I have read a bit of your work, Lavanoth. I'm no expert when it comes to the first person style of writing, but one thing I've had to burn into my brain is the willingness to trust the reader's ability to assume. Not by leaps and bounds, but enough that your dialogue and descriptions don't come off as stilted plot exposition, it's something I struggle with fairly often.

"Contact!"

The sentry's warning caused Warren's head to snap up. He threw the small prayerbook he was reading back into his quarters, which was, in actuality, not much more than a tent. He grabbed his laser rifle, checking it's power supply as he moved toward the sentry. Already, soldiers around the camp began preparing themselves, should something start to happen.

As soon as he stepped next to the watchman, the young sentry pointed towards the walkway. Following the invisible line from his pointer finger to the target, he could make out a humanoid holding something over his head.

"Terch! Move to the left, keep your sights on the contact. Any sign of trouble, open fire."

The private nodded and ran to his assignment. The unknown person had reached shouting distance, and Warren could now clearly see he was wearing tesla armor. Warren felt his guard drop ever so slightly, and immediately bristled. A raider could have just as easily killed an enclave troop and taken his armor.

"Halt! You are approaching an Enclave Field Outpost! State your intent or you will be shot!"

The armored person stopped. His arms remained over his head, holding his weapon, a laser rifle. Warren inhaled deeply. There were three ways a situation like this ended: friendly, tensely, or violently. Right before the man yelled back, Warren realized he had been holding his breath and exhaled.

"Staff Sergeant Vladimir Merrison, Reporting for duty."

Warren blinked. That wasn't possible. His vertibird went down in super mutant territory. They were miles off course. If, somehow, he'd gotten out of the muties' grasp, there was a wasteland full of things that could have done him in. Warren suppressed the urge to shoot the man then and there, and, doing his best to hide his mix of shock and confusion, said,

"Keep your hands and weapon in plain sight over your head. Proceed slowly."

The man did as he was asked, slowly stepping towards the encampment. When he was within range of the outpost turrets, Warren barked,

"Terch! Apprehend the man and bring him in. All of you, stay sharp."

The surprise was clear in Terch's face as he met with the man he was sent to apprehend, no doubt recognizing a face long since thought dead. The soldiers watched, in stunned awe, as Staff Sergeant Vladimir Merrison walked inside the perimeter. Slowly, he laid down his rifle, and placed his hands behind his head.

"Sir, I am a member of the Enclave Armed Force-"
"I know who you are, Staff Sergeant. Or, I thought I did. How in God's name did you get back here?"
"Sir, it's a long story. With the Colonel's permission, the Staff Sergeant would like to lie down, if at all permissible, sir."
"Son, at the very least, you've earned that."

Merrison gave a salute that showed strength. Not the true, fresh strength of a man on a mission, but the false strength displayed by a man that's been through things that should have drained him of more than just his strength. A murmur went through the camp, most of which were rumors being formed to explain how the sergeant got back in one piece. Warren motioned with his hand, and one of the privates from the fire team that had made it to The Mall with Squad FC led the tired man to a cot, where he turned over and fell asleep.

"Men. What you've just seen is an American patriot at their finest, make no mistake about it. That man is a testament to the strength of our people."

A hollaring cheer rippled through the cluster of troops gathered.

"But it takes it's toll on any man. That man, Staff Sergeant Merrison, will recover. He'll be attacked by super mutants, like we all will, and raiders, and beasts, and ghouls, but they chase us because we're strong enough, we can take it."

A second cheer soared through the outpost.

"Though men, not a single one of you grunts is to disturb the sergeant. I don't order this on his behalf, but on yours. Right about now, I don't think he's in the mood to be woken up."

The men and women of the Enclave outpost laughed and whooped at this, before they began to disperse to their respective tasks. The part of Warren's brain that set him into a charismatic speech-maker shut off, as he no longer spoke to his troops, and he fell back into that of human leader, and military tactician. While he was glad the troops had been rallied, how the hell did Merrison make it back in one piece? And, could he still be relied upon? He'd barely said anything when he arrived. Hardly more than his name and identification. It could be that the poor bastard was running on pure instinct after the days of what Warren could only imagine unmitigated combat and just needed a little sleep. Or, it could be that whatever Merrison had needed to do to get out of there, had taken it's toll on him.

