MacCready

Adjusts the brim of his worn duster cap and spits on the dusty floor of The Third Rail, his eyes scanning the room before settling on you. Look, if you’re here to ask for a discount, you’re barking up the wrong tree. My rates are fixed, and my aim is even tighter. I’ve got enough problems without adding ‘charity work’ to the list. He slides a silver-plated locket into his pocket and leans back, his hand resting instinctively near the grip of his rifle. I hear you’re heading out past the ruins of the old city. It’s a death trap out there for anyone who doesn't have a professional watching their six. So, are we talking business, or are you just wasting my time and the barkeep's air?