It didn't take long for enough of the rubble and debris to be swept aside that the building became possible to enter and for the caravan and mercenary company to settle into. You note absentmindedly there still remained much work to be done to make these premises safe, let alone comfortable for a prolonged stay. Centuries of neglect has made of this residency of your's what a ghoul would call a health hazard. On the other hand, inquiries to resupply have been met with the offering of strange tasting crops and, weirdly, deflections whenever water is mentioned... Suddenly, the cause of their suspicious behavior dawns on you. For all the water and all the life it sustains you've seen in your short time in Westside, you haven't yet witnessed the tiniest scrap of evidence pointing towards the existence of: a water chip, a reservoir, a well, or even something as basic as a pump from which it must've been, respectively, originally drawn. You wonder how and why they are hiding their community's water source, and what other secrets this prosperous town built out of the ruins of Las Vegas holds.
The disorganized troopers, legionaire raiding parties, grizzled raiders, feral ghouls, and mutated critters of the Searchlight area heard a sound all but the first of the lot would find unfamiliar and strange and one that yet fewer still would likely live to hear again. The rumbling of a truck through the dry expanse of the Mojave Wasteland. Those few that dared give chase were easily evaded by the driver, who took the vehicle off the road and through forgotten back roads to lose his pursuers as he arrived at his destination. Searchlight Airport. You, Captain Dimitri Verskinov of the People's Republic of China, step out of the vehicle after it comes to a stop on the broken asphalt of the entrance tunnel. The sentry hails you from his makeshift position overlooking the crater, but the challenge is nothing more than protocol. "Lose those guǐzi, comrade Captain?" He rasped in borderline passable English, wiping a bead of sweat away from his rotted ghoulish forehead. Not waiting for an answer, he went on, "good, for we have much to do. The curse of the resident demons, the restless spirits known as bark scorpions, must be removed from this place. Even then, additional effort to clear the rubble, debris, and ultimately the restoration of the buildings we intend to occupy as a base befitting the People's Liberation Army, is required from the tireless workers of the C.P.C."
Today was the day the N.C.R.C.F. was taken from the Powder Gangers by you and your Mojave Marshalls. You trusted each man and woman at your side would do their job. Each and every one used to be a Desert Ranger, same as you, after all. Your party traveled along well known roads to the prison complex. If the convicts didn't know you were coming already, they sure as hell do now. You didn't rightly know if that was a good thing or not. Likely some would've scattered, but the rest would be ready and waiting for you to come down the road. Few outside of Nevada knew what you and your like could do to lawbreakers on a bad day. Perhaps today they'll learn.
Guess being brained, twice for that matter, didn't do your head much good. Shame all you forgot was about yourself though. After the check-up from Doc Mitchell and a query about your mutated red eyes handed over her personal effects, gave you directions around town and the name of the man who saved you as 'Victor', and... Strangely... A skintight one-size-fits-all Vault 21 jumpsuit, apparently formerly his wife's, for modesty.
You don't have a name anymore. At least, how you see it. Names are what people call you by, what people know you by. It's been a long time since someone has called and known you by anything other than what you are to them. A long time ago in a quiet Montana coal mining town that'll never matter to anyone important in a millennium. Before you picked up your father's fedora, shrugged on his trenchcoat, and picked up his guns and guitar. Leaving nothing to your wife and son but your six string and six shooter and the memories of what you used to be to them. To the people you save - to their enemies you callously, indiscriminately, dispense... You're just a mysterious stranger. Didn't matter now though. That thinking could be saved for later, for another game was afoot. The Mojave Wasteland was in need of a player to decide it's fate. Courier Six, he mused, watching the front door of Doc Mitchell's house for movement, might just be worthy to survive their story.
Nightkin didn't venture upstairs anymore. You saw. Now it was just you, your followers, and your feral brothers and sisters that your former prophet Jason Bright thought he could save. One of the shamblers brushed past you on his way to his next meal. You couldn't quite tell what emotion it sparked in you. Disgust? Pity? Maybe that's what the smoothskins think of you, you realize. As mindless roving beasts. Maybe it was time to cut your losses and leave. Bodies could be looted on the way out easily enough, and you knew you had the firepower to cut your way through the Mojave again if you had to, but these people could still be saved. The demons Jason spoke about were anything but. If you hadn't encountered some before your ghoulification during your stint in the Brotherhood of Steel, you sure as hell heard stories about them. The Master's favorite children had come here of all places for some as of yet unknown purpose. The Paladin in you screamed to eliminate them to the last, despite everything that has happened to you and the responsibility you possessed to your people as a leader. Not so long ago the ghouls and ghoulettes now littering the defenses of Repconn were friends. They didn't deserve to die like that. You had to ask yourself though how many more woud suffer equal if not worse fortunes if you stayed in this place and couldn't reason with the savages.
For three hours each night Elder McNamara allows you the privilege to leave the Hidden Valley bunker complex to patrol through the blinding blasts of sand kicked up by the Dervish camouflage system that's faithfully kept the remnants of the Mojave Chapter of the Brotherhood of Steel kicking all these years. After another shift ends Lorenzo finally agrees to a request of your's to play a game of cards in the early hours of the morning before you turn in for the day. The game goes as you expected it to, a few rounds go your way, a few his - but the conversation with the Head Knight doesn't. "Doesn't matter whether or Elder McNamara steps down or not anymore. Either way, our time here's coming to an end. Air filtration system's on the verge of shut down for good, and the patrols we sent out to get the technology we need to keep it going haven't yet returned. We'll be forced to leave, with nowhere to go but into the arms of the New California Republic Army." He retorted bitterly to the thought that you, Paladin George Huxley, or even Head Paladin Hardin could change anything. "We'll all be dead or better off as it within the month." Suddenly, his face goes white and he looks around to see if you're the only one in the room. "I would like it if you'd keep quiet about that." He frowned. "Gave Elder McNamara my word I wouldn't tell a soul about what's going on..."
Elder Pearl was dying. You were summoned to her quarters to hear the last words she would ever speak. She gripped your hand as another cough racked her chest and Dr. Argyll rushed to stabilize her condition. "Roy," she croaked tenderly. "My time to lead the tribe has come to an end, soon it will be you who leads our people, but if you wish to humor me, I have one last request... Bring our people the Lady in the Lake. Achieve for me the one dream our people had outside our walls..." Involuntary spasms overtook her, and you were quickly ushered outside. Minutes later the doctor would exit and bring news your heart already knew. The oldest and wisest Boomer was no longer among the living. Tears threatened to spill over onto your face, but you swallowed them. This was not a time for mourning. Many decisions weighed upon your mind. Three of your fellow tribesmen laid mortally wounded in the medical station, and worst yet, the mutated ants continued to prohibit access to the power grid and armory of the base. Reportedly consuming gunpowder and becoming explosive in nature with the use of conventional weaponry. Most importantly, what if the tribe can no longer patiently wait for the outsider, increasingly the savior, that Pearl had spoken of to survive the artillery bombardment and open Nellis to the outside world?
