Part 1 -ย https://coolwolfvegas.tumblr.com/post/175317719487/one-for-the-money-part-1
Part 2 -ย https://coolwolfvegas.tumblr.com/post/175324039217/one-for-the-money-part-2
Part 3 -ย https://coolwolfvegas.tumblr.com/post/175324173187/one-for-the-money-part-3
The cap-laden bag is indeed too heavy and I find the only way to move it is to drag it along the floor by the strap losing various bottle caps as I bump it down 3 steps and suddenly flinch round pistol-drawn at the cashier who hasn't moved. Everything looks black and sounds loud and I feel cold and shivery amidst the dry heat. Guided by sheer willpower I reach the double doors without the strength to open them and instead lean my body weight against the center until they give way and eject me back out into a cube of blinding yellow light but catch the bag firmly between them.
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Cold saliva suddenly fills my mouth preceding a spluttering vomiting fit that soils every garment I have on. I rip off the balaclava and breathe deeply as though surfacing from the depths of the ocean, my lungs expanding fully for the first time in half an hour. My shoulder burns with violent stabs of agony and the urge to clench my fist arises but doing so sends a sharp stab down my arm into numb fingertips. I wipe the vomit off my face with the balaclava and toss it aside in an embarrassing heap of failure and struggle to free the bag from between the two doors, losing even more caps in the process. After much jostling the two heavy doors release their grip and free the bag but not before I yank a threadbare strap from it and fall to the ground. I take the filthy strap and wrap it round my injured shoulder applying as much pressure as I can but am unable to tie it off, all the while watching the doors intently lest the cashier try and finish me off and reclaim her caps. The short journey back across to The Chop Shop is a humiliating spectacle as I drag the bag by the one remaining strap leaking caps and blood in even measures with probably some flecks of vomit to boot, and if anyone were to discover me now they would more likely stand and laugh than run in terror.
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The sleek door to the medical clinic is sullied with a bloody handprint as I shove it open and unceremoniously trudge inside with bag in tow, like a mangy dog dragging a filthy blanket in from the heat. The bell announces my presence and the Body Tech acknowledges me with a mildly patronising "Hello there!". It takes me a while to make eye contact and even longer to find words I can bear to speak. She stares at me unblinkingly, somehow resisting the urge to survey the damage evident about my person before gesturing to the silent leckie in the background who comes and takes the bag behind the counter and begins to count its contents.
"Please have a seat" she points to a bench nearby which I duly slump on after unloading heaps of bloody NCR notes on the counter before her.
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"Would you like a Stimpak?"
I nod to her on a long and weary exhale.
"$20" She waves aloft a twenty dollar bill and flashes a sickly smile which I mimic with another nod and she places a stimpak on the counter which I drag myself over to retrieve, beholden to her compassion. A short stab of sharp steel shocks my flesh before a warm, soothing torrent floods my body and lifts me an inch from the bench and temporarily many miles from the catastrophe across the road.
I allow myself to fade out for this moment, to power-down whilst the sound of counting caps reverberates softly in the background alas anxiety reawakens me before long and I remember to worry about the amount of caps falling short; way short.
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"We approximate you have around 100,000 caps and $13,790 NCR." Neither the body tech's tone nor expression ever changes, even when the meaning behind her words does. I look at her defeated, even though I strongly suspected I would arrive here anyhow. Unholstering my pistol I stagger back to the counter and place it square in front of her; for once she breaks eye contact with me to look at it. After a quick survey a pout forms on her cherry lips and her eyes drift to the shotgun strapped to my back. I try to stifle the groan rising in my gullet as I part with a gun that has seen me walk away from more deadly encounters than I could count, laying it lovingly on the counter like some dearly departed friend keeping one hand resting lightly on the butt, unwilling to fully let go. Her eyes scan callously over it and she reaches out to touch a scuff mark on the barrel where a raider's bullet had ricocheted some time ago and a rusty disease had started to form. Her eyes meet mine again - that look of dissatisfaction.