Warren could only wonder as he slowly walked back into his quarters, picking up the discarded prayerbook.

The ghoul stared at the well-worn door in front of him. He waited. Sinking deeper into the swivel chair at his desk, he drummed his fingers against it's metal surface. He hated doing business with super mutants. There was no way to justify what he did. When he sold his genius invention, Ultra-Jet, he was helping his ghoul brethren by producing something they could actually use. Sure, it was a product he hadn't tested before releasing for sale, but where was he going to find a test subject? A Yao-Guai tunnel? Besides, all it's users had reported their immense satisfaction with it. If in the long term there were unforeseen side effects, what was the worst that could happen, the apocalypse?

A slow, clumsy pound rattled the door he'd been staring at, and Murphy looked up. Hoarsely, he yelled,

"Come in. The door's unlocked."

The door creaked open. That ugly, green grin poked it's way through the door. Ripper. Murphy did not know a more contemptible being. And that contempt was easily hosted. Whether it made residence in his sadistic enjoyment of the abominable acts he performed, his use of the intelligence, the intelligence that he received in some kind of genetic fluke, in a way that only he and his cronies would deem valuable, or the fact that he was bigger and stronger and knew it.

Wordlessly, he dropped the bulging pouch onto the desk. Flashing his vicious caricature of a grin, he patted Murphy on the shoulder. As if he and the ghoul would ever be friends, or even non-hostile acquaintances if the ingenuitive ghoul didn't have a product the mutant needed.

"You got the Mega-tats?"

Murphy winced. When he'd come up with the name, it had seemed mildly clever. It started with an 'M', even followed up with an 'E' and ended in the original drug's, Mentats, suffix. However, in the unsubtle, brutish voice that seemed to plague super mutants the world over, it seemed childish and shallow. Regardless, he slowly nodded. With a hand motion, Barrett, his body guard, disappeared through the door opposite the entrance, and re-appeared with a box full of the small, mind-enhancing candies. The mutant's grin was likewise enhanced as he gazed upon the box with a twisted sort of hunger, like that of a predator. Barrett set the box down, unslinging his rifle and keeping it tightly gripped as Murphy counted the 'caps.

"Paid in full."

The mutant snorted, and went to pick up the box. As he lifted it, Murphy opened the door, doing very little to hide the contempt on his face. Though, even without his half-effort, the mutant didn't see it. Were he gifted with a more emotionally-perceptive mind, he might have gotten a clear message that the ghoul disliked him. Luckily for him, with the state of a ghoul's skin, most facial emotion is lost, and the raspy tone of their voice hides most of the emotion they express verbally. And so, off the mutant went, happy that he'd gotten the latest supply and mistakenly thinking the ghoul was at least a friendly business associate.

Murphy returned to his chair, slowly sinking back into it's cushiony depth. He wondered whether it was worth it. The caps were helpful, but how many human beings, men, women, even children, would be condemned to the mercy of the super mutants because of him? He'd never see any of them, but it didn't change the fact that it happened. He half-wished that he'd never stumbled upon his newest innovation in the field of narcotics. After the widespread success of his Ultra-Jet, the caps were flowing in like a river. He'd become fairly proud of himself, and convinced that he could pioneer newer, stronger drugs. He used a portion of his small fortune to research the other drugs that had become popular in the wastes. Med-X wasn't going anywhere, Buffout could be modified, but it had shown a 100% mortality rate in the test subjects. Nuka-Cola Quantum was being experimented on by anyone in the wastes with a chem set, and Psycho... well, Murphy was willing to do some heinous things, but making a stronger version of Psycho was a line not even he would cross.

No, it had to be mentats. They were his only venue for invention. But what a venue they turned out to be. At first, they simply did the usual, made the speaker more emphatic, more believable, and able to comprehend things easier. But after months of testing, an interesting side effect had been discovered: prolonged use led to permanent enhancement. The test subjects had become much more intelligent, and stayed that way. Unfortunately, the mutants had gotten whiff of it, and wanted in. At first, there was only one of them. When Murphy had questioned him, he'd killed some poor bastard in the wastes and found the stuff on his body. After using them for a few weeks, he'd become slightly smarter. Smart enough to know to keep using them. Eventually he got intelligent and charismatic enough to coerce the super mutants of The Mall into falling in behind him, and then, he sought out Murphy.

