Wow seriously good story, keep it up man. :clap:

Part 6: The Fate of the Legion

Flagstaff

As the stranger hit the blunt of his tomahawk against the pavement to shake away the Bandito’s blood, Williams noticed a wave of relief pass through the Roughnecks. Whoever this newcomer was, he was certainly dangerous, but none of the Roughnecks seemed to care. And the way he’d spoken to James indicated that the two of them had a somewhat cavalier relationship.

“That was some damned good timing Owen,” James said, grinning broadly. The two marched toward each other, shaking hands and patting shoulder like two old friends. One of the other Roughnecks, Bill, moved to an opening in the ruins of the arcade and whistled loud enough for it to echo off the surrounding hills. Williams found himself glancing at Meyers, wondering if someone was going to explain what in the hell had just happened. As if he were reading Williams’s mind, James turned and nodded for the others to join him next to the newcomer.

“Owen, that’s Meyers and Williams,” James said with a boasting smile. “They’re from California.” Despite the friendly demeanor between the Roughnecks and Owen, Williams could see the studying gaze and less than trustful expression as the newcomer greeted the two from the N.C.R. “Owens here is a Hab.”

Williams stared at Owen blankly. The reality of the situation was that the word “Hab” had no meaning to him whatsoever. From the way Owen was dressed and the weapons he used, Williams would have thought he must have been some kind of tribal. However, the newcomer also spoke with a level of intelligence, and he’d used adept guerrilla tactics when dealing with the Banditos, both of which signified an education of some kind.

“We occupy Thunder Valley,” Owens explained noting the looks of confusion he received from both New California Republic soldiers. “It’s a small territory north of here.” The Hab stopped there, as though that were enough information. As he and the Roughnecks began to make their way toward the central building, both Linton and Charley finished making their way through the arcade to follow the group.

“Speaking of which,” Owens said looking at James. “You didn’t happen to see what happened here by any chance?” He gestured to the road. The same road the Roughnecks and N.C.R. soldiers had come across. The same one that was lined with hundreds of crucified Legion soldiers.

“No idea,” James responded, pushing aside the piece of cloth hung over the entrance to the basilica. “We were hoping you… would…” The leader of the Roughnecks trailed off as he entered what had once been Cesar’s throne room. As Williams moved to stand next to James, he could see why. Hanging in front of the back tapestry depicting the Legion bull, was a centurion.

Though Williams had only glimpsed a dead centurion once after the Second Battle for Hoover Dam, the man before him was unmistakably of the same rank. Supposedly centurions crafted their armor from their fallen enemies, creating a hodgepodge of overlapping plates and mismatched padding. The man, who’d been hung in front of the tapestry like a prize on the wall, wore the same metal armor.

“Is that Aquileia?” James asked trying to get a better look at the macabre wall décor. The name Aquileia had been heard as far west as New Vegas. According to the stories passed between the rangers and soldiers alike, he was less of a warrior than other centurions and more of a bureaucrat. Though, supposedly, the first, and last, person to suggest this to Aquileia’s face had spent the next four days bound to a post outside of the centurion’s command center where the Legion commander had removed their digits one at a time. What the individual had eventually died of was always left open to debate, though Williams imagined the subject was now moot, considering Aquileia’s demise.

With the subtly of a spy, Owen reached into his jacket and removed a small box. As Williams watched he slid one part of the contraption away from the rest and a small flash briefly illuminated the basilica. Just as smoothly, the Hab replaced the device and examined the pile of ash at his feet.

“Energy weapons?” James asked. Owen nodded without looking up. Again, Williams was reminded of his tour in the Mojave where he had fought against the Brotherhood of Steel. The power armor clad soldiers would attack caravans and supply lines with devastating precision, turning soldiers, Brahmin and civilians alike into piles of ash. For some reason as Williams looked from the Golden Bull to the pile of ash, his brain seemed to pause. There was some vital piece of information that he was missing, something crucial.

“Wait a minute,” Williams muttered. It hit him all at once, the thing they’d been missing since their arrival in Flagstaff. In retrospect it should have been obvious. The one thing that someone could find in any Legion camp was missing here, in the heart of the Legion Empire. The energy weapons were still baffling unless… “Do those Templar guys keep slaves?” As the entire party turned to look at him, Williams felt like he had asked the right question.