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Allowing myself the clothing on my back and a .45 with 5 bullets to see me back to Goodsprings alive, I part with everything else in my possession, junk, ammo, Nuka Cola; every weapon unholstered, every pocket unturned, anything of any value laid out on the counter between us in a sad farrago scavenged from dead bodies, crumbling buildings and rusted containers. If she asks for blood no doubt I'll roll my sleeve up but I'm not sure I'll have enough to spare. She prods and pokes at each item pseudo-pensively picking up individual bullets to examine them just to prolong the process and ensure maximum suffering on my part. My shoulder throbs and aches again and my fingertips twitch as pain shoots down towards them, perhaps she is waiting for me to drop dead in front of her so she can claim all my merchandise without having to provide anything in return.
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"Ok then!" Her pout transitions back into that false, stationery smile she normally sports and the corners of my mouth turn up in what could also loosely be called a smile.
"I can let the arm go for..." She draws a lasso in the air encompassing my worldly possessions scattered before her.
"All of this." And finishes on a giggle. I don't move, save for the gentle rock back and fourth I've been doing ever since a nickel sized hole was burned through my shoulder; my eyes glazed over at some point during the bargaining session and haven't moved back up to hers since. She begins a flawless diatribe about the care of body parts in transit with extra emphasis on the 24-hour timeframe by which the arm must be attached. I nod in weary compliance and she produces a large white box with a small Red Cross on it that feels cool to the touch when I reach out and take it. I flip the lid to ensure the arm is in place and close it carefully amidst her icy glare, perhaps she just got through telling me why not to do such a thing.
"Truly it's been a pleasure." I leave on a sassy parting shot and ring that little bell hopefully for the last ever time as I begin my 5-bullet, blood-leaking dash back to Goodsprings.
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"I can tend to the boy's sting and his bleeding wound here but if you really want to help him you could get him a new arm."
-Doc Mitchell
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One For The Money is a side quest in Fallout: New Vegas that follows on from the quest Venus Man Trap.
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Detailed Walkthrough
If the courier has amputated Aaron's arm, the quest "Venus Man Trap" will end upon successfully getting him back to Doc Mitchell's house in Goodsprings and the quest "One For The Money" will begin. In a conversation with Doc Mitchell, he will agree to tend to Aaron's Cazador sting and amputated arm but will mention an outfit called The Chop Shop which specializes in procuring human organs (including limbs) and transplanting them onto patients, albeit for a very hefty price, and recommends you visit their clinic in Primm.
The clinic in Primm is situated in the building beside the Nash residence, and upon entering, the courier will be greeted by an enthusiastic Body Tech offering a list of body parts for sale. Enquiring after a right forearm for Aaron will receive a staggering price quotation of 300,000 caps, to which the courier will reply that they do not have that much, and the Body Tech will flippantly retort "try robbing a casino". The courier may then choose to rob any casino in New Vegas (with the exception of The Lucky 38) after purchasing a balaclava and loot bag from Johnson Nash.
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Choosing A Casino
To rob a casino, the courier must approach the cashier with the balaclava on, draw a weapon and tell them to "Fill the bag with caps! Now!!" this makes robbing any of the casinos on the strip extremely difficult, as only holdout weapons may be taken inside leaving the ensuing gun-shoot very difficult to survive. Even if the player is able to make it outside the Securitrons and NCR soldiers on the street will be hostile.
The Atomic Wrangler is a viable choice featuring relatively low security, however robbing it may inadvertently cause other quests such as "Talent Pool" to fail depending on who is killed in the crossfire.
After completing the quest "My Kind Of Town" and then dispatching the New California Republic Deserters who take up residence inside, the Vikki and Vance casino just across the road will only be guarded by Primm Slim, making it the easiest choice. However attempting to rob it before this quest has been completed will cause it to fail and the townsfolk inside to become hostile.
Once a casino has been successfully robbed, the courier can return to The Chop Shop clinic in Primm to receive Aaron's new forearm in a white medical box under strict instructions that it must be attached within 24 hours. Failing to return the arm to Goodsprings within this time will cause the quest to fail. Upon returning the arm, Doc Mitchell will perform surgery to attach it to Aaron and the quest will complete.
