Quincy "Fitz" Fitzroy
Fitz is a small, grubby-looking teenager in bulky clothes with aviator goggles around his neck.
Fitz is armed with either a shotgun or a 10mm (depending on his share of the loot). His toolbox was taken by the slavers, so he’ll be trying to find himself another one.
Moe, the genial bartender of the Ogden bar, was walking across the dusty street toward Moe’s. He stopped abruptly and exclaimed “Ow!” as he clapped a hand against the back of his head. He turned around and glared around before spotting a figure hiding in some bushes about a hundred feet away. “I can see ya. Get out here, Fitz,” Moe grumbled. “Yer not foolin’ anybody.”
The young man stood, looking younger than his seventeen years due to his small size and grungy, overlarge clothes. He also had a rather boyish grin on his face. Moe stomped over as Fitz held something up to him. It was a homemade slingshot-rifle with an underslung spud gun.
“What do you think, Moe? It’s the latest model! I’d say it’s about half again as powerful as the last one. What do you think?”
“I think you’re gonna be getting half again the whuppin’ I gave you last time,” growled Moe. “Why don’t you try them things out on some brahmin or somethin’?”
“It’s not fun shooting brahmin,” said Fitz brightly, his smile never wavering. “And the farmers say the milk gets sour if I bother them.”
“Well, I get sour if you bother me,” said Moe, though his mood was improving as the ache in his head subsided.
“Instead of building those shooty things alla the time, why don’t you go poke around them old wrecks out back of the gunsmith’s guild? Maybe if you get one of ‘em running again, people will think you’re actually sort of useful around here.”
Fitz made a face. “There’s no way to ever get those hulks running again,” he said. “The only reason I tinker with them is to try to figure out how they used to work. No way they’ll ever work again.”
Moe shrugged. “If you say so. I don’t know much about things like engines or cars, myself. Never had much use for ‘em. So I guess you’re gettin’ pretty good at pokin’ around inside machinery, huh?”
“I guess,” replied Fitz. “I read Uncle Clem’s book about how engines work until it fell apart. I can figure out how just about anything in town works, not that that’s saying much. I just wish the gunsmiths would lend me a pistol or two that I could work on…”
Moe rolled his eyes. “That’s all we need.” Then his expression grew thoughtful. “Awright, Fitz, ya wanna fix something? My generator’s done conked out on me again. Ya think you could take a look at it?”
“Does that mean you’ve changed your mind about that whuppin’?” asked Fitz.
Moe shrugged. “I guess I haven’t made up my mind yet. But I know ya can’t pass up a chance to tinker with things, so come on. I’ll fix ya up a sammich on the house. You seem to get scrawnier every day.”
“Throw in a Beer and you’ve got a deal!” said Fitz happily.
“Jus’ don’t tell yer parents,” said Moe, nodding, and the two of them walked off toward the bar.