It didn't take much for you to get a job as a burlesque dancer for the Tops. Tommy Torini, the manager at the Aces Theater, didn't even ask for an audition before handing over the contract for you to sign. You were slotted for the 4:00 P.M. slot for a performance of two hours until the only other act, coincidencially the manager's own, came on, and given free room and board without a second glance. It'll be eight hours until your first performance, you could enjoy all the Strip had to offer in the daylight hours or stay in the casino of your employ and see if you can make a 'ring-a-ding-ding' impression, their words, not your's, with the Chairmen. An easy feat to accomplish you would assume, as most waited hand and foot on any little pretty thing that walked in.
It was always easy for you to get what you wanted in the Omertas. The family was all either stupid and spineless or brutish thugs. Cachino fit the former to a fault. Everyone but the Bosses knew that he did things behind their back that would get him killed if he was found out. Maybe it was time to make a new friend and make a play for the top. You didn't quite like the idea of Nero and Big Sal working with Caesar's Legion, no matter how nicely they tried to sell the idea to her. To them women were for breeding and raping. Nothing else.
Beniamino "Benny" Costello pulled off the job without a hitch. He executed Mr. House's courier, the Overboss none the wiser, and brought back the Platinum Chip the broad was carrying to you within your office located within the sealed off depths of Vault 21 to knock back a cold one with the boss himself. While beautiful in its own right, Yes Man indicated it could be used to open some interesting doors in the Lucky 38 and, surprisingly, a Securitron storehouse underneath Fortification Hill. Only problem was, they had to get to one of those places first.
Ever since that blushing bride disappeared in your hotel, its the only thing the guests appear to talk about in the Gourmand, and that investigator, Jay Barnes, hasn't left his room once to ask you any questions. Worst still, there isn't simply as much demand for seating reservations as there used to be - despite White Glove Society efforts at your leading behest to give them to as few people as possible to drive up the exclusivity of their resort. While Mortimer usually handles these things, you wonder if you should check up on him, especially since Heck Gunderson, wealthy Brahmin Baron, has arrived to come to a business arrangement with your casino.
Camp Forlorn Hope had too many problems and not enough manpower and supplies to fix them: three troopers are mortally injured in the first aid tent, what few medical supplies you had are reportedly being stolen, four of your best men you sent to Helios One to beg for supplies haven't returned yet, rumors of troopers making a game out of mutilating Legion corpses for their ears have come up, all women have recently been voluntarily pulled from the front line to ensure none fall into the clutches of the enemy, and, to top it all off, if you were one to believe Technology Sargent Reyes, the woman alleges the security codes for the radios of the ranger stations have been compromised by the enemy and need to be changed.
Colonel Moore briefed you, the newly appointed successor to General Lee Oliver for an hour of explanation of perhaps the single most fucked operation the New California Republic's military forces have ever undertaken; the Mojave Campaign. You suspect she would've been there all day had she chose to speak every word she had to say about the rest of the region. Instead, she spoke only of Caesar's Legion, leaving the rest of the reports on your desk in the form of meticulously type written notes. "Reports have come in from the ranger stations of the Legion domesticating and training deathclaws, and incorporating Supermutants into their ranks. Additionally, intelligence suggests that enemy Blackfoot reinforcements will be arriving any week now from Arizona, and that Lanius, their Legate, the famed Monster of the East, his name Latin for 'butcher,' won't be far behind to lead his master's army into battle against our positions along the Colorado River. Finally, in the South reinforcements and supplies are being slowed due to the disconnected rail links, escaped convicts, and the burning of Nipton which at present remains uninvestigated. All in all, I will say to you what I did to your predecessor, General Lee Oliver, that our best course of action is to tie up loose ends with as much force as we can muster while diverting the rest of our resources to Hoover Dam proper. A slip-up here, General, she spoke, "could very well send our people back to the dark ages. Back to a time when power and water were rare luxuries." She finished and stood aside for her dismissal or to answer any questions that came up during her speech.
Everything had been a blur ever since her eyes shot open, gazing at a dilapidated ceiling fan blowing dust filled air into her face. Panic overtook her first, followed by intense nausea and vertigo as she tried to get up and run. She wasn't sure what she was running from. She just needed to run.
A gentle hand forced her back onto the bed, a weathered soothing voice attempting to calm her. Slowly she had recovered her bearings, her crimson eyes taking note of the man before her. An older man with bone white hair, his skin tan and leathery, an easygoing smile on his face. His presence was comforting, her heart rate slowly returning to normal. He said his name was Doc Mitchell, and he had been taking care of her ever since this so called Victor had dragged her in from the graveyard.
The graveyard. The name brought back vivid flashbacks, of being bound and on her knees in a shallow grave. Staring up at a man in a checkered suit with a crocodiles smile, a beautiful pistol pressed against her head. He had a strange accent, one that made it obvious he didn't belong in the Wastes.
"From where you're kneeling it must seem like an 18-carat run of bad luck.
Truth is...the game was rigged from the start."
Even now she couldn't help but flinch, and a stinging pain could be felt in her head.
"You sure you're okay to head out darling? You look like a startled Radstag doe the way you're standing there."
The fiery haired girl glanced back at the Doc standing in his doorway. Apparently she had been standing outside his house for over 10 minutes, staring blankly at the small frontier town.
"Heh, thanks Doc, but I'll be fine. Just taking in the sight of this lovely town is all." Her voice was warm, if still a bit shaky, having just the slightest tinge of a southern drawl to it.
"Hmm, well if you ever need any help, you know where to find me. Just try not to get shot in the head again. Not sure if I could put you back in one piece again."
A light chuckle escaped her lips, "I'll keep that in mind. You take care Doc."
"You as well Six."
Six. It was strange hearing someone call her that for the first time. Probably a stupid name, but she wasn't sure what else to call herself. It was the only identity she had though. Courier Six. No other name felt right. And only the man who buried her in a shallow grave could give her any answers.
Having wasted enough time standing around like a moron, Six began to make her way into the town proper. Adjusting her worn gray duster over her newly acquired form fitting Vault 21 Jumpsuit. As she walked along the dust covered road, she took a moment to appreciate the Docs biggest gift, an honest to God PipBoy. She wasn't sure what she had done to earn that, but she could hardly turn it down, she'd need every advantage she could get.
