Initiate Ryan Mack was exhausted.

Not that good, healthy, natural exhausted. The kind of exhausted that came from desperation of cause, mingled with gnawing fear, fear that is too great to cope with. The fear that, if faced fully, would simply shut down human mental faculties. So it gets pushed to the back of the mind. Where it can bite and gnaw for hours, draining the possesor of that terrible fear without utterly destroying him.

Well, The Brotherhood Of Steel wasn't the type to talk about their emotions, now were they?

So, Mack buried that fear, and that exhaustion, deep inside himself. It wouldn't serve him, not out here. One quickly-cobbled-together outpost 600 yards from the Washington monument. The monument. Where they had sandbags and metal walls, and more than two exhausted troops to watch eachother's backs. Yet another thought that would keep his fear and exhaustion company in the foggy recesses of his subconscious. Across from him in their tiny, pissant excuse for a sentry post, lay Knight Arthur Ferrig.

That might be the one thing that kept him alive, despite being within the range of those primitive slugthrowing rifles the muties use. Knight Ferrig. He was the kind of man that the Brotherhood didn't talk about, but the kind of man that the Brotherhood was built upon. He was the kind of man that shot weapons with an impassionate face. The kind of man who had lines in his face that indicated witnessing enough trauma for three men, but had the personality of a man whose only traumas were stubbing his toe on the way to pick up the paper. Well, that, or the personality of a brick. But it's pretty hard to make a good simile using a brick, so Initiate Mack decided to use the former, rather than the latter.

The truly great thing about being kept company by a man like Ferrig was that it gave the mind something to distract itself with. Himself. His eyes told sad stories with a tone that somehow remained monotone. His stance was that of a cowboy, but his tactics were that of a man who knew he was a mere mortal. He wore the armor of a man who fought wars, but held his rifle like a smith holds his hammer. Ferrig was no idiot, he knew he held an object that could take a life, but it was still merely a tool. A tool for a job. Before men in secure bunkers decided that men in secure bunkers on foreign soil were displeasing and unleashed a fury they did not even begin to comprehend, jobs were things that one had a choice in. A vocation swapped as easily as clothing. Now, jobs were simply fight, or hide in towns guarded by people who would.

Luckily, though, unlike so many who made it their business to fight monstrosities, Ferrig was not some comatose dreadnought, capable of functioning only when lethality was involved. He was a man who could speak, but simply did not do so frequently. He treated words like he treated gunshots. They had to be picked carefully, and only when necessary. Perhaps, though, in lieu of thinking about being stationed in a godforsaken shack in the middle of a warzone, he'd be willing to make smalltalk with Mack. Worth a shot, reasoned Ryan.

"Hey, Knight Ferrig."

"...

Arthur."

"Arthur?"

A simple, subtle nod from the senior soldier.

"Knight Arthur, or just Arthur, sir?"
"Just Arthur, son."
"Fair enough. Mind if I ask you a question?"

Knight Ferrig paused, then posed his response.

"You know when to stop talking?"
"When the muties are."
"Go ahead."

Genuine surprise flashed through Mack's head. This stonefaced old soldier knew that old Brotherhood joke? Terrible joke, but the fact that he knew it at all surprised the Initiate, much less that he used it in conversation. The most bizarre part was that even when telling that old soldier's joke his voice was the same. That same monotone that sounded like maybe once it had been strained with emotion that it simply couldn't keep producing for so many years. Well, if he was already using a joke, even in that voice of his, that was a green light to Ryan.

"We're an outfit dedicated to finding technology."
"Mm."
"Well, we've got power armor, and advanced weaponry."
"Mm."
"And we've got the training to stomp the hell out of any mutie that might prevent us from doing our job."
"The question?"
"Well, we're still basically scavengers."
"If you see it that way."
"No, listen to me, think about it. We're just trying to find the Pre-War goods that we might be able to use to rebuild society."
"You sure this is leading to a question, son?"
"Well, we're not manufacturing anything. We don't have any kind of factories."
"Mm."
"So, what happens when we scavenge all that we can?"
"We make factories."
"Out of what, our guns?"
"Take a look around, look at all the scrap metal and stone, son. Won't be too much of a concern finding our material. You don't worry about that, for right now, let's you and me focus on making it back to the Citadel with our holotags still around our necks. We've got a week and a half left here before they reassign us. I'll go where I need to, kid. Here's hoping you luck out and they put you on The Citadel's walls."
"Can't say I would mind them taking me out of the mutie sights."
"Don't worry. Lyons, he can't stand seeing kids out here. No one can, not really. But him, he's a father. Half the people out here are only doing minor shifts before the Elder'll pull 'em back. Send them somewhere cozy, give 'em a sniper rifle and tell them to observe any activity. You just worry about survivng."

He talked like he'd seen a hundred people like Ryan come and go. Probably had. Optimistically, half of them he probably saw go to a funeral pyre. But he sure could talk when he wanted to. Mack had to admit for the first couple days he'd secretly suspected that Ferrig either didn't like talking, or only knew a few words. Or maybe both. Maybe he even-

"Eyes up, Init. Muties incoming. Two at 10 o'clock, One at twelve."

Suddenly all that training that had been buried next to the fear, and the exhaustion sprang up, and quickly shoved everything else into the back of his head to replace it. He instinctively rose to a crouch, laser rifle now at the ready. Ferrig was now also crouched behind their makeshift cover, looking at Mack. He clenched his hand in a fist, extending his pointer and middle finger in the 10 o'clock direction, then reclenching the fist and bringing it down. Motioning with his fingers; One.. Two.. Three.

Both rose in unison, rifles levelled at 10 o'clock, opening up with a few shots of their rifles. One mutant down. The other two now alert began firing. As the initiate and knight were dropping back into cover, a sharp crack was heard as a round connected with Ferrig's helmet. A primal growl lurched from Ferrig.

"Stay down. Stay. Down." The knight growled. He tore off his helmet and tossed it aside, Ryan saw that it had taken a hit in the visor. Hunting rifle. Damn lucky that it only took a .32, something stronger would have torn through and done a lot worse.

"Fire in the hole!" Ryan barked, as he let loose a frag grenade. Arthur followed suit, and soon a roar of pain tore through the noise of the skirmish. Two down. The two were rising for another, hopefully final volley when, as they rose, shots were already ringing out. Instinctively they dropped back into cover. Another mutant had come to investigate the commotion.

Knight Ferrig reached for his discarded helmet, and tossed it into the air directly ahead and to the left of their position, silently hoping the mutants would subconsciously track it and be distracted for a moment, Ferrig rose and unloaded the last few shots of his laser rifle. Dropping down to reload, he managed to catch a glimpse of the targetted mutant's knees buckling and falling over.

