Miers jabbed, with lightning quickness and unerring precision, his fingers around the neck. First getting a firm hold of it, he took a breath, lasting only a heartbeat, and twisted. The head jutted out at an odd angle, and the lights went up.

Jonathan looked around. Through the observation window, Mack gave him a thumbs-up, and through the PA system, he could hear the Gunnery Sergeant saying "Nice work. Solid grab, strong twist. Just like you were told. And yet another training dummy sees his last sunrise. That's all for today, Paladin." Jonathan saluted, and Mack returned it from the other side of the window. He began walking towards the barracks. He felt a little more tired than usual, and was going to turn in early.

Pushing open the door to the common room, he saw five initiates huddled around the old table in the center of the room, whooping and hollaring. Apparently they'd gotten into some kind of arm-wrestling frenzy. From the cries of excitement and the look in their eyes, it was apparently down to the final two contenders. With a roar, one of the initiates slammed his opponent's hand down onto the table. Groans and shouts of glee came up in a mixed chorus. One of the observers had taken notice of Miers, and said,

"Paladin Miers! Care for a round?" Miers quirked his head, thinking about it. Kind've tired. Could be fun, though. Would bring up their spirits a bit, no doubt. I suppose I can. What the hell.
"Sure, I'll have a go."

The initiates laughed and hands already exchanged money as bets were made. The winner, a hulking brute of a boy, early twenties, resumed his position at the table. His elbow on the table, with his forearm extended upwards. As Miers sat down, he took his time mimicking the position. One of the initiates, acting as a de-facto referee, clasped both Jon's and the competing initiate's hands together, and said, "On the count of three, begin. 1... 2... 3!" The ref's hand lifted, and instantly their hands met.

The initiate had a strong grasp, and was bigger than Miers. He's strong. Got leverage, too. For a few seconds, they simply stayed in one place in the air, both their hands shaking as they exerted opposing force. For a few seconds, Miers pressed the initiate's hand down, illiciting cheers from the boys who had bet on Jon, and sharp inhalations from those who bet on the initiate. A few seconds later, and their hands were back at their starting spot. As soon as my hand goes down he wins.

Slowly, the initiate pushed Miers' hand down, and Miers knew he had seconds.

"If you lose, you'll be cleaning toilets, Init." Jon grunted. His hand was halfway towards the table. He continued, "But if you win, you'll be their replacement."

The initiate looked up in confusion, being so focused on the match, all he could manage was "Wha-?" and his grip loosened just enough for Miers to squeeze his opponents hand and slam it, in a wide arc, down onto the table.

Apparently, the betting pool had grown fairly large, as the boys who had bet on Miers were dancing around the room, while the boys who had bet on the initiate looked like someone had told them that their canteens had been filled with mutie piss. Miers stood up, and firmly saluted the initiate.

"Concentration, initiate. It can mean everything at the moment of truth."

The initiate nodded sullenly, defeated.

As Jonathan began walking toward his cot, initiates swarmed around him, shaking his hand, patting him on the back, saluting him, and hollaring things he couldn't understand, as they all chose to do so at the exact same time. He finally arrived at his cot, free of his undoubtedly short-lived fame, and fell asleep, but only after laying his head on the pillow and thinking, Not bad.
------------------------------
Miers shot up, and looked around. His heart beat frantically, and he was soaked in a cold sweat. It had been terrible. All he saw was Kacinzky dying. Reaching out for help and seeing himself do nothing. The killer looked straight at him and laughed. Laughed, and laughed, and laughed, an insane, terrible laugh. And it would simply repeat, over and over again. Slowly, he calmed his nerves, and forced himself to sleep the remainder of the night away. But he knew now. Tomorrow, I'm leaving.

Just returned from Comic-Con, which was a blast. My second Comic-Con ever, and while we didn't stay all four days this time, it was still an insanely good time.

Oh, and you know what bugs me? When people use their RL events as an excuse to bump their newest segment. I mean, talk about unprofessional.

good stuff man

For, shame...

But seriously good to hear you had a good time there. It was a bit far away for my taste (stuck in Jersey) as I would've like to have gone. Hope the writing hasn't suffered any! :goodjob:

Great job, but i noticed you forgot a (") at the beginning of this paragraph, otherwise great job.