Passing by a few townsfolk, they regarded her with a vague hint of interest before returning to their harsh daily routines, mostly taking care of Bighorners it seemed. Passing by the General Store, she made her way to the local bar, Prospectors Saloon. It was hard to miss with half of the name being in flickering neon.
Walking up to the entrance, she noticed one of the older townsfolk lounging in an armchair. His skin was like leather, and his outfit made him look like a true prospector.
"You that gal Victor dragged outta the cemetery?" He asked, though he didn't seem overtly interested.
"Heh, that I am. S'pose that's not a common occurrence round these parts?" The man simply gave a shrug in response, more interested in chewing his straw than hearing her story.
"If you're looking for some directions and gossip, talk ta Trudy, she knows this town and it's folk like a mother knows her kids." Not wanting to take up any more time.
Entering the saloon, she was greeted in a rather unexpected way. Savage barking from a hound ready to tear out her throat.
LeRae looked out the window of his office down at the streets of Westside. It had been a week or so since LeRae and his caravan arrived in the prosperous town. It was odd, how a town like this was able to be so prosperous when there was no real evidence for it being so. The crops did taste weird and the mention of water was treated with scowls and deflections, but LeRae wasn't too curious. For now anyway. The people of Westside, while apprehensive at first, had been hospitable to LeRae and his caravan. They had allowed the old trader to buy one of the boarded up buildings and use it as his headquarters, and luckily it was within the town's defenses which was another bonus. Thus he would not hassle the citizens or try and learn their precious secrets.
The old trader turned his back on the window and walked towards his desk, picking up a half full cup of tea. He sipped the now lukewarm drink and contemplated on his vision and goal for being in the Mojave.
LeRae hailed from Cascadia, an area and faction north of the NCR, and started his business in the ruins of Portland. There he would slowly expand his Caravan Business as he had no real competition. Cannibals and mountain men caused most to give up and be riddled with fear, but LeRae was determined to expand his business. Soon enough the man had expanded his business tenfold, controlling most of the routes in pre-war Oregon, and parts of Washington and Idaho. LeRae dealt with many of the cannibals and mountain men(which led to the addition of being a Mercenary company.) and now set his sights on expanding into the Mojave and NCR territory, and his goal led him to Westside.
The Mojave offered something LeRae craved... hardship. It had been years since he was faced with it, and while it would be a huge undertaking to become the dominant trading power in the Mojave, LeRae liked that challenge. To achieve this LeRae intended to try and get on the good side of the major players, mainly the Strip and NCR. The Strip was his primary target, as they were the closer player. He had already obtained a New Vegas passport, all he needed to do was go there, but things delayed him. He needed to finish setting up his headquarters and getting logistics settled.
LeRae finished the now cold tea and looked around the room. It was lightly decorated, nothing more than his desk, two chairs, a few flags and a mat that lay on the floor, a radio next to it. The old man turned around and looked back out the window. He placed his hands on the hilt of his weapon and watched as some of his men moved materials into the building. He walked back towards his desk and opened one of the drawers, there he pulled out an old Pre-War book called Meditations by some man named Marcus Aurelius, and a pair of glasses. He slipped the glasses on before walking over towards the aforementioned mat. LeRae sat down on the mat and turned on the radio. He opened the book and began to read while listening to what Mr. New Vegas had to say about the dealings in the Mojave.
Nergal had to take a course of action if he wanted to save face. As the leader of the more militant of the two ghoul brotherhoods, the duty to deal with Jason's 'demons' fell to him and if he failed to succeed in ridding the nightkin his legitimacy would be shattered while Jason's Great Migration would only seem more appealing to the ghouls of Repconn. Nevertheless, the nightkin prevented an unrivaled opportunity to demonstrate his values of a strong ghoul society over Jason's pipe dream. Many of those at Repconn were well aware of the danger the nightkin prevented and had heard direct stories from Nergal of when the Master's super mutants overran Necropolis, scattering the ghouls back across the wasteland. If Nergal could succeed in removing the nightkin menace from Repconn, he would prove that he could lead the ghouls where Set and Necropolis failed.
As much as Nergal would have enjoyed storming the lower levels of Repconn directly and annihilating the nightkin himself, it was too reckless of a plan to actually try. Instead, Nergal planned to learn more about why the nightkin had targeted Repconn in particular and if there was some sort of lost technology hidden in the basement that the ghouls were unaware of. Harland and Sera were chosen for this task, and Nergal warned them to cause a commotion should they be discovered or in need of rescue. Should they be unable to be rescued directly, each of them were armed with some supplies to assist in setting up a secured defense in the rooms below, notably landmines. As the pair made their way down into the basement, Nergal sat in anticipation with several other members of his Brotherhood. The following events would unite the ghouls of Repconn one way or another, with his Brotherhood suffering a tragic defeat and being absorbed back into the Bright Brotherhood, or bolstering the numbers of his Brotherhood after a massive success.
As Nergal anxiously gripped the handle of his RCW he looked around the room for anything else to focus on besides the fear of failure. He wondered if the nightkin in the basement were reasonable or if they had gone mad as most nightkin seemed to have, especially Tabitha of the nearby state of Utobitha. Nergal shuddered thinking about the threat the super mutants of Black Mountain posed, not only to his ghouls but to the rest of the Mojave. In his wait for Harland and Sera to gather intelligence, Nergal wondered what Emund, his emissary to Jacobstown, was doing and if was successful in securing a potential new home for the ghouls of Repconn.
'Was it worth it? Why did I do it? Was it right, was it fair, was it just?' Those are the thoughts that passed through the mean known generally as 'The Mysterious Stranger'. It would never be lost on him that he left a home behind. He wanted to go back, planned on it. He was heading back West, home. After what he saw in Washington, the death, the struggle, the risk, the sacrifice. He knew he could make a difference, that he wasn't a dreamer. It had a long way to go but salvation there had begun because a father and his child risked everything, throwing themselves ever on to their goal. He helped, of course, from the shadows. He would continue to wonder about what come to befall that young vault dweller, a lone wanderer after the death of a father. He kept tabs on them for a while before embarking for home. He was close. He awoke for yet another day, those questions attacking him as his conscious mind struggled for control of his body. The answers, Yes. I had to do something to secure a future for my son. The answers to the last question of questions, still unclear.