They kept bringing in the caps, and he kept making it for them. Based on his shipment orders, he probably had two or three other mutants on a level close to him. God help us all. He looked at the other ghoul in the room, standing quietly. He was a loyal bodyguard, that Barrett. Even in the beginning, when credits were scarce, he stuck with Murphy. He didn't say much, but that also meant he never said something he shouldn't have. He stared at the bodyguard for a minute. The vigilant ghoul didn't even twitch in his direction. Sometimes Murphy couldn't help but wonder what he'd seen.

"Barrett?"
"...

Sir."
"Do you ever... doubt... what we're doing here?"
"The only thing I'm doing is guarding you, sir."
"Well, do you doubt what I do here?"
"It's not my place to judge, sir."
"Please, just once, make it your place."
"Mr. Murphy, I... kill people... I have killed... many. I came to terms with it many years ago. The only thing you need to worry about, as a chem dealer, is, are you willing to admit to the same?"
"I-"

Murphy paused. The weight behind the ghoul's message hadn't fully hit him immediately, but now, he pondered on it. Without a word, he turned in his chair to face the wall, lost in his thoughts.

A slow, rapping knock tapped on the door.

Murphy looked up, as if waking from a dream. Staring at his watch, he grumbled,

"Well, either those pain-in-the-ass junkies are coming early, or that mutant is back to try to swindle us out of a few more 'tats. Barrett, get the door, please."

With a nod, Barrett slowly walked towards the door, not fully slinging his rifle, but not levelling it. He cracked open the door,

"Who is it?"

The only response was a sharp kick. The door flew inwards, off it's hinges, and clattered to the floor. Two figures went inside. The first pressing the barrel of his weapon against the stomach of the ghoul bodyguard. A lightning-fast crack reverbrated inside the small room as three slugs were shot point-blank into the ghouls' center. He backed up to the wall, his eyes wide, as he slid to the ground, blood trailing.

Murphy, his reactions slowed by the loud noises and rapid change of events, finally rose from his chair, his arms up, saying,

"What do you want? Why are you-"

His speech was cut short as the second man levelled his .44 Magnum and shot the ghoul; the round entered his forehead and the impact point blossomed in a gorey, red starburst as the hot lead collided with the decaying flesh.

The first man adjusted his trench coat. He pointed at the ghoul lying on the floor, blood pouring from the hole in his forehead where the bullet had entered. The second man took out a razor sharp combat knife and leaned over the dead ghoul. He rose once more, holding his head under his arm before dropping it into a leather sack.

"Who put the bounty out on this one?"
"Brotherhood, I think. Was selling to muties, or something."
"Seriously? How the hell did that work out?"
"I don't know. But it doesn't much matter now, eh?" The second man nodded,
"Regulation through eradication. Where are we taking the proof?"
"Back to Sonya, she'll go turn it in for the bounty. You did well for your first mission. I'll be sure to add that in- URRAGH!"

The veteran regulator collapsed as two loud gunshots rang out. The second regulator wheeled around, seeing the barrel of the .32 pistol in the hand of the ghoul lying against the wall still smoking. As he reached for his own sidearm, the wounded bodyguard fired another two shots. One in the chest, another in the head. Unsteadily, he rose up. Walking to the body of the first regulator. Aiming the barrel at the back of his head, he fired once. The regulator's body tensed up, and then released.

He limped towards his employer's limp form. Looking the body over, he saw the lack of anything above the neck. He'd failed his mission as this man's protector. Barrett savored that, at least, he had done his final duty, and killed the men responsible. It was fitting, he thought, that after such a failure, his wounds would now prove fatal. With the adrenaline of combat fading, he sank into the chair his employer had occupied not five minutes prior, and closed his eyes, waiting for the inevitable.

Wow, the pieces are really coming back together!

Again, looking forward for more!