One left. Ryan rose to attempt to fire while Ferrig reloaded to keep their firing hot. 5.56 rounds whizzed past him, one tagging his shoulder. He recoiled from the force, and in surprise and moderate pain fell prone. A horrible, guttural howling laughter rang out. Neither understood what had caused it, but Mack prayed that another mutant had not joined the fray. Their curiosity was answered in a second that took an eternity as a standard-issue US Army frag grenade landed with a tnk-tnk inside their outpost. Ryan looked at Ferrig, Ferrig looked back, and without a moment's hesitation threw himself over the grenade. It detonated thunderously. As it tore up the knight's torso, Mack couldn't function properly. What happened next was not Ryan Mack acting, but Ryan Mack watching a scene unfold. Wordlessly he rose, fired the last three shots of his microfusion cell, and kneeled down, looking down as the man who'd saved his life lay bleeding.

It wasn't anything out of an old action movie holo-reel, there was no heartfelt plea to tell his loved ones a message. Knight Ferrig coughed and sputtered as he lay bleeding out the last moments of his life in the arms of a man who'd he'd said less than 200 words to. Mack did not cry. Not then and there, at least. Nor did he wrecklessly charge into the heart of mutie territory guns blazing. He leaned over and took the holotags off Knight Ferrig- Arthur's neck. He moved the body out of the inside of the outpost, and quietly manned his post for the next week and a half, when a fellow brother stationed at the monument informed him he was being recalled to the Citadel. He did not tell other initiates of what he had experienced, nor did he tell Elder Lyons of the heroic deeds of one of his soldiers. He depositted the holotags with Scribe Jameson, then walked to his cot.

And he buried his sadness, his rage, his exhilaration, his tragedy, his epiphany, his triumph and his story next to his fear, and his exhaustion.

(I lack the words to tell you how awesome this is. So I'll just solemnly applaud.)

Expertly written 5/5

This is my first story here, and I just started writing it at 1:30 AM when the idea wormed it's way into my head, I think I finished somewhere around 2:30 or 3 AM, so please, any constructive criticism or opinions on the story would be much appreciated.

Paladin Jonathan Miers was in a foul mood. If an initiate gets a foul mood, he's just being a whiny brat, if a Knight's in a foul mood, he's just had a rough day. If a paladin is in a foul mood, people can, and often will, die. Problem was, Miers was in what some believed to be a perpetual state of foul moods. This is, of course, exaggerated, but closer to the truth than he was comfortable with. But comfort be damned. Jonathan was a sniper. They don't need comfort. They need a properly-adjusted scope and enemies who don't know the value of cover. But at this point in time, he had neither. What he did have was a green-as-grass Knight. Knight Joey McLaren. The kid's name was Joey. How the hell was the Brotherhood supposed to operate with even a shred of military efficiency when they're sending out punks named Joey? For now, he could be kept out of sight, and out of mind. With a deep breath, Miers adjusted the scope on his rifle, peering into it every so often to see the result of his labors.

At the very least, he had a good vantage point. The roof of one of the numerous former museums. He hadn't bothered memorizing the name of the building he lay prone on. The specific type of ruined junk they kept in THIS building didn't matter to him any more than the type of ruined junk they kept in the building on the side opposite him. What mattered was that he had enough supplies to retire up here, and if somehow he did run out, he could send the rookie out to get it. Maybe he'd get lucky and the kid would bite it on the way back.

Jesus, Jon, what the hell's a matter with you? He may be a rook, but he's still a brother. The paladin reprimanded himself and quickly discarded the thought. Death is far too harsh a penance for inexperience, just keep the kid out of your way. Along with his thought, he discarded the beginning of a gnawing fear that he might be growing as heartless as the mutant freaks he puts .308s into.

Speak of the devil, and the devil, he shall appear.

Two mutants were feeling particularly bold today, as they began to emerge from the relative safety of their trenches. One with a hunting rifle, the other with a Mini-Gun. From the looks of his helmet, Mini-Gun was a brute. Tougher, yes, but with a weapon of much less in the way of effective range. He steadied himself, levelled his rifle along the ledge of the roof, and took a deep breath. Hunting Rifle was sweeping his head back and forth, as if sensing his doom and trying to pinpoint it's location. Unfortunately for him, it found him first. The mutant's head exploded as the full force of the .308 caliber bullet tore into him with brutal efficiency. Mini-Gun was coated in blood, bone and brain matter all courtesy of his ally. He wasn't even phased by it.

So much for super mutant camaraderie.

Mini-Gun hefted the weapon which had earned him his Predator-To-Prey nickname, and began spraying bullets in the presumed direction from which the bullet had come. He had guessed fairly well in regards to direction, but he might as well have been blowing bubbles in that direction, for the 5mm rounds impacted the stone building with harsh clacks, chipping bits of stone from the building, but with such an inaccurate weapon at that range, it was practically merciful to the mutant's reputation for Miers to put two rounds into the brute's chest, ending his amateur display of "spray 'n' pray" tactics.

Knight McLaren started pumping his fists into the air, shouting "Hell yeah! That's how we do it!", Jonathan could have frozen Hell with the tone of his voice as he snapped

"Get down, you [censored] fool! Maybe you haven't gotten it in your head yet, but you are in a sniper outpost. As snipers, our efficiency is negated when moronic rooks start giving away our position the half the wasteland."

Knight McLaren was taken aback by the severe tone of Miers, his voice stung like a whipcrack, he gave a meek "Y-yes sir. My mistake, sir."

"Just.. just go down to the memorial and requisition some more .308s and food supplies. Just get the hell out of my sight."

With what could only be described as a whisper of a nod, the Knight began descending from the roof via ladder. Jonathan put his hand up to his face, covering his the majority of his face for a moment as he dragged his palm down his face. He then brought up the same hand to massage the bridge of his nose. That was too harsh, John. You need to control yourself. Idiot move or not. Regardless, that'll put him out of my hair for at least the night, with all the requisition forms and Brotherhood red tape to get through. With a half-shrug, he returned to observing the greater area of The Mall, one scope at a time.

The rest of the night went off without a hitch. The mutants stayed in their hidey-holes, the rookie was still bungling about with the resources, and he might even get a few hours sleep.

Early morning approached quickly, and without fuss. As Miers' mind quickly cleared the drowsy fog of waking up, he noticed McLaren still wasn't here. It would be odd had a vet taken this long, but this was no doubt the rook's first requisition in the field. From what the old records would show, the Brotherhood was much more expedient than the Pre-War US Army, but they still had more than their fair share of bureacracy. The knight was probably just getting up himself, no doubt soon to be saddled with his requisitions and sent on his way with, if he was lucky, one Knight to cover his back while he himself transported the ammo and food through the outskirts of the Mall. It might take a little longer, having to strafe around the heart of the area, but at least you wouldn't get your head blown off. Hopefully. Popping open the guncase near his cot, he carefully re-assembled his rifle, as usual, adjusting and re-adjusting the scope as necessary.