A full-blown apocalypse later, and the world was still run by overbearing, petty tyrants. One day, however, the Enclave would prevail, and all the thieves and murderers and despots would be driven before them, the ever-vigilant Enclave. But that was certainly not this day, and he wouldn't make it to the next if he continued to philosophize while a chokepoint lay directly ahead of him. As the exit grew closer, Vladimir could feel that ever-present, subtle, gnawing sense of doubt. You'll fail. Behind those walls are men waiting to kill you. You're not fast enough, you're not as sharp as you used to be.

Miers planted his legs on the ground, his stance firm. He had been thinking of this moment for hours. Lying in his cot, thinking about how he would need to deflect any attempts at persuading him to stay. All he could think about was how Mack would respond. Would he get angry? Fly into a furious rage that Jon would leave before finishing a full regimen? Would he attempt to use his 'vet' cred to scare the paladin into staying? Would he be ice cold, drilling the stupidity of his choice with unflinching harshness? Jonathan looked up at the Gunnery Sergeant in front of him, locking eyes.

"What can I do for you, Miers?"
"I'm leaving."
"For?"
"For The Mall. I've drawn up a mission for myself that I believe will aid our cause."

Mack paused, his face expressionless as he mulled this over.

"Alright. I hope your time here at the Citadel will help you out there."
"Ah- I- Uh... Thank you, Gunnery Sergeant."

Mack nodded, and began walking towards a group of initiates. That was it? Not even an insisting suggestion to finish the regimen? Did Ryan just not care? Had he become detached from making personal bonds after his time in the field? Well. I got what I came here for. Now, it's time to move. Miers turned towards the large gate, still surprised by the instructor's response. Snapping a quick salute to the knight posted at the gate, he waited in silence as the massive metal doors scraqed open.

He couldn't wait for a caravan to make it's rounds to the Mall this time, for two reasons. First, it had just depositted another batch of recruits not two days ago, and would be almost a week until it came back. Far too long. Second, he didn't want the record to show he had registered with the caravan, as he'd then be expected to go to his post at The Mall. He'd go to The Mall for now, sure, but he had no idea where his investigations might lead. The Capital Wasteland is a big place, after all.

Sharps Outpost, The Mall

McLaren looked through his scope. Good to see you on this fine day, Mister Bear. Here for your daily killings, again? Glad to hear your routine hasn't been broken. During Joey's solo occupation of Sharps outpost, it appeared that the Enclave was staking it's claim in The Mall. Every couple of days a vertibird would buzz the Capitol Building with a small supply drop, and he would occasionally see armored figures walking up and down the once-majestic stairs. These figures wore the power armor typical of Enclave forces, and a few wore that fancy tesla stuff.

But one of them had earned McLaren's interest.

Every day, at noon, a tesla-armored soldier would walk down the steps, alone. He would start hollaring and discharge his weapon. And every time, a mutant would pop his head out of the trenches, usually with some crude nailboard or sledgehammer, and try to take him out. And every time, the armored psycho would kill the mutant, and any of his buddies that came up to help. Joey usually put his odds at 50/50, as the mutants had landed some pretty wicked blows on him from time to time. Once even beating him so badly that by the time he managed to kill the last of them, he was so badly injured he had to crawl up the steps on his belly, like some pathetic worm. But when he made it out of the brawls able to stand, he would look around, and walk back to his little base.

Joey had no idea what the guy's deal was. Did he have a death wish? Did he just like fighting? Either way, Joey had moved to a few different buildings to get a better look at the Enclave outpost a few times. And apparently, the other soldiers were just as freaked out by him as Joey was. The sentries looked at him funny when he returned, and what appeared to be their medic would simply stand outside their hospital tent when he returned, no doubt waiting to treat his latest injuries. Occasionally he skipped a few days, no doubt recuperating, but he must've had nerves of steel to keep going out there.

He'd given this unmet psychopath the name Mister Bear in part to alleviate the innate fear that the soldier inspired in Joey. Maybe if he had a silly name, he wouldn't be quite so terrible to think about. And the other reason was that the man was a veritable bear of a man. He wasn't freakishly huge, but for a man, he was large enough to make your instincts say "Turn Around" if you were to meet him in a dark alley.
---------------------------

Alright, so, this one was a fairly small segment, and next time we'll be visitting the Enclave Outpost, and no, it will not be from the point of view of Merrison. I admit, my segments have been few and far between as of late, but inspiration has been hard to find, especially with RL coming up with some very nasty troubles. I appreciate your continued support and patronage, and hope you will continue to enjoy this and future segments.
-Dracth

Don't worry about me. I'm patient, because the wait's always worth it. Great writing, and deal with the real life stuff first.

