I figured that out. I just kinda thought that he'd be thinking about it.

Before I put up the next chapter, I'd just like to apologize. I re-read the last segment and your criticisms, and I realized that I left out the justification for his actions. I usually end up typing these stories late at night, and then post them the next evening, so I apologize for not double-checking my sloppy, 3 AM writing. However, I'll be adding it, albeit slightly reformatted, to this segment, hopefully answering any questions. Thank you as always for your patience and your support. And now, without further ado, the newest segment!

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Miers stood inside the monument, glancing every so often at the thick metal walls that formed it's perimeter. The caravan was nearing, but it'd still be another ten minutes. He put on a jovial face for McLaren, because the boy was still one of the troops, and no matter where humanity is, no matter what it fights or how it is fought, the troops needed to have their morale kept up. So he grinned and he joked and the knight, in turn, could peer through the scope of his rifle with even a modicum of hope, and that was the true engine of change. And change was what the brotherhood wanted the most, wasn't it? Get rid of the muties, get rid of the Enclave, get rid of... well, get rid of the bad guys.

But McLaren was no longer with him. No one was. He was alone, and now had the privacy he needed to look over his own thoughts. Kacinzky had been killed. Not murdered, or duelled honorably. No, he had been put down, like a damn dog. And what had he done? As his kin had the air stolen from his lungs, and the spark in his eye dimmed? He'd watched. He got real angry. You're a real hero. You had a fit. You didn't radio for any nearby patrol. You didn't even try a potshot. What was I supposed to do? Hope that a potshot from well-outside maximum range just magically defied the laws of gravity and killed the bastard? Grow super powers and fly to his rescue? Anything would have beat just sitting there. Coward. No. Never again. I will become strong enough. Fast enough. And coward is not something that I will be called ever again. I will find the man who killed Joseph, and I will dole out justice. "Care for a smoke?"

Jonathan glanced up, shaken from his thoughts. A knight stood next to the small bench that served as a waiting area for patrol caravans. Jonathan, still seated, saw the man was not wearing a helm, but had a pack of cigarettes, which he extended to Miers. Miers gently extended his palm in a 'stop sign' gesture. "No thanks. Sniper."

The knight nodded. Most of the Brotherhood's soldiers weren't smokers, as they'd found a medical journal in the scribes' search for pre-war knowledge, and it had listed the effects of tobacco products. The few that did, however, appreciated the relaxing feel they imbued on 'the nerves'. In a sort of cynicism, most of the smokers in the Brotherhood generally didn't believe they'd live long enough to feel any of the nastier symptoms.

To be quite frank, Miers didn't give a damn why other chose to smoke or not to smoke. But he was a sniper, and if the doctors of pre-war times found that smoking those tobacco-sticks could cause shortness of breath, they weren't worth it to him. He could use a nerve-reliever, admittedly, but if you wanted to be a succesful sniper, you had to be able to hold your breath as you set up that one, perfect shot. The knight sat down on the bench, next to Miers.

"So, why're you heading back to the Citadel, sir? If you don't mind me asking."
"Re-training."
"Sir? They can send a paladin back for re-training? I mean, no offense, but who ordered you into it?"
"No one. Asked for it myself."
"Permission to ask why, sir?"
"Just... making sure the fundamentals don't get rusty."
"I'm heading back for the same reason. We're on the building opposite from you, if I'm not mistaken. You're Sharps, right?"
"Half of it, yes."
"Thought so. We're Tracker. Paladin Breth is the sniper. He's sending me back to work on fundamentals, too. Mainly good ol' range-shooting, in case, somehow, we get into a firefight. Told me that I'm a good spotter because of my eyes, too. Oh, sorry sir, I wasn't trying to brag."
"Don't worry about it. And it looks like our ride is here. Maybe I'll see you on the range, soldier."
"Count on it, sir!"