“[censored],” James cursed. He lifted his hat from his head, and ran one hand through his hair. “How the hell did we miss that?” When the other Roughnecks looked at him in confusion he continued, “This is Flagstaff, the heart of Cesar’s Legion. So where are the slaves?”

“The only way they could have gotten that many out of here in one night, is if they used the air.” James nodded at Owen’s assessment. Williams glanced at the sky, wondering how many flying machines the Waste Templar possessed. How many would it take to remove every slave from within the heart of a slave trading empire?

“They’re getting antsy.” James spit on the ground again, his face twisted in a frown. “This whole thing about Cesar got them all riled up, and they’re taking it out on the rest of us.” James removed his hat again, looking tired and strained before sitting in Cesar’s throne. For several moments James only sat, rubbing his temples. “Owen, what the hell are you doing this far south to begin with?”

For a moment the Hab seemed confused by the question, as though he’d forgotten why. “Oh. Actually James you might be able to help me with this. Two days ago, an Enclave vertibird flew over our valley.” James looked up at Owen, his expression bordering on hopeful. “Naturally we shot it down, but it managed to limp its way out of range of our double A’s. Best we can tell, it crashed about four or five miles east of here. I just saw the lights over the horizon last night on my way there and thought I’d stop to see what had happened.” When Williams turned to look at James, he could already see that New Gettysburg would have to wait.



Thanks for the support and feedback. I know this one wasn't very exciting, but the next one should be up soon.

Good job, I still think the progression between sentences is flawless. Something I struggle with.

Part 7: A Wrench in the Works (1of 2)

Vault 37

In the blistering heat of the Arizona desert, a lone figure stopped for a moment to shade her eyes. Samantha Carter wiped the dust from her dirty blond hair and took a moment to get her bearings. Behind her, only the vast emptiness of the salt flats stretched into the distance. Before her a column of craggy peaks jutted up from the surface like grey and brown teeth in a mouth of blistering white.

Wondering if her mind was playing tricks on her, Sam checked the device on her wrist. It was an old world relic, so old she could practically smell the residue of the nuclear apocalypse on its cold, steel frame. The Pip-Boy has been invented by Rob Co., some conglomerate that had apparently created just about everything before the war. She’d gotten hers from a Hab, who refused to tell where he’d located the device. In the end it had cost her a fully loaded pack Brahmin of medical supplies and computer terminals, but she’d been sure then, and was sure even as she marched through the desert that it had been worth it.

After a few more moments, just when she was sure the sun would turn her to ash, she reached the cool shade of the mountains. Sam took another moment to check her bearings before she spotted the landmark. Just a few feet higher than the salt flats themselves a ridge carved its way into the side of the cliff. It was a narrow trail for sure, but it led to a crack in the cliff face, a narrow fissure that led deeper into the cliffs themselves.

With a grin, Samantha picked up her pace. She was still careful not to overexert herself, the intense heat proving a greater obstacle than any land formation, but the joy of finally having reached her destination had given her new energy. There was a pronounced skip in her step as she made the climb up to the ridge.

Once she had reached the fissure in the rock, Samantha felt a cool breeze float from the dark to brush against her sun parched skin. More importantly however, the sound of men’s voices traveled from the cave, echoing from the walls and scattering the sound. Despite herself Sam felt a grin cross her continence.

As she climbed into the crevice, which in turn led to a narrow cave, the voices grew louder, along with a steady hum. Samantha was careful not to make a sound as she approached the group within the cave. Around a bend she found them: two men in the strangest clothing she’d seen in all her years. The first almost looked like a Paladin from the Brotherhood of Steel, or maybe some Enclave remnant in their power armor. However his armor was too light, too streamlined, and his helmet lacked the usual breathing apparatus both of those groups usually equipped to their armor. Rather this man’s face covering was two simple pate of smooth steel that fit over the top and bottom of his head, leaving a thin slat for him to see through.

Samantha didn’t even want to venture a guess as to where the other man might be from. He wore a long, black trench coat that fell to his ankles. Over his eyes a set of goggles shielded his vision from the play of light caused by the machine he was working with: a laser that was actively cutting through a Vault-Tec door. While progress was obviously slow going, the laser had already melted a hole in the door the size of a bottle cap and the depth of Sam’s index finger.