He crawled back to the ledge of the roof, surveying the decrepit ruins that had once been home to some of the nation's greatest treasures. Some... thing was moving around in steady patrols around one of the museum entrances. Miers brought up the scope of his rifle. Just a ghoul. Not even feral. Not worth the ammo. Figures, the ruins of civilization are inhabitted by the debris of humanity. That was one of the nice things about Power Armor. Radiation resistance. About as useful as having vital organs in this rad-heavy environ. Unfortunately it was a luxury Jon couldn't afford when sniping. The helmet restricted peripheral vision, and the armor restricted mobility. Recon armor was the best he could afford for the current assignment. Maybe in the future he might be able to-

Wait, was he seeing this correctly?

He looked up from his scope. Sweet Saint Monica. That had to be twenty, maybe thirty super mutants gathering in the trenches. Looking through the scope, they were all showing the signs of sick anticipation that one gets before not battle, but slaughter. And it looked like more were coming from the Capitol Building, stepping over the fresh corpses of Talon Company mercs. He jumped up from his position and ran for the radio.

"Monument, come in monument. This is Sharps"
Silence.
"Repeat, Monument, come in. This is Sharps."
"We're here, Sharps. Go Ahead."
"We've got upwards of thirty super mutants forming ranks in the trenches, and more are coming from the Capitol Building. Call it a hunch, but you need to get defenses running. Acknowledge?"
"Say again, upwards of thirty mutants?"
"Confirmed. And more coming from the Capitol Building."
"Jesus. Acknowledged. Monument over and out."

Jonathan returned to his ledge spot, returning to his scope and checking the situation. From what he could see nothing so far had changed. The two knights stationed outside the monument, behind sandbags, were now putting a hand to the side of their helmet. No doubt they were being updated now as well. No doubt the helmets covered shock-struck faces. The muties were moving now. The mettle of the Washington Monument's defenders was about to be severely tested. No way was Miers letting them go it alone. He leaned into his scope, lined up his first shot, made sure to account for a moving target, and felt that fresh, crisp crack of his rifle's first shot.

Ripper, de-facto leader of the attack the mutants were now beginning, saw one of the mutants in the lead of their small column collapse sans his head. He growled,
"Sniper!" and motioned for two of his fellow mutants to take them out. They gripped their nailboards and smiled. They slowly broke off from the group and began flanking around the building Ripper indicated. He then turned to the rest of the mutants and barked at them.

"Get into the trenches, you human-lovers! You better survive long enough to take the weak humans bullets at the pointy building."

He dropped into the trenches, and the others followed suit. For some reason, mutants simply responded better to orders when they were being berated with them. Ripper didn't question it. Most likely, he didn't even think about it. He just used it to his advantage. It was time to take The Mall back for the mutants. They'd managed to rid the big building of all those weaklings with the talon on their chest, they'd be back sooner or later, but for now they could use the respite to get rid of another enemy for good. And there was no way they'd win over the Mall if they had to keep dividing their forces up to focus on the weaklings with talons on their chests, and the weaklings with metal second skin.

Well, that first shot had been a direct hit, but the muties were getting wise. They were using the cover of the trenches. Hopefully the men and women at the monument would be able to repel them when they arrived, and when the mutants got out in the open, he'd have a biblical plague's worth of .308s for them. He turned around.

What was that clinking sound? Miers scanned the rooftop. No grenades on the roof, or he'd have known by now, bullets didn't make such a soft sound.

The ladder.

He began running towards his cot and footlocker. You damn fool. Shouldn't have been gloating. Should have been planning your next move. He flipped open his footlocker and pulled out a Laser Pistol. Checking the energy levels, it was empty. He quickly reloaded it. Clink. Clink.

A throaty, vicious, bloodthirsty laugh rang out. And he wheeled around to meet it with deadly efficiency. He began firing. Red lasers sped past the hulking green mutant that was now on the roof. He could feel his hand shaking as he fired, each missed shot causing his hand to tremble. He was a deadeye shot when it came to a sniper rifle, but in this CQB stuff, his nerves wreaked havoc on his aim. He re-braced his grip with a supplemental second hand, forcing himself to steady his shot. They began connecting, and the mutie wasn't laughing anymore. He wasn't doing much of anything right now. What he was doing, though, was cooling from laser burns. On his forehead and torso, to be specific. The mutie going down let Jon's adrenaline begin flowing out. He turned back to the sight of the Mall. The sun was beginning to lower in the sky, and the stark reds of laser fire were beginning to light up the scene below. Along with it, the harsh sound of gunfire. It was almost beautiful, in a terrible way. But bewitching as any scene of conflict between two thinking beings was, on the primal level that finds enjoyment in watching two opposing sides test their mettle, their skill and their willpower.

Bewitching enough to distract a man even as a second hulking monstrosity climbed to the roof, and began charging him. With a loud yell, the mutant began charging Miers. Jonathan was taken by suprise, stunned into inaction, doomed by it. Jonathan's instincts, however, were not so willing to surrender to the immortal enemies that go by the names "surprise" and "inaction." Without thinking, Jonathan raised his laser pistol, and even fired a shot. It even connected. But one laser pistol blast would not stop a charging super mutant. The mutant roared at the pain, using it to fuel his rage. He wound his nailboard back, and let it fly, connecting with the laser pistol. Cracking it as it simultaneously removed it from the human's hand. Jonathan grabbed his forearm. Something was hurt. Broken or sprained, he didn't know, but he let out a groan as his wrist seared with pain. He fell to his knees, surprised by the agony.

The mutant looked down at the man before him. He had gone to the effort of climbing to the roof stealthily, even when his fellow would not be so bothered. He even forced himself to remain quiet as the first super mutant was killed by the puny human. His brother. He could've crushed this pathetic creature in a moment. Let him collapse in a heap with that brief sigh that humans make as the air leaves their lungs.

But if he had gone to the effort of succeeding, he was going to enjoy it.

He dropped the nailboard and hoisted the human by the collar of his bizarre body suit. He brought his empty hand back, balled up his fist, and delivered a punch straight to the man's stomach. He let out a hacking cough that even included a little blood. This was going to be fun.

Jonathan Miers looked into the mutant's eyes as he brought his fist back. He accepted it now, with, at first, impotent fury, and now dejected acceptance. He was going to die here. On the rooftop of a building he didn't know the name of, because of a being whose quality had been exceeded by many of the people Miers had killed in his time as a sniper. And there was absolutely nothing he could do about it. The punch connected with his stomach. It felt like what he had always suspected his sniper rounds felt like. Only he didn't get the luxury of dying immediately afterward, like his targets. He couldn't restrain himself from coughing, it had been a reflex. Some blood in there, too. No doubt the first drops of a soon-to-come storm. The mutant connected a second punch, this one hitting right in the jaw.

Miers wasn't sure, but it felt like his jaw was now hanging off the side of his mouth. The mutant grabbed him by the collar again, Jon now suspecting he was seeing stars, and eyed the nailboard he had discarded. Maybe he'd end it. Take his crude weapon and bash in Jon's head.

The hulking, yellow-green brute may have done just that, he may have been considering it at that very moment, but, as he held the battered human by the collar, their eyes meeting, his own began to bulge.