The knight snapped off a crisp salute, which Paladin Miers returned, albeit a bit less fervently. Still in-between thoughts, he couldn't help but wonder if he was getting old. He was only thirty, but every damn knight he met was younger then him. On the bright side, he was one of the younger paladins. But as he presented his transfer papers to the patrol caravan leader, his mind slipped back to his darker thoughts.

The Citadel, Courtyard

Miers stood, keeping his rifle up and looking around as the patrol caravan leader gave their authorization to the intercom. Within moments, the large outer doors rumbled open, and the group walked in. The patrol leader and his patrol moved towards the barracks, no doubt getting some well-deserved sleep. But Miers and the knight he'd met at the monument walked towards the personnel director currently on-duty in the courtyard. There was always one personnel director stationed in the courtyard at any given time, to tell people who they were supposed to be talking to for whatever brought them back to the Citadel. The knight handed the director his paper, and the director responded, "Just marksmanship training? Paladin Gunny. At the shooting range. Report in at 0600 tomorrow morning."

The knight nodded, saluted, and walked towards the barracks. Jonathan stepped up to the director, handing her his paper as well. She scanned it, her icy blue eyes working their way down the paper with an anolyzing focus.
"You have quite a regiment planned here, don't you, Paladin?"
"Yes, Ma'am."
"Alright. Go ahead and report to Gunnery Sergeant Mack. 0600 tomorrow morning."
"Thank you, ma'am."
"No problem, Paladin Miers."

He smiled, saluting gently. He nodded appreciatively, and turned towards the barracks. He was surprised at how single-minded he had become. Around his fellow brothers and sisters, he played whatever role they needed. Friend, leader, or rival, but all he truly thought about was the mission to come. There was nothing else at this moment in time. Nothing but the promise he made to himself that justice would be swift.
--------------------------

Gunnery Sergeant Who?!? I've been waiting to come to this part of the story just for that, truly. Hope you enjoyed this segment, I liked the way this one turned out, and I have some good stuff in mind for this part of the story. Feedback, criticism, comments, you know the drill!

-Dracth

Awesomesauce.

The bolded line bugs me for some reason, kind of like the flow and rhythm was messed up. Otherwise, a great chapter.

Perhaps my delivery was off? I was trying to show how, outwardly, he was putting up a false pre-tense of mental stability, but inwardly, he was focused solely on his work to be done.

Must of been it, I mean, it makes sense, it just doesn't feel right.

What if it went like this?



Maybe a bit better? Ah screw it, keep as it is. Great chapter anyway.

The Mall, Sniper Outpost Sharps

Knight Joey McLaren got up from his cot, blinking his eyes. His first day at the outpost by himself. That was, to McLaren, the one true problem with military service: even when your boss left, you couldn't screw around. Kneeling beside his bedding, he took out the long rifle case underneath it. Popping the catches, he casually opened the case. Withdrawing the components, he assembled the rifle like Paladin Miers would. Setting the pieces on top of the case, he carefully assembled his weapon. He half-smiled to himself. Whenever he put his gun together, he always thought back to one of the old holotapes the recruits were allowed to watch when they had recreation time. It had been old even before the war, originally on a primitive casing that held magnetic film, something the scribes called a VHS. Had some nostalgic movie buff not had the sense to transfer it to holotape format, they would never have had the chance to watch it. The recruits whooped and hollared as the harsh drill sergeant would grill the marines-in-training, yelling out "Hey, it's Paladin Gunny's great grandpa!" and other remarks. But that wasn't what Knight McLaren remembered best. No, what he thought back to was the scene where the trainees recited the Rifleman's Creed.

With a click!, he attached the final part, the scope. He could only marvel at what a dork he was for thinking to himself This is my rifle.... Picking up his reassembled friend, he walked to his usual observation spot, setting the rifle up against the ledge. He stifled another yawn as he leaned into the scope. Ah, good, destroyed buildings and rubble. A nice change of pace. He moved the rifle back and forth, surveying the landscape. He'd heard enough veterans' chides to know not to vocally express his desire for a little action, but he couldn't deny that a few bouts of gunfire would be nice to get the blood pumping.