Great Job! Except this one sentance. It just bugged me. :shrug:



"And apparently, the other soldiers were just as freaked out by him as Joey was."

Dunno, just sounds better in my head. I love your work, though. Please don't quit, this is the only other fanfic i can sit down and read, now that Fluzzydoom left.

Made the edit, much appreciated.

And I'll stick around for at least a few more installments, if that would make people happy.

Not a problem, just like to call them as i see them. Great work still, and glad to know you aren't really going anywhere.

very good stuff, keep it up man

did you run out of steam? its a good fic hate to see it end early.

Patience.

Woah, your profile went through a big change... You commie bastard! Only kidding.

Staff Sergeant Vladimir Merrison looked around his tent. Lifting himself up from his cot, he noticed a ruffle at the entrance flap. Instinctively, he reached for the pistol on the bedstand beside his bedding. A man walked into the small space, his armor gleaming from a recent polish. Merrison's eyes grew wide. But his instinct overrided his emotion, and in a flash he had leapt from the bed, drawn his laser pistol, and currently dug it into the temple of the newcomer's head.

"You can't be. I saw you die. I saw it."

Knight Kacinzky looked back at him impassively.

Private First Class Wallace Hermenn was officially scared to death. As the staff sergeant pressed his sidearm against Wallace's head, all he could think of was that he was surprised that his life wasn't flashing before his eyes. Considering the day-to-day life of humanity's remains, he would've thought that was for the best. He would've thought that, had every nerve in his body not been screaming that he was about to die.

"I- it- you- ah- Please, oh Jesus, please don't kill me, sir."

Merrison blinked, he looked like he'd just been stabbed. Where had Kacinzky's face gone? He'd been this close to splattering some trooper's brains all over his quarters. All he could manage was to mutter, as if he were in some kind of stupor, "What... what do you need?"

"C-colonel. Colonel Warren. Sent me. To, ah, tell you. Chow's been served for five minutes. And, you didn't show up. So, he, ah, the colonel, I mean, sent me to g-get you."

"I'll... I'll be right out. Dismissed."

Private Wallace had never walked as fast as he did when he left Staff Sergeant Vladimir Merrison's tent. He would remain shaken up by the event for the rest of the night, but the exhilaration brought on by the fact that he survived would eventually lead to a, failed, attempt at asking out Corporal Nicole O'Brian, but that would be a tale for a different time, for now, Wallace walked toward Colonel Warren's tent, where the CO was currently finishing his dinner.

Opening up the flap, he immediately saluted the colonel, who was now setting his dinner tray aside. Warren returned the salute. "At ease, Private. What do you need?"

"Sir, you sent me to check on Ssgt. Merrison a few minutes ago."
"Yes, and?"
"Sir, I think..." Wallace knew that he'd have to pick his words very carefully when talking about a superior, even more so when talking about a superior who had just a few minutes ago put a gun to his head. "I think that the staff sergeant needs a severe psychoanolysis." Warren was deathly serious, now.

"Why do you think this, Private?"
"Well, besides the fact that he wanders out into the surrounding area for no other purpose then to fight, sir. It's got us all spooked, sir. And... when I went into his tent, sir, he pulled a gun on me."
"Go on."
"Said something about how he saw me die, and then just stared at me, sir, gun to my head."
"You realize this is a very serious accusation, Private?
"Yes, sir. And I don't think he's a traitor or anything of the sort, sir. It's just... I 'unno, I think he just is feeling the effects of this awful place, sir. It's affecting him."
"I'll look into it, Private. Dismissed."

Wallace walked out of the tent after saluting once more, deciding to forego dinner in light of recent events. Somehow, he'd lost his appetite.
----------------------

Colonel Warren ran his fingers along his scalp, lost in the depths of his thoughts. The XO of the camp is starting to lose it. In the middle of an active warzone. Fantastic. This whole mission has just been one mess after another. How could I have gone wrong? Squad FC with three support units, a quiet post. In a hell of a place, sure, but nothing we shouldn't have been able to handle. Now I've got the second-in-command of FC going nuts, and two support units killed as far as bloody possible, way off course, from the LZ.

