure—once you’ve seen one floor, you’ve seen 'em all. But before I could give a polite decline, Pinball—ever watchful—pinged a warning. Bing, bing, bing, his sensors alerting me: LARRY BREAUX IS A SWINDLER.

I nodded, playing along. “Sure, Larry. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

As we strolled through the casino, Breaux regaled me with one of his outlandish stories, his grin never faltering. "Ran into some super mutants down in Cajun country," he said, lowering his voice for dramatic effect. "They don’t take kindly to folks like you around Lafayette."

“Folks like me?” I raised an eyebrow, feeling the tension in the air shift.

“Yeah… Negroes,” he whispered, his eyes darting about. “Those mutants, they’re real particular. Let me cross, but they took my partner William. Haven't seen him since.”

The way he said it—so casual, so rehearsed—made Pinball's circuits twitch with suspicion. B-B-B-Bad news, the little bot buzzed in my ear. Something about Breaux’s tone stank worse than a mirelurk on a hot day.

But Breaux wasn’t done with his pitch. “Come on, let’s hit the casino! You’ll love it.” He waved me forward like a ringmaster beckoning a crowd, and I couldn’t help but follow, curious about what kind of operation he was running here.

To my surprise, the casino was actually working—slots clanging, roulette wheels spinning, and the unmistakable sound of old-world cash exchanging hands. Pre-war money was the currency here, and for a moment, I got caught up in the spectacle. I sat at one of the slot machines and threw in a few bills, the last remnants of my stash.

Pinball, floating behind me, made his disdain clear. “T-T-T-This is disgusting, Chief. That Breaux guy—he’s full of f-f-fables.”

But despite his warnings, I indulged. The thrill of the game kicked in, and after a good thirty spins, the machine lit up—bonus round. Six hours flew by, and by the end of it, I was holding $70,000 in pre-war cash. Breaux, hovering like a fly around sugar, practically jumped out of his skin with excitement.

“Lucky day, Chief! How ‘bout we celebrate? I could join you on your journey back home.” His voice was smooth as whiskey, but there was something unsettling in the way he hovered too close.

I told him I’d think about it and excused myself, heading back to my room to catch some rest before morning. Pinball, hovering near the door, chimed in with his mechanical hum.

“Hey Chief,” he buzzed quietly, his voice unusually serious. “I-I-I don’t like this guy. He’s B-b-B-Bad News! Be prepared.”

I gave Pinball my word, reassuring him I’d keep my guard up. Breaux was a sweet talker, no doubt, but my instincts—and Pinball’s—told me he wasn’t to be trusted.

With a final glance at the pile of pre-war cash on the table, I flicked off the light.

“Night night, Pinball,” I muttered, but sleep didn’t come easy that night.

Something about Breaux stuck in the air like a bad smell that wouldn’t fade.