And then, for the first time in his life, Jonathan Miers saw the center of a super mutant's torso glow a faint red. Stronger red. Finally, the center of his chest exploded with a sickening pop, gore spattering Miers. He collapsed beside the mutant, eyes bleary from the reflexive tears caused by intense, immeasurable pain, though he was able to catch a glimpse, before succumbing to sweet unconsciousness, the sight of Knight Joey McLaren, his laser rifle still poised at the ready.

Hours Later.

Joey had dragged, as gently as he could, Paladin Miers to the cot, and began what little medical aid he could. Splinting the broken arm, hitting him up with a stimpak or two. He hoped that the veteran soldier would pull through. It would be a shame if he had died without knowing that the Monument had been able to hold out long enough for reinforcement. The Lyons Pride, in the flesh, bringing salvation along with the breaking dawn. Something out of a holotape drama, practically. Knight McLaren turned back to the man lying on the cot as, slowly, the Paladin began to blink his eyes, slowly shifting his head back and forth, surveying his surroundings, and his chest slowly rising and falling, his breathing steady, but otherwise remained perfectly still.

"Thanks."

Hmm. I could have sworn there was an applause emoticon here before. I wonder if they removed it for some reason? Ah well. I think this will do. :goodjob:

Wow... great stuff! Really enjoyed it!

Tourists. The Mall was chock full of 'em. Some were bastards, some were mutants, some were even robots. And for some reason, some of the bastards thought they were the good guys. Good guys, bad guys, they didn't really make that much of a difference to Willow. To her, they were all just people. If they weren't shooting her, they could be Mephistopheles incarnate for all she cared. Hell, she wouldn't mind if they actually came over for a chat once in awhile, assuming it wasn't to talk about Underworld. Even when the entire world had nuked itself, people had to talk about politics. She was a person, too. She'd been to Megaton, she'd seen Arefu from a distance, and now she was a sentry for Underworld, she didn't need to talk about cities. They all amounted to one thing anyway. Scared people hiding behind walls guarded by less-scared people with guns. Why didn't anyone just sidle up to her and talk about the weather?

Well, probably because of all those gun-toting humans, mutants and robots, in all honesty.

But, honestly, the robots came with some of the bastards, the other bastards came because of the pointy tower, which the mutants want, and the bastards who brought the robots are fighting with the mutants for the bulbous building with the spire on top.

Now that she thought about it, if the mutants were out of the picture, the talon bastards and the armor bastards could sit in their pointy buildings and rot. Willow paused for a moment to reflect on the irony. A ghoul telling people to rot. What the hell, if it's past doomsday, who can say what the status quo is, right? Willow looked down at the assault rifle gripped in her hands. Well, one thing that had become the norm, you were either packing heat, or dead. If it wasn't because of the manmade horrors like raiders and slavers, than it was the radscorps and yao-guai and-

Well, if they were mutated from radiation from nuclear bombs, Willow reasoned, they were also man-made. She resigned herself to the gravity of the situation with startling cool. No point in arguing it;

The Wasteland, for all it's horror, was pretty much all mankind's fault.

Well, Pre-War Mankind, at least. Willow was safely exempt from their mistakes. And the rest of the Capitol Wasteland's current population, too, she supposed.

She let herself chuckle at the thought. She looked down at her wristwatch. Eh, maybe it was time to stop by Carol and Greta's, grab a quick drink. Give it ten minutes. Clear so far, but if something got in while she was grabbing a drink, she'd never live it down, much less keep her job. Who, exactly, would fire her was beyond her, but someone would, no doubt. And if it came down to Azruhkal or Crowley, well, the type of firing they'd be doing wouldn't be vocational. Looking around, the Mall seemed like the same old place it always was. But, right up until the bombs that wrecked this place fell, it probably looked like it's same old self, too. Taking out the clip from her assault rifle, she tapped it against the butt of the rifle. Not hollow. Full clip. She hadn't remembered firing it since the last time she'd reloaded, but it'd never hurt someone to doublecheck their equipment, especially considering the situation in which the equipment she held in her hand would undoubtedly be used.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

Willow looked up, drawing a bead with her assault rifle. A super mutant had walked towards the perimeter. Just walked right up, like a stroll in the park. Willow looked at the mass of green-yellow flesh, unsure of just what to do. It didn't drop into a combat stance, just looked at her with... annoyance? amusemant? malice? Before she could decide, it spoke up.

"Really, you think you could drop me before I'd get to you?"

The fact that he, she, it had spoken to her directly surprised her, and with a level of civility, no less. Not much in the way of tact, but civility. And it had a good point. She lowered the weapon. Might as well see if it could hold up it's supposed civility.

"Can I... uh, can I help you, stranger?"
"Oh, no. I'm just a weary exile."
"Singing your song of loneliness?"
"Beg pardon?"
"Nevermind. What brings you to our slice of the Mall?"
"Well, to make a long story short for such a polite sentry, I retained my intelligence when I became the monster you see, and frankly, I figured the one place that might accept me is the city of ghouls."
"I think I mighta heard of you on GNR. You travel with that wanderer? Are you Fawkes?"
"Fawkes? Heavens no. Though I can respect him as a fellow Sentient Metahuman, we've vastly differing views. Even got into a few fistfights over them."
"So you two aren't on good terms?"
"Why wouldn't we be on good terms? Bruises don't make that much of a difference when your skin is green, and a broken nose just takes a little re-aligning."

Willow didn't understand the delicacies of what was apparently common etiquette for metahumans, no doubt due to there being only two that she knew even existed.

"Well, I can explain the situation to the residents, and if they give me the go ahead, I'll send you down there. Sound good?"
"Quite, my dear."
"Alright, sit tight. I'll be back in twenty minutes."

Willow slowly turned and walked into the museum entrance, and further until she reached her home, Underworld, city of rejects, outpost for the outcasts, and began gathering the residents therein.

"Listen up, folks. I need everyone out here, ASAP."

Soon, she gathered the majority of them, with their resident robot guardsman gathering the remainder. Willow carefully explained the situation to her fellow ghouls. While a few of the city's more... suspicious characters were fairly opposed to the idea, most of them were too used to being the targets of prejudice to say no. When the vote went up, the majority agreed. The mutant could find asylum here. And the minute he crossed the line, he wouldn't be able to talk over the barrage of gunfire in time to say "Whoops."

Willow, now coming to grips with the surreal situation that the universe had dropped in her lap, briskly walked towards the Super Mutant waiting outside.

"Good news, stranger. The residents are letting you in on a probationary period. You'll get a small room, but mark my words, you even start formulating thoughts about starting something in there, well, you're going to have to deal with Charon. Something even a gal with flesh falling off her face finds terrible to think about. Here's the key to your room. The robot inside can show you to it."
"Many thanks, madam."
"Yeah, yeah. Don't mention it.

The super mutant, or metahuman, or whatever the hell the big green thing was, lumbered towards the entrance of the museum. Willow snorted. Tourists.

The End



...Almost.

