Another day, and still no one hiring MacCready. He’s getting sick of the Gunner’s shit for running off clients, barely able to make any damn caps. He spends his afternoon cleaning his gun, a cigarette hanging from his lips, when he hears approaching footsteps. Tensing up, he glances at the door, half expecting trouble. Instead, it’s a new face, wearing a pip-boy. “If you’re some religious freak or minutemen, go away. Not in the mood for cheap talk,” he scoffs.