He hung his head in his hands, his palms and fingers covering his face as he slowly, and deeply, inhaled. Opening up the second left-hand drawer, he picked up an old book. He flipped through it, running his hand over the soft, leather cover. He let the gold-sheaf paper brush against his fingertips. As the page number came up, he gently caught the page and opened the book, letting it lie up on the desk. He moved his index finger down the page, stopping on the verse he had read so many times. Upon the page, it read 'Be not anxious about anything, but in everything, by prayer and petition, present your requests to God'.

Warren sighed, and realized that he was tired. Not sad, not angry. Just tired. He was tired of being in the wasteland. He was tired of killing. Tired of watching friends, and enemies, die. Tired of managing troops, and filing paperwork. Tired of defending against the Brotherhood terrorists and mutant alike. He was just tired. He walked to his bedside, kneeling down. He set his hands on the cot, steepling his fingers together. He bowed his head, wordlessly. He rose, and walked outside to the guard outside his door.

"No more interruptions for tonight, Private Cate."

The soldier assigned to guard the colonel's quarters nodded. Walking back inside his tent, Warren lay down on his bed, closing his eyes. Oh God, just let it all stop.

Another really well done installment here, Dracth. The beginning especially drew me in. Knowing that Merrison must be dreaming or hallucinating. I guess Freud was right...

I'll be waiting with bated breath for the next letter! Keep on keepin' on.

Great job on this chapter.

Once again, you've done an excellent job.

I always look forward to additions to this fan fic. Vladimir is a human being after all.

Warren was roused from his dream-plagued sleep by a young man that, by the patch on his sleeve, was a member of the communications division. The young man saluted as the colonel rose. Warren groggily returned it. The young man seemed quite ready to deliver his message, but showed great restraint by holding his tongue while the colonel took the few unsteady steps required to reach his desk and sit down.

"Go ahead, son."
"Sir, Corporal Lemms, sir. Manning the radio. HQ is on the line, asking for you to report, sir."
"Thank you, Corporal. You may return to your post."

The corporal nodded, and slipped out of the tent. Barely awake, and he had to deliver a report to HQ. Warren really hated the military, sometimes. He had to note that he was feeling somewhat better, compared to last night. A night to sleep on your problems could help, sometimes. As he reached their small communications center, he picked up the phone-shaped radio transmitter.

"Bird's Nest, this is Colonel Warren. ID O-80934. We've been setting up the outpost over the past weeks, and it is now at the best operating status it can be. As you know, we lost two support units on the way here, but we're holding."
"And in regards to alpha objective?"
"We have no way to move on with it, sir. We don't have a way to see if it's actually here. The 'bird that had the seismic scanner was with the first vertibird that we lost. We've got our short range scanners, but there's not a chance in Hell of those picking up what we're looking for." There was a pause on the other end of the line, and a muffled 'Damn it.' before Enclave Command responded with:
"Very well, Colonel Warren. We'll have a vertibird airlift one in as soon as possible. Is there any action currently being fought down there?"

Warren looked over the edge of the terrace. The mutants were no where to be seen, and the Talon Co. mercs seemed to be hanging back. "No, HQ. Repeat, no action currently engaged out here."
"Good, we'll send a vertibird immediately. Expect it within the next twelve hours."
"Confirmed, Bird's Nest. Warren over and out."

Warren walked back to the edge of the terrace. It had been somewhat bold, putting their outpost on the final platform of the Capitol Building, considering all the warfare the mercs and mutants had engaged in for it, but they had moved to the far west side of the platform, and it seemed that they were out of sight, and out of mind. He would've chosen a different, safer spot for an outpost, but this one gave a very good vantage point of the Mall; a valuable asset when they'd been planning this expedition.

Seven Hours Later

"Report, private." Warren looked at the scanner's readout. They couldn't find anything underground with these scanners, but the outlying perimeter in the air and above ground could be monitored up to three miles out, and the young man operating the system, without looking away from his terminal, answered,
"Sir, vertibird approaching, ETA twenty to thirty minutes, sir."
"Direction they're approaching from?"
"East, sir."
"East?"
"Yes, sir."

Warren had to think about it for a moment. The 'bird would have to miss the Mall, and then turn around to approach from the East. No doubt HQ had been worried that the previous fiasco might have somehow been avoided if they'd just told their birds to take a different route. For geniuses, the Enclave could make some pretty boneheaded decisions. Warren was yanked from his thoughts by the low whine of a minigun being spooled. He looked up, and ran to the edge of the terrace.

Super mutants.