The super mutant thanked the Mr. Handy model and began unpacking his few posessions. Looking around, checking for any recording devices, even peering down the corridor outside his room to make sure no one was near, he activated the small communication device he had smuggled in.

"Yeah, Ripper? I'm in."

FIN.
----------------------------------


Well, first things first, let me thank StClair for suggesting a story from Willow, the unassuming observer of The Mall's action. This story was a good deal shorter than the previous ones, and alot of what I wanted to do with it I just couldn't work out, which I may edit into it if I can figure out how. The ending is something that is entirely up to the reader's interpretation, I just hope you find it enjoyable. Once again, many thanks to StClair for the helpful suggestions, and to you guys for commenting on these stories. And no, just because this story has a commentary attached does not mean it is the last story. It's just the first one that's required a little explanation.

-Dracth

That really, really can't be a good sign

Seeing as how Underworld is in close proximity to the Washington Monument, are the mutants trying something that we'll see later on in other Brotherhood stories?

Plot twiist! :ahhh:

"Officer on deck! Atten-hut!"

Colonel Laurence M. Warren stopped sharply and faced the men now standing at attention. Each was a proud, God-fearing, redblooded American patriot, and each was a trained soldier in the Enclave Armed Forces. They had been attending to their weapons and equipment, or to their vertibird, before they had quickly snapped to. Each stared forward, eyes straight ahead. It didn't matter what Laurence did right now. At this single moment in time, he could have taken his sidearm from it's holster and shot one of them in the head, and by God, they wouldn't so much as blink.

The Enclave did not compromise when it came to training.

These were grim men. They knew that, if America was ever to reign once again as a bastion of freedom, liberty and equality, they would have to visit violence upon those who would seek to harm the eagle. Some of them might not like this necessity, and some might enjoy it, hell, most were probably indifferent to it. But all of them realized that it was, inscrutably, a necessity. Sure, they could cobble together shanty towns like Megaton and hope their rusting walls and all-too-mortal sheriff could protect them, and they could get on the radio and tell people to fight the 'good fight' and defeat the nasty mutated hostiles while simultaneously accepting the mutants that at least didn't act like they were hostiles. They could do this if they wanted their legacies to last only as long as their lifespan. But that's not what the men and women of the Enclave want. No, they want civilization. Society. Sinks that don't spew irradiated sludge and baseball fields that aren't inhabitted by drugged-up, psychopathic rapists and murderers.

Was it so wrong? Warren certainly didn't think so. But God forbid he ever disagree with the common impure wastelander who clings to his shoddy gun and rags of clothing like a post-apocalyptic toddler. And the common wastelander had about the same education as one to boot. No, if he disagreed, he was a dictator trying to oppress the poor, innocent masses. If they run around shooting up jet and getting themselves killed, they're freedom fighters. Civillians.

That's why the Colonel had soldiers like these. They knew the value of order. Chaos was not the other end of the spectrum as opposed to order. It was the unrefined state that made order necessary. But he was a man of action, and snapped back to reality.

"At ease, boys. I've got some good news."

The troops relaxed, falling into parade stances but remaining closely focused on Warren's every word.

"But before I let loose with the news, I understand we have a new addition to your squad?"

A young man, his hair freshly cut and his uniform almost spotless, stepped forward. Even had he not stepped forward, that was his defining feature of rookiehood. With a veteran enclave soldier, you couldn't find lint on a troop's uniform if you had a magnifying glass and a day off work.
"Are you fresh from basic, Private?"
"Sir, yes sir!"
"Green as the grass that doesn't grow anymore, then?"
"Sir, yes sir!"
"What's your name, Private?"
"William Terch, sir!"

Warren pointed down the line to Sgt. Merrison.
"Could you take the good Sergeant in a fight, Private Terch?"
"Sir?"
"Mano e mano, you and Sgt. Merrison. Could you beat him, Private?"
"Sir, I don't know sir. And I wouldn't want to find out, sir!"
"Why? Are you afraid of our holly, jolly sergeant, Private?"
"No sir, The private simply does not hope that Enclave resources would be ever be wasted on fellow Enclave soldiers, sir!"

Laurence grinned. Smart kid. Good stock. He'd have to see how he held up in combat. Might be worth a recommendation for a little higher up in the chain of command, in a few years. He made a mental note of it.

"Good to hear, Private Terch. However, you do not need to do the thinking for my beloved nation. You will let command do that. Sergeant Merrison!"
The sergeant took a step forward. A bear of a man, Warren wondered if Terch had embellished a bit when he said he wasn't frightened at the prospect of fighting the man.
"Yes sir, Colonel Warren?"
"You are to engage in a weekly hand-to-hand sparring session with Private Terch until further notice. Is that clear?"
"Sir, yes sir!"
"Glad to hear it. Now, I suppose you'd all like to know what the big news is, eh?"

Now, the entire squad gave a collective, but brief, nod. Discipline among the ranks was honed to a razor edge, but no training method on Earth could ever entirely remove the natural human capability for anticipation.

"Well, ladies and gentlemen, pack up your gear. You are the first Enclave expeditionary force into the heart of our nation's old memorials and museums. We're heading to The Mall. Squad dismissed."

Colonel Warren turned and walked out of the spacious area and back towards the heart of the facility. He had more planning and logistics to work out, all in the most vile form known to man, paperwork.



Corporal Nicole O'Brian smiled as her squadmates began grinning and laughing or nodding grimly as they received their assignment and the Colonel left. It was nice to finally get back out into the field after spending so much time at home, but that didn't change the very real fact that every trip outside of their fortified facilities was a risk of death. Not a high risk, mind you, when her squad had the luxury of their state-of-the-art Tesla armor, not to mention being one of the few groups in the Capitol Wasteland with military training, but armor and training can always be entirely negated by one bad thing happening at one bad time, entirely by the fortunes of fate, destiny, or whatever you wanted to call it.

But she shook herself out of her tendency to think about such morbid topics and began checking the energy calibration on her laser rifle. Calibrated to a T, as always. Most of the guys preferred plasma rifles, but Nicole figured that was just the boys still ooh'ing and ahh'ing over the newer tech. Fancy guns don't mean a thing if they don't stand up to the quality of the weapons of the past. Specifically, the laser rifle could be modded much easier and in more ways. Power level adjustment, spread, number of beams emitted, and so forth. With the plasma tech the eggheads in Weapons Research were thumping their chests at, it was pretty straight forward in what could and couldn't be done. There was a ball of superheated plasma, and it went in the direction you fired it. You could adjust plasma levels for higher accuracy, at the cost of lower armor penetration and lesser effective range, less plasma, less time before it dissipates. And you could push the plasma levels up, but you now have to worry about overheating, and slower velocity of payload. It could burn through ten feet of titanium, didn't matter a bit if even a barn could dodge it.

No, she'd stick with her trusty laser rifle. Reliable, durable and modifiable. Like a good soldier.