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Quick Walkthrough
Talk to Doc Mitchell
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Head to The Chop Shop in Primm and talk to a Body Tech
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Visit Johnson Nash and purchase a balaclava and loot bag
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Rob either
The Atomic Wrangler
Gomorrah
The Tops
Ultra-Luxe
Or Vikki and Vance casino
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Return to The Chop Shop
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Return to Doc Mitchell in Goodsprings within 24 hours
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Reward 200XP, Goodsprings fame
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Notes
โ Removing the balaclava during the robbery will result in infamy with that faction.
โ The balaclava provides a bonus of 2 to critical chance.
โ Once the quest has initiated, the unique grenade "Ole Smokey" can be purchased from Mister Holdout which will create a plume of thick grey smoke upon detonation which can be useful for escaping from a heavily-protected strip casino
Gelmene Health Care, known informally as "The Chop Shop" is a criminal organization based in New Vegas responsible for organ trafficking. Founded and currently led by Joe "Jekyll" Gelmene, the organization has a presence in all the towns surrounding the strip, as well as the strip itself. The high level of disease and violence found in the wastelands, coupled with a severe lack of sufficient healthcare and law enforcement has led to desperate citizens turning to the black market for life-saving organ transplants, creating a rife opportunity for extortion.
Gelmene opened his first drop-in clinic on the strip in 2279 mainly catering to wounded NCR soldiers whom he initally only provided basic medical care for and made money through buying and selling narcotics. He soon spotted a gap in the market for the trade in human organs and hired mercenaries to recover organs from dead or dying people before transplanting them into patients for exhorbitant fees. Word spread and before long he was replacing the cirrhotic livers of casino patrons and missing kidneys of quarry workers and attaching new limbs to powder gangers. People began to flock to him from miles around and he opened new clinics in Primm and Nipton as well as travelling clinics and created a structured organization to streamline the process of supply and demand.
โ The first rank in the organization are the diagnostic team or "Body Techs" who will provide a free consultation with patients and quote them a price for whatever organ they need (or citizens may also donate their own organs for cash).
โ Next the "Harvesters", who work on a comission basis, will acquire the appropriate organ through whatever means they deem appropriate. Harvesters are often found prowling the poorest areas with the highest crime rates where people often mysteriously disappear or outside hospitals and medical tents. Training for this role involves reading a copy of Today's Physician.
โA surgeon, or team of surgeons will then perform surgery to transplant the organ into the patient. Training for this role involves reading The Internal Journal of Medicine.
The survival rate of all surgeries performed is thought to be in the region of 40-50% and rumours abound of patients receiving organs from non-human doners such as Brahmin. Unsanitary conditions contributes to a high level of post-surgical complications for many patients, with diseases such as hepatitis being traced back to the storage of organs in the freezers of a Super Duper Mart.
This story is based on the distress call Aaron's Cry For Helpย -ย https://coolwolfvegas.tumblr.com/post/175234027437/aarons-cry-for-help
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I'd been resting for a while at The Old Mormon Fort in Freeside, recovering from a broken ankle and a spate of blindness foolishly brought on by a bad batch of Psycho. It would quite simply be suicide to venture out in the Mojave lame in any way (as I almost previously demonstrated) so I slept there on a bunk bed in a hot, dirty tent with not much to do but observe the steady flow of people who had, in some way or another, fallen foul of the wastes.
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One day they brought in a quarry worker who had been mauled by a Deathclaw. She shrieked for five days before she died; the Deathclaw had ripped off part of her jaw so there was nothing to muffle the sound. By day 2 it had become more of a wail and by day 4 she so was so hoarse it was a rasping hiss. Her eye, the one she had left, was glassy and lifeless but it looked over at me like a film reel about to run out.
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So I decided it was time to go. I rented a room at The Atomic Wrangler for a while (keeping a pistol under my pillow as I slept) but quickly felt the drain in my pockets. So for 40 caps a kindly doctor sawed my cast off and I'm back on my feet and heading south in hopes of making enough cash to enter the strip.