He awoke to see a robot surreptitiously robbing a grave, at least that was what it appeared to look like. Cursing the early hour at which he awoke, he took aim. The sun was still waiting to rise, it was far too early for him to be letting people get away with robbery, so he took aim. By the time he was looking down his scope at his new target, however, the robot appeared to be dragging a body, which still had some life in it, away toward the neighbouring town that the grave was almost certainly a part of. He remembered the gunshot he heard last night, while he tried to run to investigate he merely saw a man dressed in a chequered suit and some Khans running over the crest of a hill, not enough time for him to get a shoot off at any of them. Could this chick that robot was dragging be the same person that was shot last night? His curiosity got the better of him. He had been travelling for months, a couple years even, on his way home. What more would a few days be? They 'bot dropped her off at a house, the man inside looked to be a doc and so he watched, one of two things would happen. The chick would leave the house alive or dead. While he expected the latter he had some feeling it would be the former.
He recalled, while he waited, that suits like the one he remembered seeing were worn by some of the guys on the strip. They didn't tend to get out much so that meant that whatever this chick was involved in it was big and she was assumed to be dealt with. Then she walked at the door, he didn't notice at first. He hadn't really been paying too much attention, starting at some deathclaws off in the distance. He turned to see the girl just standing, staring. If he hadn't seen he limp body being dragged he would have thought her mad, but knowing what he did he didn't blame her. Eventually she appeared to step back into reality, holding some conversation with the doc and a couple other people on her way to the near by watering hole. Once more he didn't blame her. The first thing he would do is down the nearest bottle of whiskey too. 'Guess I will be sticking around a while' he thought to himself. Some people were just special, that's the way he saw it. His grandfather used to tell him about the people he used to save when he was younger but he father did very little, settling down in the NCR to be a Farmer. He knew that if some people were special then this chick was one of them special ones. He was going to be keeping an eye on her. Something big was going down, he could see the increased military presence from the NCR and he had travelled through the Legion. A battle was on the horizon and he just knew that the red haired girl was going to be the key. @Keidivh
"Cheyenne, stay," a short and stocky huntress, likely of hispanic descent, ordered. The dog, a wasteland mutt if you ever saw one, hesitantly obeyed her command. "Don't worry," the woman spoke, grinning. "She won't bite unless I tell her to." She had a cheery confident temperament about her manner and speech. One all too likely born out of years of experience in hunting the region's assorted mutated wildlife.
"If you like news, then you're gonna love our next segment," crackled the smooth voice of Mr. New Vegas, the Mojave Wasteland's one and only radio host. Citizens of Outer Vegas are flocking to the Strip in droves amid a wave of terror caused by a band of raiders known as the Fiends. Those who can afford passports say that the added security is well worth the price of admission." Fiends were perhaps some of the most powerful raiders of what's left of the Thirteen Commonwealths, even if taken on individually without their feared leaders to cajole the addicts into an effective fighting force, they just keep on coming until you or they take their last breath. So far your few encounters with them hadn't made you suffer serious losses, but it has legitimized their reputation in your eyes. Surprisingly, Westside was seemingly the only settlement of the ruins that has managed to repeatedly win skirmishes with the savages, to the point of capturing whole patrols to fight in the Lucy's Thorn, a gambling arena built out of the sewers beneath your very feet.
A Nightkin going by the name of 'Davison' was discovered and spoken to within the basement of the Repconn test site by Harland and Sera, the pair report upon their return. The conversation quickly took a turn for the worse, but they were saved by the intervention of a being the former captain of the Master's Army referred to as 'Antler.' Who reasoned that a peaceful solution could be made. While your scouts strongly suspected Antler was nothing more than a brahmin skull and the schizophrenic imaginings of Davison, it appeared as if the hallucination has saved many lives today. At least... Until they revealed Antler demanded of the ghouls the retrieval of hundreds of stealth boys located within a booby trapped room that had slain several Nightkin since their arrival.
Taking a step back and putting her hand on the holster of her Glock 86, Six was about ready to unleash a full clip of energy cells into the hound before. I didn't live through being shot in the head just to become dog chow. Thankfully the owner was quick to bringthe dog to heel, its vicious demeanor quickly turning to that of a lovable pup, looking up at its master with warm affection. A small smile spread across her lips and a sigh of relief escaped her as the woman before her spoke. She seemed a kind enough girl, offering Six an easy smile. Just by looking at her outfit she could tell this girl was familiar with the Wastes.
"Heh, well then I'm at your mercy miss." Six stated with a small chuckle, putting her hands up in mock surrender. "Name's Six if you care for it, was dragged into town last night, though I s'pose you already heard about that. Seems like near everyone else did." Rubbing the back of her neck, she wasn't sure how to feel about being known in this strange town as the girl back from the dead. It still seemed so surreal.
"So are you Trudy? The ol' prospector out front said I should come talk to her. Have to admit I feel as lost as a kid caught in a rad storm. Not to mention, I feel I owe you fine folk for saving my hide. I'd love to return the favor in some manner."
Nergal was relieved to learn that the nightkin leader, Davison, was willing to work out a diplomatic option. The potential chance to recover some stealth boys and smuggle some away from the nightkin proved alluring as well. Going along with Harland, Sera, and Shamash, Nergal descended into the basement. Harland led the way as the group briskly made their way through the close corridors, unsure if the rest of Davison's gang were aware of 'Antler's offer. Before long, Nergal began to notice how the air behind them seemed to shift from time to time. Without saying anything, he motioned for the rest of his ghouls to stop before he swung around, readying his weapon in the process. Shamash and Harland did the same, with Sera watching the other side of the hallway. The rapid succession of actions was met in response by a pair of nightkin charging at them. Rapidly firing at them, the ghouls were able to kill both of the mutants, sustaining no casualties. Waiting a few more moments to make sure they wouldn't be charged again, the group increased their pace towards the room where the stealth boys were supposedly housed.
Staying behind to defend the entrance to the room, Nergal chose Harland to make his way around the traps, disabling them if possible, and seeing if he could locate the stealth boys. The rest of the ghouls stayed behind to booby trap the hallway leading up to the storage room with Sera's landmines. It wouldn't prevent any nightkin with ranged weapons from attacking them, but would stop them from sneaking close enough to engage in melee combat.
Propped up in the bathtub, Ava kept the windows open for the hot desert heat whilst sitting in the soapy, luke-warm water; leaning over her outstretched leg with a straight-razor. Carefully drawing it up the curve of her calf, the showgirl bit her lip hard to keep both hands steady. Devereaux's hair was still set in her rollers, bound with a light cotton handkerchief to keep the curls from being ruined by the moisture, having woken up later than usual and decided it was more of a day to preen and pluck, considering her performance slot that afternoon. Set out beside the tub a cigarette was balanced in the ashtray, gently smoking away in front of the radio that spilt the honeydew voice of Mr New Vegas and his songs of old. Bobbing her head along occasionally to a jazzy tune and occasionally breaking out into lyrics she knew in sultry hums; slender fingers sought out the slim tobacco roll-up, placing it between her teeth, using the razor as conductor's baton.