--------------------------------------------
This is actually the first part of a multiple part story. I just wanted to introduce the squad a bit before dropping them into The Mall. Who knows, maybe when they get into the fray, we'll actually meet them. ;P

Excellent writing; Seems that the FOFF section is growing up. Huzzah!

heh, I'm glad you aren't portraying the Enclave as evil bastards. Its all a matter of perspective.

Very well written!

I am following this one!

Sgt. Vladimir Merrison aimed the laser pistol at the paper enemy downrange of him, he lined the center blade of the weapon's sights with the center of the target, and fired. A still-smoldering hole was now showing almost perfectly in the center. Perfectly adjusted. He re-holstered the weapon into one of two built-in compartments that the armorsmiths in Equipment had so graciously agreed to add to his armor. He liked the two pistol compartments. They were easy to access, safe for travel, and, obviously, they severely decreased his chance of being caught unarmed. True to Enclave scientist thought process, the compartments were opened by the armor's internal power system, rather than through a catch or lever. If it had any practical use, the boys in Research were all too happy to slap a generator on it. Heaven forbid the troops actually had to lift a finger. He lined up the second pistol, took a deep breath, and fired. A little to the left. However, the sergeant did have to remind himself that he too was a human being capable of not shooting perfectly 100% of the time. He fired again, nope, it wasn't him. This was was edging the beam to the left of the barrel. Slightly, but when it came to marksmen, they weren't the forgiving type when it came to accuracy. He first removed the power cell in the pistol, and waited a few seconds. Ever-so-gently, he pried open the panelling on the weapon, adjusting the interior components, and cleaning the focusing crystal, since he was already in the neighborhood, so to speak.

Once more, and the weapon was again in complete harmony, which meant it was prepared for when the situation wasn't. Into the opposite compartment, the compartment door sealed with a quiet hiss, and an almost inaudible click. Finally, he turned, walked toward the table, and picked up his laser rifle. It was a beauty, cleaned and polished to a veneer of professionalism that rivaled most Pre-War military outfits. He walked once more to his booth in the shooting range. He noticed that no one else was present today, not surprising. While it was for training Enclave troops, many units were out in the field, and those that weren't couldn't all have the same dedication to marksmanship that Merrison did. He settled the butt of the rifle against his shoulder, bringing the rifle up. The rifle's reports were the only sound across the field, each meeting their mark as if the beam and the target were old friends. Slinging the rifle across his shoulder, he opened the panel on the armor his left wrist. The small screen slightly above a few buttons lit up, showing the time. Time to report to the hangar, the Colonel had briefed them earlier, now it was time to carry it out.

A little while later, thanks to an initial double-timing it leading into a brisk walk, Sgt. Merrison reached the hangar. His squad was now arrayed around their vertibird. Some attending to equipment, others talking, and others simply sitting in quiet contemplation.

"Squad! Atten-hut!"

The members of Squad Foxtrot-Charlie, or FC, as some called it, snapped to immediately and formed a line. Merrison walked down the line, addressing each squadmate as he passed.

"Henderson!"
"Sir?"
"Are the fortifications, comm gear, and outpost equipment packed up?"
"Yes, sir."
"O'Brian!"
"Sir, yes sir?"
"Med gear, replacement arms and armaments on-board the 'bird?"
"Yes, sir!"
"Jacobs."
"Reporting for duty, sir!"
"All resources present and accounted for?"
"Sir, yes sir! Checked and double-checked just fifteen minutes ago, sir!"
"Good to hear, son. Terch!"
"Yes, sir?"
"All ammunition fastened aboard the vertibird?"
"Yes, sir."
"At ease, we lift off in ten. I want everyone onboard along with all unfinished business completed by then."

In unison, the squad replied,
"Sir, yes sir!"

Two hours later

The men and woman of Squad FC were sitting in the passenger compartment of their vertibird, or more appropriately, huddled. With their streamlined-yet-still-bulky Tesla armor, sitting was difficult, and not pleasant by any stretch of the imagination. Colonel Warren looked around, O'Brian leaned back as best she could, she was never one bothered by hitching rides from the 'birds. Henderson looked like he was doing his best impression of a statue, he'd always been fairly tense when he wasn't on solid ground. Warren had never been ecstatic to get up into the air, but it hadn't bothered him, either. While Terch had been a bit confused by the Colonel's presence on a field mission, he had the smarts not to voice such thoughts. Colonels generally didn't get into the fray, but it was still a rank allowed in active field duty. The highest you could get, as a matter of fact, before you were yanked out of combat. Sergeant Merrison was in a seperate vertibird, riding with one of the three or four fireteams that would reinforce their position. Had they not needed to fill up the majority of the vertibird's space with outpost facilitation equipment, they could have fit the entire squad and Warren in, but, in the grand scheme of things, it didn't really matter. The metal door between the cockpit and passenger compartment slid open, and the voice of the pilot came up on the intercom.

"Attention, Foxtrot-Charlie. We'll be putting down at LZ in thirty minutes. Recon indicates that Super Mutant and Talon Company forces are as of this moment fighting near the Capitol Building, and full caution is advised."
Colonel Warren nodded, and stood up.
"Alright, lads. You heard the flyboy. We'll be putting down in thirty minutes. Helmets on, now."
Simultaneously, everyone in the passenger section donned their Tesla helmets. They stared forward, which, due to the nature of their surrounding, meant they were staring at the squadmate opposite them.
"Squad, check your weapons. Lock and load, and get ready for deployment."

Soon, Squad FC was embroiled in checking their plasma and laser rifles, and Warren had made a quick check of his own plasma rifle. Most officers carried a plasma pistol, but if he was going to fight with the troops, he might as well fight like the troops. Warren didn't even want to think about the officers who wore cloth uniforms in the field. If he was being shot at like the rank-and-file, he was going to be shot at while encased in a shell of hard, powered metal. With his weapon checked, he moved toward the cockpit, knocking on the metal door. The pilot flipped the switch, and the sealed door slid open. Sidling into the empty co-pilot's chair, he stared forward, seeing The Mall now in clear view.

"What's your name, pilot?"
"Lieutenant Dan Rogers, sir."
"Alright, Dan. What's the skinny? You may speak frankly. How serious is the combat down there?" He motioned with a nod towards the warzone they now approached.
"Frankly, sir, we may have to consider an alternate deployment method. I've been getting intel patched through that suggests the Talon Co. mercs might have brought robots, these could be anything from those clumsy robo-brains, to the Mr. Handy's that tore up those three squads near RobCo a few months ago, or worst of all, Sentry Bots, which could very easily take this bird out of the sky before we can hit groundside. Not to mention the muties seem to get their hands on miniguns and rockets from time to time. It could be that they focus on eachother, but if they choose us, or one side takes care of the other, we may not even make it to the LZ, much less touch down. If I were part of the brass right now I might even- Hold on, sir. One moment. Go ahead Bird's Nest, this is Eagle-7"

Lieutenant Rogers put his hand up to the headset that vertibird pilots were issued. His eyes grew slightly wider, and the dismay on his face became more and more apparent.