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My reflexes rustier than my shotgun, I look for an opportunity to practice. A gecko dashes out in front of me with a jaunty little run. I aim, shoot and miss. Twice. It turns and scurries towards me and I feel that familiar twinge of panic as I reload. My composure holds and I take its head clean off.
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The sun is baking me and my leg is stiff, my fitness is low and it's a struggle to keep walking. Ahead in the distance I can see the Yangtze Memorial and decide it would be a good place to stop due to its wonderful panoramic view of the desert.
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Upon nearing it a crackling is picked up on my Pip-Boy, then a message. I sit down on the steps of the memorial and stretch out my leg as the message repeats over and over: Someone is trapped in a cave nearby. Ashamedly, my thoughts turn to caps, more specifically how many are in it for me.
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The notion of responding meets with little resistance; too long have I idled in safety, passive and useless, fermenting in the dry, stale air whilst bones knit and muscles waste. I yearn for the thrum of danger, the flash of glory and the surge of adrenaline that can only be felt grasping two hands on the live wire of mortality.
It is dark when I leave the Old Mormon Fort. The gaudy flashing sign for Freeside jolts into my brain through painful eye sockets that I shield as if from sunlight. A silent stare greets me from a street vendor selling cooked up vermin and parasites, I hobble on past and struggle to open the gate enough to fit through.
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Heading west, I begin a long journey that would unnerve even the healthiest of travelers; the sand grabs my ankles with every step, my shotgun and even my clothing feels heavy and cumbersome. The slightest suggestion of danger and I cower down with baited breath, praying that it pass.
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I make it through Outer Vegas without incident but approach Vault 22 to find Cazadores prowling the flatlands thereby pushing me into a treacherous mountain range with only moonlight as a guide. The incline is steep and heavy underfoot and I exhaust quickly, aware of a dull ache rising behind my eyes the higher up I climb.
Cautiously I pause for rest but dare not linger; the cover of darkness has served me well to this point. I take a sip of purified water and am on my way again, clawing my way through rock and stone and sand and earth.
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Suddenly I am aware of the scuffling of gravel and accompanying puff of dust; I am at the bottom of a crevice, a steady trickle of blood running from my forehead down through the creases in my face. I try to dab it but my hand will not raise to my face. I wait for the burning sensation; the hot, fiery stab of a thousand needles perforating my flesh, but it does not come. I cannot feel anything. A furrowed brow becomes a whimper; a whimper, a cry. I am scared and alone and dying.
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A finger twitches; I will my hand to clench. With all my strength I reach into a pocket and produce a syringe of RadAway. I do not feel it pierce my skin nor do I feel the fluid enter my muscle. I wait.
A twinge of pain awakens my right ankle and I look to see that my foot is twisted underneath me, jutting out at an obscene angle. No time for grief, no time for anguish, an unholy mix of adrenaline and desperation washes over me and propping myself upright I scramble forward on two arms and one knee.
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My body shivers relentlessly, pain comes and goes in waves, sometimes so intensely I scrape my fingertips in the ground and bloody them. Finally emerging from the mountains, I lie flat on the ground allowing two Bighorner Bulls to pass me by before dragging myself onto a broken road which must be the road into Jacobstown. It must. I crawl and I crawl and I crawl.
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Cold air kisses cold beads of sweat on my neck as my kneecaps grind against hard concrete. I have lost all concept of time and distance and instead focus on fantasies of warmth, comfort and safety. My mind guesses at what my eyes cannot see: shapes in the darkness, outlines and shadows both friend and foe.
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Most of these illusions become trees or rocks or simply vanish as I approach them but one shape has remained in the middle of the road, distinct and prominent. I cannot guess what it is but I am sure it is alive.
"Help me." My mouth moves but no sound escapes. I try and fail again, unable to vocalize.
"Help me!" This time out loud, cracked and gravelly.
"Please!" I shout and snarl, reaching a hand towards the shape. He approaches me - a man, no, Super Mutant. There is nothing I can do, nowhere to hide, I reach for my shotgun but he speaks to me in a calm, assuring tone:
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