Well, what do we have here?

A white-clad figure stood out crisply against the burned out rubble all around him. T-51b armor. In a condition that could only be described as perfect. Well, there was no denying it.

It's him.

The Lone Wanderer. Sure, everyone in the brotherhood had heard about him. Hell, half the wasteland probably heard about him, considering Three-Dog's tendency to report on his every move. Some of the paladins and knights bristled at the thought of him 'out-doing them'. Joey had heard that The Lyons' Pride loved the guy, and if the recruits and initiates were anything like the ones he trained with, not an impossible scenario considering how recently he had been promoted to Knight, then they probably were torn between starry-eyed adolation, or a sense of rivalry with him. Joey thought that he must be a decent guy, considering the stuff he'd done, but he wasn't worried about the wasteland liking that guy over him. The wasteland didn't even know Joey existed, and Joey was fine with that. He'd signed on to help bring civilization back and kill bad guys, it sounded like the Wanderer happened to have similar tastes. Though, he had to wonder what he was doing out here. He helped Three-Dog put up the saucer awhile back.

He couldn't resist the curiosity, he kept his scope on the Wanderer, intent to see what he was up to. His eye, watching through the scope, grew wide as the armored figure jumped straight into the trenches. Oh my God. I'm going to be the one who watched the Lone Wanderer die. The silent warzone was penetrated by the sound of a shotgun blast. Leaning back into the scope, he was just in time to see a mutant beside the Wanderer collapse. Two more of the muties were coming up to him fast, though. The first crumpled in a heap, his nailboard falling from his now-limp hands. The second fired a shot from his hunting rifle. It whizzed past the armor-clad figure, and he ducked behind an exposed pipe. As the super mutant fumbled with the bolt-action, his bulky hands clumsy and rushed, the Wanderer came out of cover to deliver a blast of shot directly into the creature's torso. Behind him, another mutant jumped into the trench, sledgehammer held high. McLaren watched in stunned awe as the Lone Wanderer dropped the shotgun he had been holding and delivered an armored punch to the center of the mutant's stomach.

While a regular fist would have proved completely inconsequential, the metal gauntlet of a suit of powered armor was capable enough. The mutant hunched over, and in one deft motion he grabbed the sledgehammer from it's grasp, winding it back and letting it fly. The hammer connected with the temple of the mutant in a disgusting, gorey strike. Joey could only imagine a sickening crunch that must have followed. And, in the silence that followed, the Wanderer dropped the sledgehammer, bent down, and picked up his shotgun. Climbing back out of the trench, he followed one of the ruined sidestreets and, presumably, exitted the Mall.

Joey could barely comprehend what had just happened. The Lone Wanderer had blown into the Mall like a breeze of wind to... kill a handful of mutants? And without breaking a sweat, just walked right out afterwards?

Who the hell is this guy?

Oh, sure, the Brotherhood could handle mutants, and a full squad had been known to take on numbers of mutants twice, or sometimes thrice, their size, but... four mutants alone was impressive for a single Knight or Paladin. And usually the victory didn't come cheap. He killed four with all the strain of uncapping a Nuka-Cola. That's impressive and all, but, what if the guy just snapped? Joey wasn't real scared of fighting a super mutant, and raiders weren't a threat if you kept your head, but, the thought of a weapon like the wanderer being turned against them? That was a thought that Joey did not want to think.

And that's just what he would do. Or at least, tell himself he would do. Think about something else. Scope out the Capitol Building, maybe the Talons and the muties were back to skirmishing. Hopefully.