"Uh, confirmed, Bird's Nest. Eagle-7 over and out." With a sigh of... what would it be? Frustration? Defeat? He took the headset off his ears and let them hang around his neck. He sighed once more.

"Jesus."
"What is it, Lieutenant?"
"Fireteam Alpha's 'bird got sent off course, command still isn't sure of why, and Fireteam Tango was following Alpha in. They apparently flew over some mutie hornet's nest. Tango's outboard camera's saw Alpha go down, explosion and all. Tango's transponder went off the grid, but their last known signal was apparently near the heart of this mutant hangout."
"Two fireteams along with two vertibirds lost? This is a catastrophe. Pass me your headset, Lieutenant."
Wordlessly, the pilot took the headset hanging from his neck and handed it to Warren.
"Bird's Nest? This is Colonel Warren, we've lost two fireteams. We need to know, do we proceed to LZ or return to base? Please advice."
"Hold for a moment, Colonel." A clipped, slightly-tired sounding voice replied.
"Colonel Warren? We have confirmed from command. You are to proceed to LZ with the mission, remaining fireteam will rendevous with you and proceed to set up objective. Godspeed."
"Roger, Bird's Nest. Warren out." With a sigh borne of a mind now racing to adjust to unforeseen circumstances, Warren passed the headset back to the pilot.
"Business as usual, eh, Colonel?"
"I suppose so."

And then it hit Warren. With the force of a hurricane, the processing of so much data at once and so unexpectedly finally sorted itself out enough to let him realize it.

"Oh my God. Merrison was with Tango."
----------------------------------------------------

That's the end of the second installment in the Enclave portion. Getting to work on the third installment soon. Love it, hate it, don't give a damn about it, just let me know what you think!

Its really descriptive and i thinks it interesting to see things from the Enclave's view

This is great stuff. I give a 9.5/10 (only because of a few minor grammar error's). I can't wait to read more.

...Wow. My writing talents are dwarfed by yours. 10/10 5/5 whatever one you use this sums it up: :goodjob: :goodjob: :goodjob: :goodjob: :goodjob:

(BTW, would you mind checking out my Fan Fic and giving me some tips? Here's my Fan Fic: http://www.gamesas.com/bgsforums/index.php?showtopic=982977.)

First off, thanks for all the feedback, it is appreciated. I've got the latest piece finished and I'm just doublechecking it. It'll be up here tomorrow, and will be part of the Enclave installments.

And Fuzzy, sorry mate, I beat you to the punch. I've been following your story for awhile. I quite enjoy stories from the bodyguard point of view, and I think you capture it quite well. Oh, and tell Damon to watch Harith. After all, he is the finest weapons merchant in the waste! On the whole, it's a fantastic story, but I'll shoot you what advice I can offer via PM.

Still reading, still loving this. Looking forward to the next installment.

Vladimir looked around. Around him, the world swam. His vision was blurry, and everything appeared to be melting. And he was sure his head was aching, but he couldn't quite feel it. It just felt... fuzzy. Like static interference. What the hell happened?

Seven Minutes Earlier

The vertibird pilot looked out the reinforced glass of the cockpit. Something was messing with the navigation systems. The Mall was nowhere in sight, and the navigation system was spouting nonsense at this point. Local radar was showing movement below. Too big to be human. And even if it was, it's the wasteland. Bunch of tribal savages, druggies and murderers down there. Time to give the groundpounders the bad news.

"Fireteam Alpha, this is your pilot speaking. Our navigation systems have gone straight to hell. No idea what's causing it, but we're way off course. We're gonna be heading back to base to fix this hunk of junk, or get a new bird. Sorry boys, you won't be toasting muties today. Just get comfy back there, and-"

The pilot was no doubt going to finish with a quip or joke, maybe to get the troops to overlook what the brass would no doubt see as his fault, even if it wasn't, but 5mm bullets tearing through the floor of the cockpit and embedding themselves into the torso of said pilot cut short his speech. The man slumped forward, dead before he hit the control panel. Immediately, the vertibird began a descent, gaining speed the further it went. Staff Sergeant Ralph Endrick had survived more combat then most troops had seen, and his gut told him something was wrong. He leapt from his seat in the passenger compartment and began moving towards the cockpit door.

"Squad, buckle up and brace for impact, ASAP."

He knocked on the door.
No response.
He knocked a little harder. "Jay, everything okay?"
He began pounding the door. "Open- This- Friggin-Door!"
It didn't matter. That door was sealed to prevent passenger cabin depressurization in the event that the cockpit was breached, or vice versa. And that was strong, refined steel. The veteran Staff Sergeant began swearing and strapping himself down. In combat, your life could very often be decided by how quickly you react, or how well your training takes hold. In situations like these, and this is truly why Ralph hated flying, the only factors that made one bit of difference were the skill of the pilot, and luck.

And right now, no one in the cockpit was responding.

Grabbing his helmet, he fastened it securely on his head. If he survived this deathtrap's losing battle with gravity, he sure as hell wouldn't let some loose piece of gear knock him out. He closed his eyes, waiting for the inevitable. And as the vertibird hit the ground, everything went dark. The metal nose of the plane was crumpled like paper, but it was the ensuing explosion that sealed the fate of Fireteam Alpha.

And the pilot of Eagle-2, the vertibird carrying Fireteam Tango, could only watch as this happened. Those bastards just knocked a vertibird out of the sky. He couldn't even believe what he'd just seen. Not even time to radio to his fellow pilot. Soon, a cold fire gripped the inside of the man pilotting Eagle-2. With a tone as cold as ice, he quickly flipped the intercom,

"Brace for turbulence."

And looked at the Super Mutant wielding the minigun that had so quickly ripped his fellow pilot, his brother, out of the sky. The mutant looked at the second aircraft, as if trying to lock eyes with the other man. To challenge him with those horrible, once-human eyes. As he hefted his minigun, the pilot flicked open the caps over the two buttons that controlled the cannons on the vertibird. The super mutant was consumed by a swarm of bullets, face contorted in rage as they washed over him. For the moment, the pilot felt his brother's avenging complete. But, like so many men before him, a single moment of letting his guard down cost him so very dearly, as more super mutants poured from the complex below. Turning the vertibird to face the slew of hostiles, once again the cannons spewed molten lead and plasma against the mutated aggressors. But even this could not prevent the missiles from flying towards the vertibird, utterly destroying the left engine, and crippling the right.

The pilot swore as he realized his need for vengeance most likely just cost the men in the passenger cabin their lives. He angled the aircraft away from the facility as it began it's rapid descent downward. If they were lucky, they'd be able to escape the wreckage, and if he could get enough distance with their descent, they might even emerge without being met with gunfire. The craft screamed in a slanted descent. With one final act of repentance for his vengeful actions, he flipped the intercom and screamed "Brace for impact!"

And sweet oblivion embraced the pilot and the metal cockpit was twisted, crushing him.