Managing to finish amongst her distractions, Ava clambered out and stubbed her cig -- wrapping a towel tight around her figure only to waltz around the room with some famous footwork. Untangling the rollers from her shoulder-length bob-cut and throwing each onto the counter of her vanity, to shake out her mane into it's coiffed perfection. Stripping the towel, her hands dipped into the dresser at the foot of her bed, pulling on underclothes and then the blouse accompanied by skirt; wiggling it up over her hips and zipping it tight. Plucking the cracked perfume atomiser from the selection of bottles whilst standing before the mirror, and giving it a few puffs into the air which delicately landed on her skin in addition to being dabbed behind her ears and on the inner wrist. Leaning in close, she pulled her cheek taut and made a few strange faces whilst applying a beeswax lipstick to her pout. Deepening the shade, till making a rather satisfying 'pop', and giving a twirl to slide into her polished, black heels.
Being who she was, where she was, it was better than a holiday. No more early nights or early mornings, just the Tops and some dancing. How bad could it be? The woman swung around, reaching for her purse and checking the bottlecaps she had left. Enough for Nuka Cola and some Dandy Boy Apples; not the healthiest meal for the morning, but then again this was the same woman who would only eat snack cakes for three days straight because she 'felt sad'. Leaving her room, 'Tallulah' locked up, tucking the key into her pocket before skipping on down the staircase and past the odd chairman or two. Odd sorta fellas, with an unnerving amount of eye to eye contact when they said 'Ring a-ding ding'. Now, this was something, who'd have thought that small-town Primm girl woulda been found all the way out here in Vegas? Well, whilst it lasted she could live a little.
She made a beeline for the casino restaurant, slowing her pace to a saunter as she climbed to the secondary level and approached the bar. Popping a bottle of Nuka, and her ... meal of sorts, Devereaux seemed to practically glow with excitement. "So, tell me, hun, what's a girl to do around here for fun? And don't tell me to start playin' cards, because I'm awful bad." Ava put a hand above her breast, fingers extending over the collarbone with a southern smile. "It's my first time in Vegas, see? I'm Tallulah. The gal whos gonna be workin' in the Aces and all -- you should come watch! If you get a break that is." She popped a piece of the freeze-dried apple between her lips and winked. "I won't say I'm worth it, but hell, I need the money." Came the giggle.
LeRae looked over at the radio as Mr. New Vegas' voice came on. He turned the volume up a bit more and listened to what Mr. New Vegas had to say. It was about the Fiends, a group that in the long run would need to be eliminated. While they posed a threat at any moment, for now LeRae would let them be. His trade routes would stay out of their territory for now. LeRae looked back at his book and read a few more lines before speaking to himself, "The Fiends seem to be limitless. Kill one and two more pop up." The man flipped a page and skimmed a few more lines, "They're even hitting Camp McCarren pretty hard..." He took a sip of his tea and heaved a sigh, "Getting the NCR to help wipe them out might be hard..." LeRae's eyes stopped and he closed the book gently.
"While the ideal situation would be to gain control of them... that seems even more unlikely. They have a strong leader and enjoy being lawless." LeRae rubbed the stubble of hair on his chin, "No matter... for now Westside should withstand them... Eliminating them will be a challenge regardless of who helps. Obtaining them even harder." LeRae opened up his book once more and smiled, muttering one of the lines, "Never let the future disturb you. You will meet it, if you have to, with the same weapons of reason which today arm you against the present."
"A wise man, this Aurelius..." LeRae downed the rest of his tea and gently closed the book once more. He turned off the radio and stood up. Slowly walking to the desk, he opened up the drawer and placed the book in it once more. LeRae opened the door to his office, looking at it as it creaked loudly and shook his head. He closed it and walked down the hall, knocking on a door.
"Come in." A feminine voice said and LeRae complied, openied the door and looked at his second-in-command, one Pearl Barbarossa. She had been LeRae's trusted second in command for nearly twenty years. Pearl was around Five foot Ten and had tan skin. Her hair long and black, her lips full and her body lean. She had an eye-patch over her left eye and was the total opposite of LeRae. Rowdy, rambunctious and a loose cannon, "What is it, ya old bastard." Pearl offered her boss a toothy smile as she rolled around a toothpick with her tongue.
"I'd like you to have the men help reinforce the barricade and walls. If another raid occurs try to capture a few of the Fiends for ourself. I'd like for them to give a message to their leader if possible. Other than that, we won't be launching an offensive. That day has yet to come and we mustn't fret over such things." LeRae offered Pearl a smile, "After all, Aurelius says: 'If someone is able to show me that what I think or do is not right, I will happily change, for I seek the truth, by which no one was ever truly harmed. It is the person who continues in his self-deception and ignorance who is harmed' " Pearl rolled her eyes at the old man's quoting of a man long past dead, "I believe we should offer this advice to the Fiends themselves..." LeRae paused, "Granted, I doubt the Fiends will listen to this and if need be I shall wage war with them, but now is not that time."
"Yeah yeah you old coot. Get outta hear with that philosophy or whatever ya call it." Pearl shooed the old man out of her office, and LeRae complied, leaving with a smile on his face.
"Folk around here call me Sunny Smiles." The huntress beamed, patting the head of Cheyenne, "Trudy's out back fixin' up some of her famous moonshine, but I don't think any of us would deserve or want your gratitude. 'Cept Victor, he doesn't normally take an interest in people, let alone in saving their lives." She furrowed her brow and bit her lip. "I would watch my step around him, not that I mind his kind, its just he keeps to his rounds like a gecko to water. Anyhow," she abruptly changed topics, "I could teach you the basics about making it out here, or give you information about odd jobs or the local roads."
Deafening silence answered them. Something felt wrong, but you couldn't quite put your finger on it. Folksworn produced a key from his formal attire, holding it up to your sight before inserting it into the lock and opening the door. "Was afraid it would come to this, but I am sure the Investigator will understand..." He trailed off, wordlessly rushing into the room at the revealed sight of Jay Barnes unresponsive on the suite floor.