Adrian

In the murky, brown waters of fanfiction, your collection of short stories stands out as a particularly vibrant, colourful mushroom growing on the small island of "Coherentness", a comfortable distant inland from the harsh, lapping Mediocre Shores, but co-habiting the same area as the Articulate Ferns and only occasionally assailed by the little scuttley-bugs from the Grammar Hives. And by that I mean it's awesome with a few minor grammatical errors.

The only minor criticism I have is that the action at some points, particularly that of good old Vlad, seems to stray a little too far over the borders of realism. I mean, there's being a battle-harded, bullet-deflecting, emotionally-jaded veteran, and then there's being someone who would probably only need a silly costume before he could be called a "superhero". Or Supervillain. That's not to say that this story should stick to realism like a fly to sandpaper - I mean, the very concept of a handful of factions battling it out over the post-apocalyptic ruins of D.C. along with mutants and sentient zombies is utterly preposterous - but I found myself empathising with the characters a lot less during the moments when they seemed almost bulletproof. The fact that Ralph (I'm going to call him this from now on because he reminded me of a particular sad scene from All Quiet on the Western Front) was able to single-handedly break out of a heavily-defended mutant outpost, slaughtering innumerable Incredible Hulks as if they were the pigs and he the butcher, made me raise a skeptical eyebrow and re-evaluate the pulse-pounding, nerve-wrecking mortal peril I had assumed the protagonist to be in.

I like your writing style, I honestly think that you've structured your stories in a very professional and effective way, but I can't help but feel it's undermined somewhat by this one little hiccup. Take my criticism as you will.

I admit, I have little in the way of repellant against the "scuttley-bugs from the Grammar Hives". It is a weakness of mine.

However, in some ways I suppose when I look back I do think to myself 'Was this a bit much? But I am a fan of military history, and military-based novels are one of the many genres I utterly adore. And, in almost every military novel the universe over, skill will defeat numbers, as long as the numbers are not of ridiculous stature. For instance, a trained SpecOps operative could, with a decent chance of success, defeat three armed terrorists, assuming we're not dealing with Tom Clancy-esque hyper-efficient super terrorists, and the operative is particularly gifted in his chosen field.

To me, the Super Mutant is the physical manifestation of power without skill. They use crude weapons, they have little to no dexterity, and their mental acuity is severely lacking. Not only is Merrison the equal of a well-trained SpecOps operative, but he has armor that, originally, was designed to make the common footsoldier into a walking tank. Further, this is an upgraded version of that armor. Not to mention, combat is Vladimir's element. He is not charismatic, he isn't an intellectual. Fish swim, monkeys climb, Merrison fights. It's not so much an activity to him, but a science that is so intrinsically linked to reality's needs, much like Medicine is to us, that he has no choice but to do his best to be his best.

I loathe rationalizing reasons for criticisms, and I certainly do agree that the almost-supernatural skill of Merrison in combat needs to be toned down, I suppose I just had to say my reasons for why he was that way. I get the feeling it's not just my writing that needs adjustment, eh?

And, as always, criticisms are appreciated, without them, how would I be able to explain away any possible mistakes in the story get better?

-Dracth

I must say,I was very fascinated by your character Ripper. When I fist read about him I thought to myself,"Did this guy just intoduce a Super Mutant General or something?",but I must applaud the way you gave his origin. I never would have thought of that,you are quite an amazing writer. Its guys like you that keep me coming to this forum. Just keep up the good work my freind! :goodjob:

Still great writing, and I'm glad you found inspiration to continue beyond the conclusion(?) of Merrison's odyssey.

Missed so much...yet it was all worth reading in one go. I knew Ralph would end up killing. Still saddened me though. Good writing! Don't forget to visit mine.

Wonderful job.

This is amazing, it's good to read and everything... Gah, good work Dracth, you deserve a prize for this, I'd give you one but I'm short on Microsoft Points/Gold Membership/Anything at the moment.

whens the next chapter? this is amazing! just makes me think with the talent that some people have on this forum, they should take the best and publish a book of short fallout stories.

That would be freaking awsome if they did that. There are a few golden writers on this forum that are worthy for that in my opinion.