They were running out to meet the mercs, who were now whooping and taunting and cursing as they fired their automatic weapons at the massive mutants.

"Puny hoomans-!" was heard from one mutant, as a staccato of 5.56mm rounds burst into his forehead, dropping him. And the minigun that he'd just heard was now being hefted by a super mutant... brute, it looked like, and it sprayed rounds like some kind of bullet hose, tearing one unlucky mercenary into gorey chunks.

Their fight raged on, and Warren could only watch before calling over the trooper assigned to turret control. "Do we have anything that can hit them from here?"
"Not really, sir. And we could hit them from fairly far away, but the stuff we're talking about isn't covert. We'd draw a lot of attention to ourselves, sir. I'd advise against-"
"Alright, alright. Thank you, Sergeant. Return to your duties."

He could see the vertibird coming over the first buildings of the Mall, on the opposite end. With one last bloodcurdling scream, the final Talon Co. merc was dispatched. The mutants whooped and chortled, scavenging whatever caught their attention. He couldn't quite hear what the mutant was saying, now that none of them were yelling, but he knew what the gist of it was, as he saw it point it's yellow-green finger up towards the vertibird.

Warren watched with a kind of detached despair as two mutants came forward, each with rocket launchers. The vertibird came closer.

Closer.

The mutants pressed the release, and the rockets flew from their tubes, as if they had been struggling to get free, and raced towards the vertibird. The pilot took evasive action, swinging the 'bird and in the process dodging the first missile. The second, however, connected head on, detonating on the left wing of the bird. It had come traversed a quarter of the Mall, and now descended in a slant, still coming towards the outpost's direction. With a loud Wham! the bird hit the ground. The bird was down for the count, Warren knew that for sure. But it seemed to have crashed into a couple of sandbags, no doubt stacked in preparation for a previous conflict. Some of the crew might still be alive. Critically wounded, undoubtedly, but there was a chance they could still have a pulse.

Warren turned, grabbed the nearest person he could see, a Lance Corporal who happened to have been passing him, and barked "Get me Merrison, and tell him to assemble Squad Foxtrot-Charlie."
------------------------------

Yet another planned story. Originally it was going to be one complete installment, but already I've got a sizeable chapter, and this is only, maybe, a third of the arc. The next will come soon. Enjoy, and thank you for the loyalty and support. RL has to come first, but that doesn't mean I've forgotten, or stopped caring, about Letters.
-Dracth

Just what are they searching for underground, I wonder...?

Goodness, I wonder what? What, indeed.

Merrison walked down the line of soldiers that had been assembled. Squad FC. As he passed each individual soldier, they lifted their rifle and presented it in front of them. Each weapon made a satisfactory click. Weapons prepped. He reached the end of the line, stopped to look onward for a moment, and then did a sharp about-face.

"Squad! Gear on and check!"

With movements that had been drilled into them so hard it had become akin to breathing, they lifted their helmets on to their heads, each making a hiss as the armor interfaced with the new attachment and engaged it's seals. Bringing up an armored glove, the soldiers of FC gave a firm tap against the helmet of the person to their right. This would cause the helmet to shift, and when it did, it's built-in visualizers would rapidly compensate for the motion. If it didn't, they knew their gear was malfunctioning. A chorus of 'All set!'s rang out, and with his men checked, Merrison made sure his own weapon was primed, and donned his helmet. Giving himself a knock, the vision blurred and rapidly levelled out.

In grim silence, the squadron moved in double-file towards the steps that would take them from the Capitol Building and on to the ground level of The Mall. They stopped at the top of the stairs, awaiting orders. Merrison quickly reviewed the situation. Assessing their objectives, the gears in his head began turning.

"O'brian, on point. Jacobs, watch our six."
"Yes sir, Staff Sergeant!"
"Acknowledged, sarge."

Forming into a single-file line, Nicole O'brian raised her laser rifle, and took the first tenuous step down the stairs. They moved at a brisk pace. They didn't want to draw attention to themselves or risk getting sloppy by moving too fast, but no one was too keen on sticking around a moment longer then they needed to. Soon, the ground dropped down, into a maze of trenches. Nicole held up her fist, and the line stopped. Nicole looked back to Merrison, who was directly behind her. He lifted his right hand, pointed two fingers toward his eyes, then moved the fingers towards the sky, and made a circular motion. He then jerked this thumb backwards. Henderson, behind Merrison, nodded, mimicked the motion to the person behind him. This repeated itself until it made it's way to the rear of the line, where Jacobs nodded upon receiving the message. He moved his down-turned palm horizontally, and the rest of the squad kneeled down, keeping their rifles up.