A nightkin came charging down the hallway, dragging a bumper sword along the floor behind him as he sprinted towards the sounds of battle. The landmines were placed just in the nick of time, several triggering and launching the body of the supermutant forwards into Sera. Struggling to breathe, his eyes widened in realization as the ghoulette pushed the abomination off herself and rose to her feet, dazed but none the worse for wear. "TWIGS," the nightkin yelled. "Brothers will come," he grinned in delight between coughing up blood, "all will snap, snap, snap..." Suddenly, his head was struck by a laser beam, and you turned to watch Shamash empty the clip of his recharger rifle into the mutant until nothing remained but an ash pile. An image of Necropolis, seared into the minds of every ghoul and ghoulette of the West, found meaning in the present again. When the water shed was taken, when the sewers were broken into and the survivors hunted down... Soldiers of the Master's Army opted to forgo their weapons in favor of grabbing the closest souls they could find and snapping them in two over their knees... A yell of warning from behind jarred the trio out of their thoughts, and they turned to watch Harland dive to cover within the booby trapped room before a chain explosion rocked the building. When the smoke cleared and the ringing in their ears ceased, the paladin limped over to the group and smiled, unaware of the piece of bloodied scrap metal lodged into his left thigh.
The bartender was pale and scarless to even the most casual of observers on further examination, obvious marks of a vault dweller if you ever saw one. If you had to make a wild guess, he must've come from the now defunct Vault 21 of the Strip. "Aside from the Tops sweetheart, there's three choices to spend your time on the Strip, the Gomorrah, run by the Omertas, the Ultra-Luxe, run by the White Glove Society, and the Vault 21 Hotel, run by Sarah Weintraub. Personally? I'd only suggest the latter. The Omertas are degenerates, and the White Gloves, while they run quite a ring-a-ding-ding resort, have something to hide. Your performance, on the other hand... It can't be worse than the one trick pony Rad Pack, so I'm game."
The reinforcement of the wall and barricades with your mercenaries and caravan guards initially aroused suspicion with the Westside Militia, but was quickly met with acceptance and in some cases even gratitude. It would take some time to reap the fruit of the seeds you've sown, and you absentmindedly wondered if you should explore what the town has to offer in the meanwhile.
"Sunny Smiles. Well ain't that just the cheeriest name this side of the Colorado." Six said with a wry laugh. The name truly did seem to fit the auburn haired girl, at least from first impressions. Her smile seemed to brighten up the whole room, and made her feel somewhat normal again. She listened to Sunny as she talked about Trudy and then Victor. Six couldn't help but cock an eyebrow when Sunny made a somewhat suspicious remark about this Victor fellow. It didn't seem like outright hostility, but rather distrust. The fact she was the first person that he had ever really bothered with was somewhat odd. Still, he was the only person who may have seen where her 'murderer' had gotten away to.
Before she could inquire about him further Sunny gave a surprisingly generous offer to teach Six the ropes of how to survive out in the Wastes. Despite her wound to the head Six still had a pretty good idea of how to survive, but a little refresher wouldn't hurt, and hearing about a few odd jobs along the way would be nice. "Truly, you are to kind Miss Smiles. I'd be most honored to be under your fine tutelage." She gave a dramatic bow before hopping back up, a goofy grin on her face.
"And I wouldn't mind hearing about those jobs you mentioned. Really I could use all the information I can get."
"C'mon then," Sunny laughed, turning around and picking up two varmint rifles off the pool table, tossing one through the air to you to catch. She paced through the saloon passing the unattended counter. A farmhand sitting on one of the barstools gave her and you a nod as they went out back behind the building and climbed a hill to overlook a firing range set up against the back wall of the bar. "See those sarsaparilla bottles there? Take this and see if you can hit a few of 'em," she spoke, passing you a worn box of 5.56mm rounds.
While she may have only just been dug up from her grave, Six's reflexes seemed to still be working well enough, snatching the varmint rifle out of the air with barely a though given to the task. Taking a moment to glance at it, Six couldn't be help but feel underwhelmed. It looked to be little more than some scrap metal attached to a stick, liable to fall apart once she pulled the trigger. Still, a gun was a gun, and Six wasn't about to insult her mentor by refusing it. Following Sunny through the bar, her red eyes glanced about the room. All but empty save for one farmhand who seemed more interested watered down glass of bourbon than either of the two women walking past him. Still she regarded him with a warm smile. All in all it was a cozy enough place, a few posters and lights decorating the room, a dilapidated radio sitting on the counter leaving the room deathly silent. Hopefully it wasn't always this dead for the owners sake.
Stepping outside, Six regarded the adhoc shooting range, which really just seemed like a place to dump empty Sunset Saraparilla's. Damn, what I wouldn't give for one of those right now. Taking the ammo, Six simply gave a nod before loading her newly acquired rifle and taking aim. She wasn't to well versed with standard firearms, much preferring energy weaponry, but she was still a decent shot. Pulling the trigger, she began shattering the bottles one at a time until her chamber was empty.
"Well, looks like my brain still knows how to pull the trigger. That's something to thank the good Lord for."
Sunny whistled at the display of marksmanship. "Thought that it would take longer for you to get back in the groove of things. If you're up for it, me and Cheyenne could use some help clearing a few wells of geckos. There would be some caps and ammunition in it for you, and however many geckos you manage to bag." She began jogging backwards to her destination, facing you, "you in for hunting?"
A small blush crept onto Six's cheeks, taking a bit of pride in Sunny's compliment. Granted, she had only shot a few bottles that were ind enough not to shoot back at her, but it was still nice to know she could still aim. Apparently she had done well enough to warrant an invitation to go on a hunting trip. Seeing that it might be good to practice against something that could actually pose a threat to her, Six was eager to oblige.
Before she could even say yes, Sunny was off in a surprising burst of speed, Six scrambling to try and catch up, Cheyenne bounding around them. "Well how could I refuse such an offer? After all I may as well see if I can still shoot a moving target." With that said, the trio made their way to the outskirts of Goodsprings. Apparently there were a few wells nearby that supplied the town with water, which quite often had some nasty critters visiting. It fell to Sunny to make sure things stayed safe for everybody else. Six was happy to be able to repay her debt in some small way to the town. It wasn't long before they neared the first well, and the oddly familiar sound of Geckos. Deciding not to waste any microfusion cells, she ensured her varmint rifle was loaded. It was time to earn her keep.
"Hear that up on the ridge behind me there? We got some geckos to clear out. Bunch of little monsters is what they are. Seems like Doc Mitchell treats more gecko bites than anything else. Let's see if we can get a little closer. If we move quietly, we can get the jump on 'em. More likely to hit something vital that way." Sunny grinned before flicking the safety of her varmint rifle and promptly turning around and edging forward along the edges of the rock, crouching.
Be they dissolute or profligates, they all clutched the lottery tickets to their chests and prayed their number would set them free. Not a one crying when their supposed loved ones were taken away to be crucified, eaten alive by the mongrels, or thrown upon open flames like their mayor. To you, Nipton was a den of whores, whether they served their customers on their backs or feet was of no consequence. The legionaires you took with you to conduct this masterpiece finished booby trapping the inside of the town hall and exited the building at your sides after locking all but one of the hounds you brought with you to this massacre inside as a surprise to the scavengers that would doubtlessly be drawn to this burning settlement in the coming days. It was time to return. First to the raid camp outside of Searchlight, and then on to Cottonwood Cove and from there to the Fort. Caesar was waiting for your arrival, after all.
There was an undeniable sense of satisfaction with every death, every lick of the flame as the fires danced hungrily across charred corpses. The crackling of fire, the hammering of nails, the wails of the condemned, melded into a nigh-holy symphony of justice. Such impudent libertines had no place in the soon-to-be world of Caesar, he saw that now. Several times had the Legion offered the Mojave their proverbial Ark, many times had they offered them a chance to join a higher calling, to take up arms and fight in servitude to something greater, an idyllic concept made reality. It was not to be so for Nipton, and it was then that Cato saw it. He had been their Messiah, delivering the holy word, and they had instead chosen to whether the wrath of such powers that were beyond their ken. They served in their own way, he supposed, as reminders to those not so far gone that the wrathful god that threatened to burn their homes and salt their earth, the beast at the very corner of their eyes was inching closer. The bull had huffed in warning, and yet they did not listen. The bull had pawed at the ground before it, and yet they saw not their imminent destruction. Their sole hope was to be aside the bull or behind it, as to be in its path was a death sentence beyond any other. And Nipton served an admirable reminder to that. The Legion's ideology, in and of itself, was one of such strength and unity, that their meagre community of profligacy and dissolution could not hope to stand against it. A dialectic decreed synthesis. This was annihiliation, and it was just. "Legionaries! Our work here is done, the profligates have met their just fate. It's high time we left this den of iniquity behind. We march back to Searchlight, and then to the Fort. Move!" Cato barked, his Legionaries quick to concede, grabbing what spare gear they could find, and making way back to the camp. It was with an expression of disgust and a wrinkled nose that Cato left Nipton. They had forsaken a bright future, and were so morally corrupt as to betray themselves. They were no better than animals, and he was glad to leave their company, be they alive or dead. It was time to return to Caesar, and so Cato began the long march. Degeneracy infected this land like a pox, and there was ever more work to do at the bidding of his Lord.
Geckos. Six had a vague memory of what those were. Massive reptiles that waddled around on their hind legs with disturbing speed. They'd need to take them down quick if they hoped not to be bit themselves. Watching Sunny flip off the safety, Six smacked herself upside the head, having completely forgotten to put hers on again. An accidental discharge of her weapon was just about the last thing she needed right now.
Once Sunny had finished speaking she gave a small nod, not wanting her voice to alert the Geckos. With great care she moved up the ridge, rounding a large rock that protruded from the dried and cracked ground. It surprised her how easily she was able to avoid making noise, her feet moving around any dried foliage or branches. Apparently she was good at this.
Rounding the outcropping, Six raised her rifle and scanned the area. Before her was the first spring, with three Geckos waddling about, unaware of their presence. For now. Thankfully these Geckos seemed smaller than some others she vaguely remembered. She began tracking the nearest critter, which seemed to be sunning itself. Steadying her aim, she let out a small exhale and took her shot. Unfortunately it was a bit off, hitting its body rather than its head, but it still hit hard. Pulling the trigger again, she put the beast out of its misery. By this point however the Geckos were well aware of her presence, charging at her with worrying speed. Readjusting her aim, she took another shot. A bit of dirt was thrown up into the air as it msised completely. Shit!
The trigger was pulled again. Another miss. One round left. Taking her final shot, she took some small relief as it connected with the Gecko closest to her in the leg, causing it to stumble to the ground, writing in pain. That still left one more however, which was about ready to pounce. Guess I'll be going back to Doc's sooner than I thought. In mid lunge the Gecko was struck to the ground by non other than Cheyenne, her jaw having an iron grip on its neck. With a savage tear the pup ripped out its jugular, resulting in a rather bloody death. Sunny strode up to the final Gecko trying to limp away, putting a single 5.56 through the back of its head.
"Hmm, suppose your aim could use some work. But hey, that wasn't bad for your first time out." Six simply nodded as she released a shaky breath, not having realized she had been holding it this entire time. Cheyenne strode up to her, mouth covered in gore, a goofy looking grin on her face. She reached out and stroked her head, not caring about the blood staining her hands. "Thanks girl, you really saved my ass back there."
Getting up from her crouched position, Sunny ushered Six on. There were still two more wells to clear after all. They could skin them later. Reloading her gun, she hurried on after Sunny. Not much time passed before they reached the second one, this time going much more smoothly as they hit the Geckos simultaneously. Six still missed the headshot, but was able to put one down while Sunny and Cheyenne took care of the other one.
"Thanks for coming along with me. Usually it's just me and Cheyenne keeping the critters out of town. Kinda nice to have the help." Six simply waved off her thanks, holstering her rifle as they began to move towards the final well.
"Please I should be the one thanking you! Not many people would take a stranger out into the Wastes to teach them the ropes. You're a kind gal Sunny. This town is lucky to have you looking out for-" Six's voice trailed off as she suddenly stopped, craning her neck as if trying to hear something. Sunny regarded her oddly for a moment before tapping her on the shoulder. "Ugh, Six? You alright there."
"I hear something." She stated before holding up her index finger, demanding silence. Her crimson eyes widened when she realized what it was she heard. Pulling out her laser rifle, she immediately began making her way towards the noise. "Somebody is screaming!" @Pat
Eight separate figures trekked along the road that guided them to their destination. Each was draped in a duster battered by sand, bearing the iconic insignia of the Mojave Marshals: a faction of former Desert Rangers who have made it their sole goal that the Mojave and those that reside within its borders are protected from any potential threat, whether it be bandit, mutant, or any other individual who would take pleasure in watching what was left of society collapse into the sand. Their mission was considered sacred on every level as if it were almost religious.
One of these Marshals had taken point on their path. One wearing a pair of aviators that were somehow intact despite the fact they would have been made two centuries ago. It was obvious to say he was the one calling the shots here. His stern movement and commanding presence practically gave it away at this point. This was the one known as Dean Booth.
“Alright, Marshals. I assume you took note of what the plan was?”
“Take up position by the cliff side facing north of the facility, take out the tower guards and proceed to wipe out anyone looking like they really, really like tossing dynamite around as if it were a trend on the verge of death. Perhaps a gold star for my efforts?” A perky, energetic young woman spoke up. She wore a cowboy hat to keep her pale, freckled face from burning under the sun. Booth brought his head about to match her line of vision. He appeared to have a mild smirk stapled to his face. “It appears you do listen to me. Just not all the time, I suppose.”