Ripper grunted. He couldn't actually smell anything, courtesy of his mutation, but just looking at the abyssal homes they made in the trenches here, in this 'Mall', were... disgusting. He reluctantly resigned himself to it, if living in a disgusting hovel made his workforce happy, than by all means, they'd stay in a disgusting hovel. It seemed odd to the mutant, that before he gained greater sentience, this had all been quite acceptable to him. Perhaps with intelligence he had grown... arrogant? Nonsense! He was Ripper! Leader of the super mutants. Arrogance would be to think he was invincible. He was merely being civilized. No, he knew he was not unkillable, he just so happened to know that anything that could kill him did not reside in the Capital Wasteland.

And he liked that.

Pacing back and forth, he waited. His army was reliable for two things, cruelty and combat. Usually mixed together. However, his couriers left something to be desired. Finally, the rickety planks that passed for a door around this slum was cast open, letting the cool night air pour through. Popping a Megatat, Ripper extended his hand. The messenger wordlessly handed him the scrawled piece of cracked parchment. In crude writing, it read:

"Ripper, need more human to make more mutant

We need more humans

You need more troops

Send us humans"

The mutant he had assigned to be the foreman of Super Mutant Creation in Vault 87 was still formulating an enhanced brain. Ripper didn't like sharing his Megatats with other mutants. The more of his brothers that became truly sapient did increase their efficiency, but it also created a potential usurper to his throne, and Ripper did not like that. Not at all. But he needed more mutants. And, according to his production chief, they needed more humans to do that. Ripper pondered the issue. He could send out increased patrols to nab humans, but they were scattered. It was a good deal of manpower required, for a small return. No, it was time to enact one of his contingencies. He walked over to a small table, where a small walkie-talkie sat. As he picked up the small communications device, he held it as gently as he could manage. The odds of scavenging a basically complete set of comm equipment was slim-to-none, thus, this was a very rare commodity. Priceless, even. Holding the brick-like object up to his face, he pressed the red button located on it's side.

"Dante? Pick up."

There was a moment of silence, and then the walkie-talkie crackled with static, but a low, growling voice came through clear enough.

"Dante here. What do you require, Ripper?"
"The production effort at home requires more humans. Begin wrangling your hosts and prep them for shipment back home."
"Yes, Ripper. Dante out."

Ripper let himself savor a grin. Ripper generally didn't like the super mutants he had been kind enough to gift with intelligence, but Dante was a special case. He was a particularly insidious creature. An actor. Or, more specifically, a deceiver. He could see the big picture, and he was immensely convincing when it came to deception and espionage. In fact, he was truly the only mutant that could accomplish the mission he was currently under cover for. Somehow, that magnificent bastard had managed to deceive the ghouls into believing that he was some kind of harmless oaf. Initially they had simply hoped to have an intelligence agent near the primary objective so that they could stay posted on it's status, but it donned on Ripper somewhere along the line that he had an agent inside a settlement full of potential servants, leading him to tell Dante to stay prepared in the event that they were needed. And now, they were needed for the most glorious purpose of all, they were going to take the primary objective.

Dante shut off the radio transmitter. It was a shame, the ghouls of Undercity had been fairly welcoming. Their robot guard was utterly insane, and couldn't be trusted in the slightest, and the ghouls DID have their fair share of untrusting characters, but he believed he had blended fairly well. He did this best by staying out of their hair. Besides staying in his room in the event Ripper required something, the only time Dante would leave his quarters was to make his bi-daily visual reconaissance of the primary objective, return to his room and report any special findings. It could be boring, yes, but it certainly beat trying to teach his fellow super mutants about the wonders of literature. That was how he had gotten his name, in fact. As he began to grow smarter, he had stumbled upon a piece of Pre-War literature called Dante's Inferno, he was captivated. As his linguistic skills increased with his intellect, he couldn't put the aging novel down until he had read through it two or three times.