Jacobs, still on his feet, slowly walked around the entrance to the trenches, and moved towards the right side of it. Keeping his rifle levelled, he looked into the trenches both ways. Neither side had any hostiles occupying them. Jogging back to the squadron, Merrison watched him, waiting for his indication. Without seperating his fingers, Jacobs pointed towards the right, and then the left, and gave a thumbs-up. Merrison nodded and paused once more, thinking. He tapped Nicole on the shoulder, who looked over her shoulder to see him indicate to the right. Nodding, she extended her hand upward, keeping her fingers together without seperating them, and began moving into the trenches. Turning right, they began navigating their way through the trenches.

For roughly ten minutes, they moved through the trenches in silence, before Henderson couldn't help but ask, "Any ideas as to why we're not up to our necks in mutants?"

Merrison tapped Nicole on the shoulder, and raised his balled fist into the air. She nodded and mimicked the motion. The squad stopped, and took a moment to rest. With the squad at ease, Merrison replied, "Thinned out by the Talons. But some are no doubt still here. We just haven't run into them yet."

Merrison peaked his head over the wooden support that kept the trench intact. He could see the smoking crash site, and the scanner. It looked alright. It had apparently broken loose during the crash, and now stood parallel to them and the row of buildings on the flank of The Mall. He ducked back beneath the wall.

"Primary objective's been found. Look's alright. But be prepared for anything. Let's go, on my-"

A blood-curdling scream rang out through The Mall. It wasn't a series of shrieks, or one short wail, but it simply continued. Even as Merrison waved them forward, it continued. As the others mounted the wall, Jacobs, being the tech expert of the unit, prepped the dolly that would wheel the unwieldy scanner back to base.

Henderson saw it first. All he could yelp was 'Contact!'

The rest of Squad FC aimed their rifles. The screams had been coming from the crash. The super mutants had punched through the cockpit's viewport, yanked the pilot out, and two of the monsters chortled throaty, coarse guffaws as they took opposing limbs, and pulled. The pilot could only scream as sinew and tendon and bone were forcibly stripped of eachother. Finally, one mutant dislodged his left arm from it's socket, and tore it off in a single jerk. The pilot's face had been slick with tears, his eyes frantic and wild, and as the soldiers took position, he was systematically torn apart by the unnatural strength of the super mutants.

Henderson, his rifle still raised, watched in stunned disbelief, his horror numbing him. When his mouth spoke, the word was without emotion. The terrible reality of what they watched had shut down something in him, and made him feel cold throughout. "Barbarous."

The mutants turned, as the squad, now in position, rained fire and wrath upon them. Merrison walked up to the crash to fully inspect it. A jagged piece of twisted metal had impaled the co-pilot, explaining why he was mercifully spared the pilot's fate, and they were the only personnel on board, so no chance of other survivors. Merrison cut the audio output on his helm's speakers as he sighed, another claimed by the wastes. Cuing the audio back on, he turned to his deathly quiet squadmates.

"Jacobs, get that dolly up here. FC, let's load the objective and go home."

Sharps Outpost, Ten Minutes Prior

McLaren watched the ensuing chaos. Mutants coming to the crashed vertibird, and from the Capitol Building, enclave troops. No doubt a rescue mission. Yet another day's entertainment provided by whoever picked a fight in The Mall like so many before them. Joey turned. Clink. Clink. Clink. The ladder! He hadn't gotten word from Monument that Miers was back, but this was a welcome surprise. Just to be safe he got up, and grabbed the laser pistol by his cot, and jogged to the ladder. Keeping his pistol ready, he looked down, only to be met by an armored gauntlet.

"See you've kept the place running, Knight McLaren."
"As ordered, Paladin."

Miers smiled and clasped the Knight's hand. He needed to scope out The Mall, get his bearings on the place, and begin his investigation. Maybe McLaren had seen something that could be helpful.

"So, anything interesting developing out there?" Miers motioned in the general direction of The Mall's central location.
"Well, a vertibird came in a bit earlier. Shot down by muties. Now we've got some Enclave dupes heading out to, I assume, rescue any survivors. Your rifle's just where you left it, if you'd like to join me in watching the show." McLaren grinned.
"I think I will, Joey. I think I will."

Great work Dracth! :goodjob: