Nevin was frustrated when the thankless man decided he was above responding to a simple line of questioning. He was lucky, Nevin supposed, that he was not in a worse mood—otherwise he would simply have let the jack-off in the bar discharge his weapon into him. Woulda lent a better chance at talking to a real woman, he thought, rolling his eyes as he climbed up the roof after them. Here for one thing and ya end up cleaning up for others, he was huffing in his head, ought to go back to the Mojave, predictable there.

Yep, good ol’ Mojave, he thought, NCR—the Legion—bastard Khans who never give a deal to regulars. Once they were safely on top of a roof, as safe as one could be standing on questionably constructed shelters, he reached into his pocket and ate some chalky red pills. They gave him a bit of a woozy rush, he loved it, and always made him feel like talking a little bit more—he felt his face get hot as he looked at the woman ahead of him, picking his way through—“Ooh!” he tripped, nearly losing his balance, but righted himself quickly. “My bad.”

The pills made him not all that concerned with their destination, or with the man’s lack of interest of answering questions. Whatever, he’d just be along for the ride.

Gladys heard the kid trip and stumble but he regained his balance before completely face planting, so he managed to keep up with her and the other guy just fine. She followed the older guy closely, ghosting from rooftop to rooftop across town, and when he dropped down to the jail she did, too.

She was about to ask what they were doing there when he actually took the initiative to speak first, and he finally offered some clarity to the shit show that was their night thus far. Gladys contemplated their situation for a moment, but eventually decided it was worth her while after his mention of loot.

"Hell, I might as well join you, especially if caps are involved," she said and glanced down at her own dinged up armor. "I could use some new equipment anyway and I'm a bit short on cash."

She gave a quick look around the jail and was surprised to find Diamond City security wasn't hanging around, which just meant they were all waiting on the inside. "So, something tells me that if you've offered us some money, you're gonna need our help. Are we like, busting Ronnie out of here or something? Where do we come in?"

Time to get to work. Cassius pulled the thick metal plated from inside his pack, draping them across his chest and back connected by thick leather straps over his shoulders. Next he slid the mask on, a sheet of gray metal with two slits cut out for his eyes. Smaller segments hung down, protecting his throat and arteries. He motioned for the others to cover their faces as well, then he moved through the door, crouching low and hugging the wall as he silently stepped down the hallway. 

Inside there were at least six guards in plain sight, milling around the room and talking. Only one of them was holding a gun, the one guarding the cells over by the far wall. The weapons were lying around on various benches and tables, all within easy reach, but if they could make a proper show of force there was a chance the guards would surrender before another firefight broke out. Cassius picked up a few snatches of conversation as he drew closer, weapon held low. 

"Where's Peterson at?" One guard was saying. "He owes me smokes for covering his shift last night."

"Everybody else is over at the Dugout." Another replied. "What, you didn't hear the gunshots?"

The young man deigned to oblige the stranger’s command, and reached into his satchel to grab his helmet. The metal plating was chinked, and the stern red goggles that had been built into it were a bit cloudy from use, but otherwise the helmet was in reasonably good condition. He fit it over his head, adjusting the neckline carefully to avoid too much sweating, and patted himself over the head to secure it.

There, he thought happily, face: protected. He looked at the stranger confidently, an unseen smile forming under his helmet, and would proceed forward if only to mimic the stranger they followed—who, without any reason or thought given to credentials, had become their pseudo-leader.

Honestly, now that he thought about it, the stranger could be absolutely deathclaw-balls-nutty, and he was just swept up in the romance of drama to think with a level head and withdraw his aid. Ah, well, too late now, gonna die following a crazy man—and he would not even get a shot in, he told himself, but he had already armed himself with his pistol, and cocked it.

In one of the cells, a mountain of metal was reclined on a cot.

Well, not an actual mountain, but a mountainous man was beneath that metal and he was dozing. Or trying to, anyway. The previous departure of the other guards had roused him, and now these bush-league kids trying to sneak in (no doubt they had caused the earlier disturbance, or were taking advantage of it in some way).

Why was he in jail? He didn't know. Probably he had had too much to drink the night before, and probably someone else was in the clinic for a couple days. Sooner or later he'd learn, but before that he'd have to kick the booze. And he didn't want to kick the booze, it made his leg feel better.

But these kids. What were they up to? Ponderously he got up, grunting as his leg took the weight above it, and he limped over to the bars to watch what was going on. Naturally, one of the guards noticed. "Go back to sleep, Freedman, or whatever your name is," he called out. The mountain man didn't reply, he just stood there, leaning against the bars.

Fortunately for the jail break crew, he was opposite their position, and thus counted as a distraction!

Not that the man in front needed it, since he was already throwing bottles and bringing all eyes on himself. He knew he could break the door down, but he didn't want to be rude to the guards so he just stood and watched. Maybe the kids would take him with them? Or he could go back to bed after they left, whichever. He didn't really care.

The wild stranger-man led the charge with the element of surprise, evidently shocking many of the guards as they recoiled, very few being armed—if only the one, Nevin was not sure. Most would have been deployed to the Dugout Inn to subdue the nasty brawl there, not knowing it had been brought to them in their little shoddy prison. Their questionable, apparently fearless leader rushed the armed guards and scattered their guns, and Nevin merely did what was right.

He took a backseat to the drama, and merely held his gun at the guards, muttering a soft-spoken, “Sorry.” His switched his sights between them, directing them to stay where they were, but his eyes were on the big sonovabitch in the cell. “Why, hello, fancy meeting you here,” he said, voice modulated by his helmet. Had his face been visible, one would see his brow was cocked, and a soft smirk forming on his face. “I can only assume we are now doing a jailbreak, huh, is this the guy you’re looking for?”

Lord fuck, what did I get myself into?

Ah, a jailbreak indeed. Two boys and a girl, waving guns around, spooking the guards and scattering weapons. One of them was his shotgun, he noted with a frown. The fellow in the lead, a masked man who seemed to have no voice, was pacing down the cells kicking bars and waking the inhabitants. At Winston's cell, he paused, seemed to stare up, then produced a broken old collar of some sort.

Winston recognized it instantly. A slave's collar. Was he a former slave, then? Did he assume that meant some kind of kinship between the two of them? He scoffed to himself at the idea, but he was bored and these people were interesting.

He decided to join them.

"You," he called, in a deep and mountainous voice. "Keys. Now." He was pointing one thick arm at a guard, and when no one seemed to be protesting he shrugged glumly and went to release the huge fellow. It was better than watching him break the bars down, anyway, and besides he was sober now and they couldn't really keep him all night regardless.

Once again a free man, Freedman limped out of the cell, looming over everyone else. "'m Winston," he grunted, glancing from person to person. "Winston Freedman." Slowly he leaned down, grimacing the whole way, and snagged his weapon from the floor where it lay in a tangle of other guns; quickly he checked it over, noticing it was unloaded. He growled again at that, and glared at the higher-ranking guard.