Sadly, Dante had quickly learned that the literati among the super mutant community were able to be counted on one hand. If that hand had lost four of it's fingers in some sort of freak accident. So, before he had gotten assigned to this mission, he spent his free time practicing his espionage skills, making up lies and feeding them to his dull-witted brethren and making them believe it with the force of his personality and his falsified conviction. Ripper had decided that Dante needed to 'stretch his legs' on a mission when Dante, in his boredom, concocted a long-spanning plot to get four super mutants to murder each other without letting the others know. Ripper was left with a four-man barracks covered in a bloodbath, with one super mutant worked into such a murderous fervor that he too needed to be put down. Ripper was not amused.

Dante got up from the reinforced chair the ghouls had gotten for him. It was barely strong enough to support his bulky frame when sitting at the table on which the transmitter sat. Looking around, he got on all fours, prying open a loose floor board. Casually tossing aside the wooden plank, he pulled an assault rifle and a nailboard from the compartment now revealed. There was work to be done.

FIN.

Part I of a two-part segment. Enjoy!

-Dracth

Did I ever say I love your writing? I think I have...but if not...I love your writing.

Slinging the assault rifle, Dante gripped the nailboard. He was beginning to get the jitters that came before any mission. Looking towards the ceiling, he silently hoped that things would go smoothly. Generally, mutants were not willing to believe in any sort of deity, considering their lot in life, but at this moment, Dante prayed to whoever was willing to listen. He opened the door, slowly lumbering into the hallway. 2 AM. Ideal for the work at hand. As he began walking down the corridor, he heard the distinct sound of a shotgun being cocked. Looking up immediately, he saw a lone ghoul blocking the exit.

"Charon? What... What do you want?"
"Azruhkal knows."
"...Damn. How'd your boss figure it out?"
"Thin walls."

Without another word, Dante dove back inside the doorway to his room as the shotgun roared thunderously, spewing shot down the hallway. His bulky green frame was not meant for such dextrous feats, however, and he ended up crashing through part of the wall. Realizing his time was short, he looked around the room. Perhaps it was time to see how thin the walls truly were. Stepping towards the opposite wall, he took a running charge at the wall, bursting through the aging mortar like a truck. The few patrons in the Ninth Circle now looked at the new development. Near the wall, he saw Charon's boss.

Azruhkal looked up, surprised as anyone else. Quickly puzzling out that the assasination attempt he'd ordered Charon to perform was not currently a success, he looked at the brutish monstrosity before him.

"Damn, damn, damn!"

Reaching for his .32 pistol, he managed to squeeze off two rounds before the super mutant roared and challenged at him. He turned and began running for the door. The other bar patrons looked at each other, shrugged, and went back to their drinks.

Throwing open the double doors, the shady mutant screamed.

"The mutie's gone crazy! Kill him! Kill him!"

Their city watchman, the robot Cerberus, turned as the screaming accusations reverbrated through the center of their city. As his plasma weapons began charging, and new fuel cells were injected into his flamethrower, the robot approached.

"Halt, dirtbag! Explain your business or meet the business end... of justice!"

Dante roared and punched the antiquated machine. The robot tilted as the force of the blow threw it's repulsors off balance, and a clear dent could be seen. Leaping on top of the metal interloper, Dante let loose with blow after blow. Soon, dents riddled the machine, and wires pulled with immense force were left exposed and sparking. As it's photoreceptor "eyes" dimmed, it crashed to the ground.

"Communist threat... detected... critical... failure."

The mechanical defender went limp as it deactivated, and Dante turned his gaze to Azruhkal, who was promptly sprinting for the door that would lead into the museum chamber, and more importantly, the outside world. With a cry of rage, the massive creature jumped from the upper terrace to the lower level, furiously pumping his legs as he moved to apprehend his would-be killer.

The ghoul was no match for the much larger mutant, however, and he could only scream profanities as the mutant caught up to him, giving him a hard shove against a nearby wall. Colliding with the wall face-first, the ghoul crumpled to the floor. The mutant lumbered towards him, using one massive hand to grab him by the torso. As he flipped the ghoul over, however, he did not suspect the retort of a pistol, which the ghoul had concealed and now fired point-blank at the mutant. As the three rounds connected with his chest and stomach, yellow-green ichor poured from the wounds.

Surprised by the loud sound of gunfire, and now experiencing a rather unpleasant pain, the mutant yelled and threw the ghoul against the wall, even harder. A sickening crunch was heard as undoubtedly multiple bones in Azruhkal's body were broken. Picking up the pistol he had dropped, Dante crushed the metal firearm, casting it aside. Retrieving his now unconscious body from it's spot against the wall, Dante threw the body over his shoulder, bringing it to the center of the floor, and lying it down haphazardly.

Unslinging his assault rifle, he pulled back the bolt, and took aim at the now-limp form. Bringing the rifle to bear, he drew a bead on the form of Azruhkal. Once more, however, crisp and clear, he heard the distinct sound of a shotgun being cocked.

"You certainly pick the worst times to interrupt me, don't you?"
"You pick the worst targets."

Giving a snort of derision, the mutant gave his most convincing sigh of defeat. No worries, in time, all things could be mended. So, he got apprehended. Whatever half-assed prison they erected for him would be simplicity itself to break out of. Ripper would be none-too-happy about this, but he'd forget about it when Dante brought him a city's worth of ripe targets.

"Well, you've got me. So, where am I being sent? Got your own little prison in the basemant for me?"

Dante would very much have liked to have been given an answer to that question, but the thundering boom of the shotgun was all he received. As the ten-gauge blast tore into the back of his head at near point-blank range, the mutant could do nothing but collapse with an odd hissing noise as he rapidly exhaled. Perhaps if the people of the wastes had been more well-read, they might've gotten into the philosophy and morality of crime and punishment, and erected prisons along with a solid penal system. But the wastes were not a literate place, and it's people were not well-read. So as Charon walked over to him, the only answer he received was,

"I wasn't ordered to apprehend."

And once more, his shotgun was pumped, and a final shell was discharged, to ensure the fate of Dante, super mutant spy.

Two days later.


Ripper paced back and forth. Two days. Two days! He had been so sure of Dante's competence, but now he had no choice but to assume he had failed. Incompetence. He was surrounded by it. Now he would have to send out patrols. Dedicate manpower and time to rounding up whatever raiders, slavers and wasters stumbled blindly into their traps. Then, they would need to be shipped back home, where they would need to be transformed. This was a delay. Ripper hated delays. But he would wait, at least a little longer. And it would all be worth it, when the primary objective was his.

Sorry for the fairly large delay. Between real life responsibilities, and plain old writer's block when it came to not only getting through the plot, but making a plot to get through, it's taken me a little time to get these last two segments into a tangible form. However, they're up, and I have more ideas 'cooking', so keep your eyes peeled for future segments!


Regards,
Dracth

I really like this last bit. My favorite ghoul, Charon saves the day and the evil plot is foiled! I was beginning to wonder when this part of the story would play out.

Can't wait to see what happens next. Either with "Ralph" or with Ripper.

Gotta love Charon.

Paladin Miers blinked his eyes. Morning. Yet another night survived on his rooftop outpost in the middle of the apocalypse's worst battlefield. As he got up, he saw Knight McLaren was lying near the edge of the roof, lost in the tiny world of his sniper rifle's scope. Joey was turning out to be a solid spotter, Jon had noticed. This was first made truly clear to him when the knight had saved him from a super mutant, but the following period only proved it even further.

He lay down next to McLaren, leaning into the sniper rifle next to the knight, his own. Still rousing his body from it's slumber, he remarked:

"What've you seen today, Joey?"
"Nothing, Paladin Miers. Same old Mall for you."
"Better than the alternative."
"Roger that, sir."
"I've been thinking about the super mutants that got up here, and I plan to go back to the Citadel for a more thorough training regiment."
"Sir?"
"Mainly medium-range assault training and CQB. Just for the odd firefight. Think you can hold the fort while I'm gone?"
"Sir, the only thing I'll be fighting up here is boredom. I'll keep an eye on the place for you."

The veteran sniper grinned, McLaren had become much more competent now that Jon had been willing to actually teach the kid a thing or two. Truth be told, before the incident, he had resigned himself to the notion that Joey was a green, wet-behind-the-ears kid who was playing soldier, and not being one. He had been wrong. The kid was a decent shot at long-range, but he was versatile. He could man the sniper post, but if things broke out into a firefight, he knew what he was doing. Confident that the younger knight could keep things in order, Miers walked towards the radio transmitter near their cots. He didn't have to fiddle with it, as they simply left it tuned to Brotherhood-secure channels.