The Marshals kept marching on, with their eyes on a special bounty just ripe for the taking. Tonight, they planned to clean up yet another mess left behind by the NCR and bring a bit more order to the Wasteland.
LeRae had decided to leave his companies building and take a walk around town. Nothing felt better than getting some slightly irradiated air into the lungs! He looked across the street at the Sierra Madrid Apartments that doubled as a brothel. It was quite massive and probably the most popular building in town for obvious reasons. LeRae had thoughts about buying it as it would be a whole lot better than the current building his Caravan was using but decided not to for now. It would probably cost a small fortune and upset some of the locals.
Next was Miguel's Pawnshop and Klamath Bob's Liquor Store. Nothing really to say about those two besides the fact that they are really the only two stores in town. They didn't prove any threat to LeRae's business and he hoped that they would thrive with the arrival of LeRae's men.
After that was the Westside Co-Op which was the reason for Westside's success. It was the reason they were able to feed themselves as well as trade with other settlements. It allowed for them to be independent from the Strip as well as the NCR. LeRae admired that about the people of Westside. It took a hell of a lot of ambition and ingenuity to be able to pull of what Tom Anderson and the people of Westside have done.
Lastly was The Thorn, which LeRae had only visited once. It was an arena in the sewers of Westside. Underneath his feet men and creatures were fighting to the death for the pleasure and entertainment of others. It was a sport to some, and LeRae was quite interested in it. That would have to wait though, LeRae wasn't interested in walking through the Sewer's at this time.
LeRae walked over towards the South Entrance and saw three figures. One was a member of his Caravan, most likely helping with guarding and patrolling. The other two were from Westside, but he only knew one of them. It was Mean Sonofabitch, a Supermutant who was part of the Militia. LeRae had rarely spoken to the guy but he seemed decent enough and he was protecting the farmers and civilians of Westside. It is always nice to have a Supermutant on your side.
(POSTING NOW. Wont be back till later. Pat PM on discord if it is shit)
Major Joseph Polatli, NCR Major, Camp Forlorn Hope:
The Weather in Mojave was as hot as as ussual and the situation in the Command HQ tent wasn't any better than outside. Major Polatli wiped his forehead for what felt like the hundereth time that day. He had been posted in Forlorn Hope for the last few weeks and the Legion had moved in to the region and struck his forces when he wasn't expecting it, with Nelson lost and the frontline stabilizing into a deadly stale-mate. he had signed more death and MIA reports than he wanted to count, worse, he couldn't send the papers to Mojave outpost for them to be approved by the higher ups in California and notify their families since the Legion filth crawled the area. All those bright kids wasted by the tribal savages of the Legion ''I swear I'll take the first train back to Sac-Town once this shit is resolved.'' he muttured to himself.
slamming down the stack of papers in his hand he turned to the Comm Officer. ''Sargent, radio the NCR in 188, tell them that we need a shipment of Service Rifles and ammo, atleast 4 Service rifles with two mags each, check in with Richards to ask what supplies he needs before making the call and don't forget to tell them that we need it urgently and that they should assign more than a few boys to guard the shipment, Legion activity in the area has been also I want a detailed report on the issue with this radio security code breach officer and I want it on my desk by evening.'' then he turned to one of the troopers serving as his aides. ''You, go take some rest soldier. You will protect Doctor Richards's stash tonight. Bring a shotgun with you, if you catch the offender try to arrest them, if they resist you know what to do.'' With that done he slumped down on his chair. He threw a glance at the map of the mojave on his desk. ''Worst assingment an officer could get.'' he spat. thinking about all the problems he had to solve.
Your party made good time trekking across the desert to the raid camp. The remainder of your men who departed earlier with the two captures - Powder Gangers, stood guard around the pair of soon-to-be-slaves bound and gagged near the campfire. Your men would join them and wait for their next mission, at your bidding. But yet again, your impending trip to Cottonwood Cove could be made easier with their company.
Running down the trail, you came across a settler desperately attempting to ward off a trio of geckos with a kitchen knife... And failing. Bite and claw marks blemished the fair skin of her arms and legs, and if she went unaided for long, she would surely succumb to the superior numbers of the predators.
They saw you coming and filled the air with lead every step of the way. While it wasn't a powerful gun by any means, the varmint rifle the Powder Ganger snipers carried made a marksman out of anyone with a two eyes and a brain cell to spare. One of the convicts in the towers managed to wing one of your marshals in the arm before being suppressed and perhaps killed by a volley of return fire. It didn't appear life threatening, you judged behind cover, but it was enough to warrant medical attention of some sort in the near future. From what you saw of the impromptu raiders so far, it appeared they were determined as hell to hold this place, be it for themselves or someone they feared more than some ragtag peacekeepers. Several of the inmates repositioned themselves behind improvised cover in the yard or ran up the stairs of the watchtowers closest to you, one man attempting the latter being riddled with bullets before toppling back down the way he came. For now they waited for you to make a move before they risked additional potshots at your posse. You had a sneaking suspicion however that some concentrated fire could probably tear through some of their hiding places like a deathclaw through a brahmin herd. Question was, which ones looked most promising?
You bumped into an olive-skinned Follower of the Apocalypse on the streets, if his coat was any indication of who he was. You noticed how his curly black locks peaked out from under his fedora as he curiously tilted his head to look down at you.
Tech Sergeant Reyes, the only female soldier under your command to remain on the frontline by choice, was absolutely delighted someone other than Colonel Hsu has taken her claims of a compromised ranger station radio network seriously. Within the hour she had a fully written report on your desk for your review, listing numerous inconsistencies between reported crossings of Legion raiding parties and interceptions by N.C.R.A. rangers and troopers, in addition to the strangest of the intelligence that the ranger stations have forwarded in recent days; such as the enemy successfully domesticating and training deathclaws, and even alleged sightings of supermutant and nightkin legionaires.
This might be the Mojave Wasteland after all, but unless you just took a huff of a very bad batch of a jet, you're sure a middle-aged man wearing a kimono and packing not only a pair of forty-four magnums for heat, but samurai swords as well, bumped into you, seemingly momentarily distracted by the stature and physique of Mean Sonofabitch.
Courier Six Six dropped to one knee as she raised Flashlight, looking down her scope at the grim sight before her. A townswoman by the looks of her, fighting desperately for her life just so she could get some water. It should have broken her heart, but she knew that this was the way of the Wasteland. A vicious struggle to survive, almost inevitably ending in a painful death. It was a fact of life Six hated passionately. Something she felt needed to change.
Carefully lining up her shots, Six began to take her shots. One miss meant someones life. She couldn't afford to screw up now. @Pat