The Citadel, Barracks, Section B-1

Jonathan's eyes shot open. He looked around. Citadel. Safe. He looked at the digital clock mounted on the wall. Midnight. Only three hours of sleep. Not tired. Miers had learned from sleeping in an active warzone that, when your body woke you up, there was almost always a reason. Looking around, he saw nothing. He got up as quietly as he could, hoping he didn't wake up any of the other troops sleeping in this section of the barracks. Quietly, he got into a pair slacks and a T-shirt, and walked out into the common room. No one. Slowly, he walked out into the courtyard. Empty, save for the few sentries unlucky enough to get assigned nightwatch. Maybe he'd still be awake. The personnel management, well, just about every non-combat department, were fairly well-known for their lack of real care for a regular schedule. Many of them preferred to get in a few extra hours hunched over paperwork or some newly discovered bauble or weapon in lieu of sleep.

Walking into the A-ring, he gave a wordless nod to the guards stationed inside. Finally, he reached the Personnel Management's section. He knew who he was looking for thanks to his transfer sheet. On his paper it had stated who had been responsible for assigning him a training instructor. And lo, the man in question, Scribe Farrow, was at his desk, looking through a pair of tortoise-shell eyeglasses at his terminal.

Walking up to his desk, Miers sat down at a chair on the other side of the desk, clearly intended for guests, and clearly not used very often. Finally, the scribe turned to him, clearly surprised. "How can I help you, Mr...?"

"Paladin Miers."
"Ah! Yes, I remember you. Just did your transfer. To what do I owe this late-night visit?"
"I'm just here to ask about the Gunnery Sergeant you assigned me. Sorry if I'm interrupting something."
"Oh, not at all. Here in Personnel Management, you can imagine the excitement. Other sections stay up late looking at guns that shoot lasers, I have to stay till two in the morning just to make sure my work doesn't pile up. But! Yes, you were assigned... Gunnery Sergeant Mack. Specially picked for you."
"For me? Why?"
"Well, I tend to look at records of transfer applicants. Just to identify behavioral patterns, make sure I find the best instructor for the applicant, you see? And I noticed your... 'incident' with super mutants, at The Mall."
"And this was relevant to which Gunny was assigned?"
"As a matter of fact, yes. Gunnery Sergeant Mack Ryan served, active field duty, in, guess where."
"The Mall. But that doesn't affect my training."
"Maybe, maybe not. But he also happened to get into a scrap with the mutants. Him and one..." The scribe typed something into his terminal, reading the result. "Knight Ferrig, held off a wave of four mutants. Knight Ferrig was KIA at this fight."
"That's a shame, Scribe, but I need an instructor that knows their stuff. Not a buddy to get empathy from. Is he the best?"
"No. But he's the one you need, Paladin Miers."
"The one I need is the best, Farrow."
"I deal with a lot of re-training and re-deployment orders, Miers. I have seen many good examples of my work, and many, many bad examples. It's instinct to want the best when it comes to firing a gun, but you and I both know that there is a bloody damn lot more than that to being a good soldier. I will not transfer you to a different gunny."

Jonathan wasn't sure whether to be angry or content. He needed to reaffirm his combat skills, not get in touch with his feelings. But on the other hand, Farrow seemed like a sharp one, and he seemed to be convinced that this Mack guy was who could get the job done. And since he wouldn't be getting a transfer, it didn't really mean a damn how he felt about it at this point.

"Alright, Farrow. You win. Thank you for the info."

The scribe gave a suspicious, but firm, nod. As Miers began to feel tired, he took this as a good sign that his body was willing to let him get back to sleep. As he turned to walk back to the barracks, Scribe Farrow returned to whatever it was that he was working on at his terminal.

Second page? I think a bump would not be out of place.

I'm liking this bit of "down-time" in the several different story lines you have going. And at first I didn't know what the big deal was with Mack Ryan, but then I reread that first Letter from The Mall (Still my favorite, actually), and it brought back those memories.

And the way you described the Lone Wanderer was kind of funny, knowing that it could have been you or me playing through that scenario. Will he show up again, or was it just a cameo of sorts?

Can you explain the Mack part? I don't feel like going to the beginning.

Ryan Mack was the first protagonist in Letters. He's the 'star' of the first segment, and he, as Farrow said, was involved in a fight with super mutants attacking the outpost he had been assigned to along with the more veteran Knight Ferrig.