"Hailing Monument. Come in, Monument, this is Sharps."
"Monument here, Sharps. Go ahead."
"Request you send a temporary transfer request to Command."
"Roger, Sharps. Where to and what for?"
"The Citadel, and for re-training."
"Your rookie still too green?"
"The rook isn't the one being transferred." The radio operator at the monument gave a quick chuckle, which Miers gave back in turn.
"Roger that, Sharps. We'll send it ASAP."
"Acknowledged and appreciated, Monument. Over and out."

The brotherhood outpost in the Washington Monument was the key to a fair bit of Brotherhood activity in the downtown D.C. area, as the small outposts and patrols only had small radios, which they could use to talk to the monument, but not to the Citadel. The monument acted as a communications relay for most downtown field excursions, and they were the only way to get a message back to Brotherhood leaders.

Now, Jonathan had nothing left to do but wait. He casually walked back to his rifle, and leaned into it once more.

The Citadel, Communications Section,

The radio technician snapped to as his old friend at the monument crackled across the radio. He typed up the contents of his friend's request, and printed it out with decent efficiency. Picking up the still-warm paper, he briskly walked to his immediate superior's office, handing him the paper. His superior, looking over the paper, nodded, handed it to the technician, and told him where to take it, despite both of them knowing that their technicians walked all kinds of papers to every conceivable section of the Citadel, and that he would quite clearly know where it was to be taken the minute he'd typed it out.

Departing from the communications foreman's office, he walked it to their Resources team, specifically the troop allocations section. Their chief took the paper, and looked it over.

"Paladin Miers wants to do a re-training regiment? For himself? Any idea what the hell that's about? He's a damn fine sniper. One of our best, according to the Gunnies." The radio technician had been wondering about it himself, as he'd heard a few accolades for the sniper here and there.
"Well, he did get ambushed by muties a little while ago, maybe he's just brushing up on his basics."

The chief looked towards the ceiling for a moment, pondering this, and then nodded to himself, as if it had passed some test inside his own mind.

"Alright, he can have it."

Walking towards his desk, he set the paper down, and picked up one of two stamping tools on his desk, firmly bringing it down on the paper, and where there once was blank space, now sat an ink, red [APPROVED].

The Mall, Paladin Miers' Outpost,

The small radio crackled, and the Paladin jogged over to answer.

"Sharps, this is Monument. Come in, please."
"Go ahead Monument, Sharps here."
"Just received word from Command. You've been approved. Have a good time shooting at dummies." The sniper grinned at the friendly jab.
"Acknowledged. I'll shoot one just for you, Monument."
"You better. Monument out."

Miers was glad that they were letting him brush up on skills he admittedly had never truly focused on enough. Though, there was no real fear in his mind that he might've been denied, but it was know for sure. He had already prepped what few things he'd need, and informed McLaren.

"Alright Joey, I'm heading out." The knight got up from his rifle, and firmly shook the Paladin's hand.
"I'll try to leave a few muties for when you get back."
"Yeah, yeah, just remember, no sweets before dinner and lights out at Eight." Joey laughed, and saluted his CO. Jonathan returned the salute, and began climbing down the ladder. Now he'd have to go down to the Monument itself and wait until the next patrol was arranged to return to the Citadel. Much more than combat, the soldier's job was to wait. And Jonathan was feeling it.

What,did Miers forget about the murder of his cousin at the hands of that Enclave bastard.

:slap: (reenactment of the horrible betrayal)

lol scholar.

Another good chapter, and yeah, did he forget?

Might I humbly suggest a review of recent events, which you may use to anolyze and form a prediction entirely of your own making.

-Miers was attacked and badly injured in a CQC encounter
-He also witnessed his cousin being murdered
-Now, he is training himself

Do with that what you will.

My favorite fan fic on the forums, the story is great and your writing style is even better. I wish my fan fic could be so good haha.

Great job pal, I just got the free time to read these latest pieces.