That's right. The 'bird crashed. And that meant something shot them down. And that meant hostiles. Could be close. He jogged towards the remains of the passenger cabin, his head still spinning. Near it lay an armored figure lying on the ground. One of Fireteam Tango. Merrison kneeled and lifted up his head and torso. He seemed alright, a few cuts and bruises. The sergeant could only hope the kid would be able to wake up, they didn't have time to stay put. Slapping the soldier on the cheek, hard enough to wake him but not so hard as to seriously hurt him, he said,

"Alright, soldier. Wake up. C'mon. We're getting out of here."

The boy looked at him, blinking his eyes and shifting his head back and forth. He brought his hand up and let out a series of racking coughs. He looked at his hand in some kind of detached surprise. He had coughed blood up all over his gloved hand, and his chin was now soaking from blood pouring from his mouth. He slowly let his head lull back against the ground, his eyes looking toward the sky, and his body tensed up once more and convulsed, and then the form was completely still.

Damn it. Alright Vlad, move on. Agile, mobile, hostile. Gotta' keep moving. Check for survivors.

He sifted through the wreckage of the passenger compartment, which had been torn completely out of the other part of the vertibird. No one survived, at least not from what Merrison could see. As he leaned over one final body, a massive shadow loomed over him. Wheeling around while simultaneously raising his laser rifle to fire, by the time he had turned the mutant had ripped the rifle from his very hands and snapped it. Unceremoniously, the mutant roared and hit him with a nailboard, connecting with his helmetted head with a sharp Crack!, the nail missing the target, but the board connecting entirely. The sergeant stood for a moment, wobbling, and finally collapsed as once again his vision swam.

He blinked his eyes. Heat. It was sweltering in here. The wasteland was hot, but this place was practically burning. He looked around. The room was dimly lit, nothing but a crude furnace providing light, and directly ahead were stairs. He went to stand, but found that he was tied to a metal beam protruding from the floor to the ceiling. But he noticed, as he was able to wiggle with a good amount of space, that whoever had tied him wasn't too familiar with the concept. Or their bloated, yellow fingers simply couldn't perform the intricacies required. Either way, with a good bit of struggling and squirming, he squeezed out of the bindings. He flexed his forearms and hands, quickly appreciating the feeling of being freed from restrainment. He cautiously approached the stairs, walking up as fast as he could manage without sacrificing perception. For a holding facility, this place was criminally under-manned. As he ascended the stairs, he found himself in a corridor, the only illumination from a deathly still hanging lamp. Directly ahead was a door, from which he could hear guttural growling and throaty laughs and guffaws. He peered through the space between the door and the threshold, and from what he could see, two mutants were doing some sort of gambling. They would roll two cube-ish objects, and one would laugh, collecting his winnings as the other lost. No doubt some primitive form of dice. Angling to a different side, he saw one other mutant, standing casually but vigilantly, watching the hallway on the other side of the room with his back turned. He took a deep breath. One shot, and one shot only. He stepped back.

He began running towards the door, kicking it with all the force he could muster. As his armored boot hit the door, it burst from it's hinges with a crack and flew into the room, immediately confused roars rang out, and before they knew had hit them he had moved to the closest mutant, delivering an armored gauntlet to where he hoped the mutant's adam's apple was. It began clasping it's throat as the standing mutant began to muddle through the chaos. As he raised his primitive assault rifle, Merrison let his training take over as he tucked into a forward roll, leaping up under the mutant, delivering a sharp uppercut to the mutant's chin. As the yellow-green brute's brain processed the damage done to it's body, the sergeant yanked the rifle from the creature's arms, turned it towards it's owner, and fired a staccato point-blank into it's face. Not skipping a beat, he wheeled towards the final mutant, only to see it swinging a massive fist towards him. He ducked as the clumsy blow flew over his head, and unloaded the remainder of the clip into his opponent's chest. The room was overtaken once more by the eerie silence that follows the ceasing of combat.

Moving now into the hallway being watched previously by the now-dead mutant, he proceeded, his body still pounding with adrenaline. Another set of stairs was present, the top of which lead to a door. From under it, he could see the darkness of night. Nighttime already? He'd been out for hours, at least. Maybe even days. He slowly opened the door, and was presented with a full view of the complex their pilot had been trying to land away from. As he began walking out the door, a primitive, cruel voice rang out in the night. "Not another step, hoo-man." He saw now a large super mutant, flanked on other side by two rows of two super mutants. "If you get back in your restraints right now, I'll stop the boys from tearing you limb from limb." The sergeant locked eyes with the tall mutant, and shook his head slowly. Not going to happen, freak. "One last chance, weakling! Look at you. A single pale human against a mob of us. We are bigger, we are stronger! And you don't even have a weapon."

"Wrong."

The twin panels in his armor slid open as he flexed his hands in the motion that activated the pistol compartments. Each one was in hand, and a mutant on each side of him toppled over, with laser burns still cooling.

The tall mutant howled, and the brawl was begun. As the remaining six, seven if you counted the leader, mutants raised their rifles, Vladimir saw in the corner of his eye a small wooden board thrown lying against a flipped-over table. Within range, it was now or never. Still one pistol, he tucked the other into it's compartment once more as he dove for the piece of cover. Slugs pinged off the tesla armor, nicking and scratching it. Pulling the pistol from it's resting spot once more, he rose and fired once again. Steady hands, Vlad. Not enough time for torso shots, make those headshots count. Another two mutants dropped, and he returned to cover. A grenade landed beside him, and had Sgt. Merrison been the one reacting, he wouldn't have been able to pick it up, and return it to it's sender with a solid throw. Luckily for him, however, his training, mingled with subconscious survival instincts, had already taken over, and he managed to do just that. As chunks of yellow-green flesh scattered the ground, he poked his head out, raising his pistol. Getting cocky now could cost him his life. He slowly moved toward the grenade's point of explosion. He could confirm six, when he found the form of the tall mutant, the leader, struggling to rise. He had shrapnel in his chest and arms, but knowing super mutant hide, it probably wasn't fatal. He even spoke.

"H...hoo-man. I challenge you... to," he let out a wheeze followed by a hacking cough, "to single combat, on our honor."

Merrison looked at the bleeding monstrosity. He was smart. Might even take him out if it came down to one on one. Pretty rare to find a mutie with even that much in the way of intelligence. He walked over to the mutant, who was struggling to keep his head raised to address the human. Placing the tip of his laser pistol against the top of the giant's cranium, he squeezed the trigger.

"No."

He could see more mutants approaching from the more distant building. No time to savor a victory, and no rest for the weary. But it was nighttime, and Merrison had been on covert ops before. He slipped away from the camp without a word, letting himself savor only the confused yells in the distance as super mutants came upon the gore-stained ground where their compatriots had fought.

Another good chapter.

This is awesome man. Keep it up please, your a great writer.

Great job. A few errors, but nothing really noticable or important. Definitely one of the better fics in the Fallout section.

Badass.

Nice touch coming across the other soldier, too, and how he goes.

Superb writing, and amazing ideas. I can't wait for more!