Regarding the Lone Wanderer, I won't potentially shoot myself in the foot by saying he simply will not be in the story, but we will not be getting a story centered on him, and for now, at least, he will not be a part of the story. For the most part, yes, it was mainly a cameo.

Great job, just wonderful. One of my favorite chapters truthfully.

Very good, once again. I like how your tying in characters.

Fourth Page?

This just won't do... Dracth, are you still with us?

What? You want more than one segment every two weeks? Twist my bloody arm off, why don't you?

Alright lads, I'll have one up soon.

Thanks a bunch! ^_^

Miers walked out of the common room. Morning had arrived. Clad in regular training apparel; a digital-print camo T-shirt and trousers, he pushed open the double doors. An initiate walked up to the door, snapped off a salute to the Paladin, and kept on walking through the door. Miers scanned the courtyard. He saw Paladin Gunny screaming at one of the initiates, whose face was covered in black soot and was holding a destroyed training rifle. Paladin Gunny was one of the last hardcoe drill sergeants the Brotherhood had. Most of 'em had moved on to a different method of teaching, but Gunny still held on to the tried-and-true method that so many US marines had been drilled by. They called those types of Drill Sergeants 'Screamers', for obvious reasons.

Continuing his look around, he saw no sign of an instructor by themself. He did, however, see a Personnel Director, who saw him as well, and began waving him over. Jogging up to the director, he said:

"Sir, Paladin Jonathan Miers reporting. Looking for Gunnery Sergeant Mack, sir."
"Mack left us a message for you, Paladin. He's in the basemant, waiting for you. Some kind of special training."
"Thank you, sir."

The director nodded and Miers began walking towards the A-ring. The "Basemant" as it was coloquially known, was a nigh unused space that had once been used as a shooting range when recruitment had swelled to the point of the courtyard range being unable to handle the sheer numbers. Nowadays, with new recruits being a fair bit rarer, it had simply fallen out of mind. But not for Mack, apparently. Descending the stairs, he saw a sign marked "Lower Level - BAsemanT". At the bottom, he saw a single wooden door. He grabbed the handle and opened the door.

"Paladin Miers?"
"Here, sir."
"It's good to see you. I'm Gunnery Sergeant Mack. Please stay where you are for a moment."

Jonathan looked at his surroundings. There were a few dim lamps hanging from the ceilings, casting a low light across the empty stations that had once been a fully-functioning shooting range. From the senior officer's post, a small office with a large bulletproof window through which the occupant could observe, came a man Miers knew would be Mack. Miers stood at attention.

"At ease, Paladin." Jonathan relaxed into a parade stance, but kept his eyes forward. "Before we begin, I'd like to know what a Paladin with high marks in Marksmanship in the Sniper Academy is doing back here for Re-Training."
"Just want to brush up on the fundamentals, sir."
"Hm. You smell that?"
"Sir?"
"All the bull****, Paladin. I've got a bit of a pet peeve with it. Think you could cut through it for my overly-sensitive nose?" Miers bristled.
"Sir, I was jumped by mutants at my post. I barely neutralized one, and the second would have killed me if my partner had not arrived when he had."
"Arrived? Where was he?"
"Requisitioning supplies."
"Hmph."
"If he hadn't bailed me out, I would be dead right now. And I can't let myself go on with such a glaring weakness if I want to serve the Brotherhood another week with my holotag still around my neck." Mack looked up, his eyes seemingly glazed over, as if thinking of something very far from where he was. Miers waited a moment, before continuing.
"Sir?"
"Hm? Sorry. Just something you said. Made me think of someone. But we're talking about you, Paladin. If you want to learn how to handle CQB and Assault, I think you'll be satisfied. There's a laser rifle, pistol, and assault rifle at Station #6, pick up whichever one you want, we'll be working with all of them at one point or another."

