Scab slithered into his trailer, pulling the dented metal door closed behind him and leaving himself in the late evening dark. He rested a moment, savoring the rare moment of tranquility that came with the Gunner's ceasefire, before feeling his way to the fridge nestled in the corner beside his bed. Powered by the rumble of a small generator outside, and cooled by a tank of liquid nitrogen he'd salvaged from a hospital, it managed to keep his favorite vice tepidly cool—
Nuka-Cola Dark.
He twisted off the cap and threw it with a clink into his collection tin before taking a swig. As a scavenger, life was hard, but even the post-nuclear wasteland wasn't without its small comforts. Even two hundred years hadn't dulled the flavor of the soda, though the sparkle of carbonized bubbles was long gone.
But that meant nothing to someone who'd been born long after the expiration date of all packaged foods.
Scab twisted the little dial on the front of his TV and watched it flicker to life, displaying the little round Please Stand By. The picture was familiar, and the gentle static of the box was soothing to him. He turned it on every night to sleep, like a strange post-war lullaby.
He finished off his Nuka-Cola, then tossed the empty bottle into a corner and crawled onto his ragged mattress. A few springs poked through the threadbare cloth, but it was nothing a few animal skins couldn't fix when he had the time. For tonight, he was too tired to care, and curled towards the rusty metal wall of his trailer, which shuddered rhythmically to the purr of the generator on the other side.
Eyes closed, Scab's breathing evened and he was nearly asleep within moments.
"GOOOOOOOOOD EVENING!"
Scab was on his feet in a second, pistol drawn, heart going a million a minute. Someone was in his trailer! His finger put pressure on the trigger, and he almost, almost shot a hole straight through the face on the television.
The only thing that saved the electrical box was the fact that the display was colorless, and that gave Scab just enough pause to realize what was happening. A raider wearing dark sunglasses stared out the glass at him, at an angle that showed right up his nostrils. "Getting anything?"
"It's working!" A voice called from the background.
A wicked smile lit up the raider's face. "This is RedEye, broadcasting to you live from the brand new arena in Nuka-World! Who's ready for some entertainment?" RedEye smiled and spun while holding the camera out at arms-length, showing off rows of onlookers who were behind sections of chain link fence. At his words, they began climbing and shaking the fence like wild animals.
Cheers, screams, and howls erupted from the TV's speakers, which weakly gave out for a moment from the strain. Scab blinked, and finally lowered his pistol. How were they managing this?