Miers nodded, walking over to his assigned station. Hefting the laser rifle, he quickly adapted to it's weight. Not bad. Putting the butt against his shoulder, he looked down the sights. Seemed good enough. Jonathan only knew the basic stuff about assault weapons. The only weapons he knew inside, out, backwards, and upside down were sniper rifles. But he knew enough to know that this was a decently-maintained weapon, and he'd see how well the sights were aligned after he fired it a few times.

Gunnery Sergeant Mack walked into the senior officer's post, talking through a microphone that repeated his words through a loudspeaker all across the Basemant.

"I'll be popping up your first target. Weapons ready." Miers nodded. He levelled his rifle downrange, mentally preparing to fire. Within seconds a target popped up, while, simultaneously, the dim ceiling lights cut off, only to come back on and off at very levels of intensity. Sparks crackled at Miers' feet, and the target's cardboard cut-out of a weapon spewed small starbursts of heat and light, much like a weapon's discharge. His mind locking up, Miers began firing sporadically, he fired eight shots in rapid succession, and two more slightly slower.

"Jesus Christ!"

The target popped down, the lights returned to normal, and the harmless sparks stopped crackling, Jonathan set his weapon down, and turned towards the senior officer's post. Mack was at the door of it, looking ready in case Miers tried something stupid. Mack had no doubt used this bizarre training range before, and the adrenaline of combat could make trainees do some dumb things.

"Gunny? Mind telling me what the Hell that was?"
"Ingenuitive little invention a few bored scribes came up with. Nothing but a moving target and lots of loud noises and pretty lights, but it can do a fine job of giving the trainees a taste of real combat experience. If you want to learn to shoot in a firefight, you'll find nothing better."

Extending a hand to the wall divider of the station, he put his other hand on his head. The adrenaline had svcked a fair bit out of Miers. Jonathan lied about why he was training, Mack startled the living daylights out of Jonathan. He had to admit, it was a fair deal. He turned around, and looked at his target. Ten shots, and only two connected. One in the lower left leg, one in the lower right torso. He picked up the laser rifle from it's resting spot, and levelled it down range once more.

"Fire it up."

Que montage clips of training regimen set to "Eye of the Tiger"

But seriously good job with this one. Reminded me of the shooting range in Call of Duty 4 for some very odd reason. Up until the whack-out part, that is.

The shooting range in Call of Duty 4 is a good idea of what it would look like. Each station divided by a thin barrier, pop-up targets and so forth. The actual idea for the shooting range with "sensory simulations" was inspired by Tom Clancy.

Yeah I've only read two of his books.. (Rainbow Six and Clear and Present Danger). But they were good. Which one of his other books makes use of the "sensory simulation" shooting range?

Patriot Games

First Clancy novel I read. Only other one I've read so far is Teeth Of The Tiger, an equally fantastic book. Of course, I read the full synopsis of the "Ryanverse" on the wikipedia page, so that things made sense when I read Teeth.

"FIRE!" Mack screamed.

Miers wheeled around as the target popped up, levelling his assault rifle and putting it back down with a burst of gunfire.

"Mount!" The instructor called.

Sprinting forward, the paladin put the flat of his palm on the cement block, lifting his legs over it's flat top. Instinctively, he ducked down on the other side of the block as Mack hollared, "COVER!"

A staccato of bullets flew over Jonathan's head. Live rounds; God's way of collecting on amateurs. The first couple times Miers had run this particular scenario, they simply had a flash-bang on a timer. But now, Miers knew almost all of the combat scenarios by heart, and so Mack had authorized live rounds, much to the horror of the two initiates that had been assigned as training assistants. If they temporarily blinded Miers with a flash-bang that they'd rigged, they could slap each other on the back and have a laugh about it. If they inadvertently killed a Paladin, not to mention one of the Brotherhood's best snipers, they'd be lucky to wake up the next morning.

As the bullets met the thick, sound-proofed walls of the Basemant, Mack firmly commanded "Cease fire! Full halt!"

The initiates lowered their assault rifles. Both of them looked at each other as if they'd just survived a shark attack. The paladin didn't die this time, that made a full week of live-fire runs without casualty. It also meant that smug bastard, Initiate Sully, owed them both twenty five caps.

From behind his cement cover, Paladin Miers rose, his assault rifle held over his head with both arms. He grinned at the assistants.

"You need to work on your aim, boys!" The initiates grinned, both still mildly nervous, as if the bullets might yet come back and claim the Paladin's life.
"If you keep ducking, we'll keep missing, sir." The initiate on the right quipped.
"Right, sorry about that."

He flashed the rookies one more grin, before turning around and slipping into a more thoughtful grimace. Outside of sniping targets, Miers was not a patient man. And this training was time-consuming. The longer he was off murdering paper targets, the colder the trail got. At this point, the only thing he could work off of was the Enclave-made Tesla armor his target was wearing.

And, of course, he'd taken out the video feed recording from the small camera attached to his Recon helmet, paused at the moment when he got a look at the killer's face, and printed out a small picture. It may be nothing, but someone might know the target. It had been a lucky break, as only outpost snipers were given helm-cams, due to their rarity. And if they were not capable of being synced up to the sight through the scope, the lens would have been well out of range of getting a recognizable picture of the man. But it had, and it did, so Miers counted his blessings. Now was a time to handle business, not savor his good fortune.

Looking up, he saw Mack wiping his hands off on his pants. Between the natural heat of the Basemant, along with the increase in external temperature from the gunfire of their training exercises, sweat was plentiful all around. Miers had been used to the coolness of a rooftop outpost in the Mall, that the sweat his hands was generating had actually affected his accuracy. He'd taken to wearing gripped gloves, and it had done wonders for his aim. He tried to be straight with the Gunnery Sergeant as much as possible, but still he did not know the true purpose for which he was training Miers.

"Gunnery Sergeant?"
"Mm."
"I was wondering if you knew how much longer I'd be training."
"Truth be told, Paladin, as long as you choose. No one here that's interested in you staying is high enough up the chain of command to pull rank on you, and you requested the training.

My suggestion would be at least another two months, though. Right now you're re-acquainting yourself with the basics, another four weeks and you'll be proficient in combat beyond a few scenarios that are the same every time, and another four weeks you'll be able to apply that training in live combat as best as you can. Beyond that, the application of combat training is dependent on the person utilizing it. Some people can hold their head under fire, some can't. Hopefully this training will show you enough to turn you from the latter, into the former."

Miers nodded. Two months. There won't be a trail left to get cold. "Much appreciated, Gunnery Sergeant." The instructor grunted in response.

Mack knew there was something being withheld. He could smell bull**** but there wasn't a farm in sight, as his dad used to say. Whether there was someone in the Brotherhood that had pushed him too far and he was planning to go rogue, or if he just had a target that needed a closer touch, Mack didn't know. But he did know of all the scenarios and exercises, Miers had requested the Assasination and One-on-One scenarios noticeably more than any other routine.

It was no doubt one person, and he obviously wanted them gone bad, but... maybe the mark was a better gunfighter? Well, then why didn't he ice the guy long-range? Maybe the target was hunting him? Maybe he just wanted to get up close and personal? He filed away his psychological guessing game into a corner of his mind. It wouldn't help him right now. All he could do was train the Paladin and hope he wasn't going to do something crazy, or stupid. The Mall could do things to a man. Mack was damn sure of that.

He flashed the rookies one more recruit, before turning around and slipping into a more thoughtful grimace. Outside of sniping targets, Miers was not a patient man. And this training was time-consuming. The longer he was off murdering paper targets, the colder the trail got. At this point, the only thing he could work off of was the Enclave-made Tesla armor his target was wearing.

recruit to salute and your all good I think man. another enjoyable installment.

"grin" is the word I missed, and would have continually done so had you not spoken up. Much appreciated!

np, I assumed salute, your story man