Both men stood in a shaft of light that came from the sun itself. When Sam adjusted herself, she could see a hole in the ceiling of the cave. From this hole several dense cables led down to an artificial platform that rested on the ground. What was clear was that they had cut through the mountain itself, creating a wide breech before moving their equipment inside the large antechamber that held the vault door itself.

As she watched, her footing slipped and a rock crashed to the ground. Sam glanced at the rock, wincing as it banged off the solid ground. When she looked up she found that the laser had been shut down, and that both men were staring at her with a mix of shock and outrage. Samantha grinned sheepishly at both men as she took a slow step backwards. For several, long moments no one moved.

Part 7: A Wrench in the Works (2 of 2)

“Kill her,” the man in the trench coat snapped like this should have been obvious. As the man in armor raised a weapon to his hip, a hulking mass of what Samantha had assumed was rock turned as well. What she had assumed was merely a portion of the mountain turned out to be another power armor wearing soldier, this one clad in a mechanized suit that resembled a giant knight.

Without another glance back, Sam turned heel and vanished around the corner. As she sprinted to the mouth of the cave, she felt a rush of hot air suddenly come up behind her. With a concussive blast the pocket of air blew her out of the crevice and onto the salt flats. After a moment to check that nothing was broken, Sam was on her feet and running.

Now that she was on the salt flats, and didn’t have to worry about running into something, Samantha went to work with her Pip-Boy, not pausing for a moment as she did. She set the built in radio to scan and a signal popped up immediately.

“We were expecting Habs to roll in with artillery, not some tribal [censored] who doesn’t know her place,” a voice scolded over the radio. Sam recognized it as the same person who’d ordered her death only moments ago. “Crusader armor won’t fit through the fissure.”

“Target acquired,” a new voice said calmly. Knowing that something was coming, Samantha leapt to one side. As she did, a beam of light, so bright that it burned an image of the flats into her retina despite closed eyes, ripped into the ground where she’d been a moment ago. There was another flash of light and Sam was thrown to the ground, a shockwave knocking her sideways.

Blinking, and scrambling to her feet at the same time, Samantha took another running start away from the mountains. As she did, she heard a curse through the radio. When her vision cleared enough that she could see a few more than just the next step in front of her, Sam found that she was nearly where the shadows ended. Spurred on by how far she’d come, and how little distance she had left to cover, she picked up her pace.

“Just get a damned Vulture over here before she gets away.” Sam recognized the first voice again, a demanding and cold man who seemed like he saw Sam as more of a mild nuisance than any kind of actual threat. Feeling another grin on her face, Sam pushed herself a little harder.

“The last thing we need is some Pinkerton telling the whole wasteland about what we’re doing here.” That last statement removed the frown from her face. She wasn’t sure how they’d recognized her, but it was bad news for the agency. As she thought this, a familiar whir filled the air.

Ahead of her, Sam could see a pair of irregularities in the ocean of white that was the salt flats. They were a pair of humps that seemed to be made of the desert floor, and yet they did not follow the angle of the desert in the least. When she reached the lumps she dove to the ground.

“Now!” Sam shouted. It was more panic, than the need for volume that pitched her voice so that it echoed off the flats. As the Vulture swooped low to make its attack run, both lumps were thrown aside, revealing a pair of men armed with missile launchers. Before the Vulture could open fire or swerve both men let loose their ordinance, sending a pair of high velocity missiles to slam into the flying machine.

With a thunderous boom, the small craft was sent tumbling away, fire and smoke billowing from one of its engine pods. There was another deafening boom as the aircraft slammed into the unforgiving desert, sending a plume of smoke into the air. Both men shouted in victory, cheering as though they had played an important role in the Vulture’s demise.

“Congratulations boys.” Before they could forget, Samantha held out her hand. Still laughing and gloating one of them placed a small bag of bottle caps into her hand. “The Pinkerton Detective Agency thanks you for your business.”

Thank you. I could give you some tips if you wanted.

Part 8: Enclave

Approximately one day’s walk from New Gettysburg

After spending the night around a campfire just outside of Flagstaff, the group of Roughnecks, NCR soldiers and lone Hab, began to travel east, heading for the last known sighting of the Enclave vertibird. Used to traveling in a group, Linton felt at home with the other soldiers. The Roughnecks reminded her of the Rangers back west, with their gruff demeanor and battle stories. Owen meanwhile, reminded of her of locals the N.C.R. occasionally enlisted for aid. If she closed her eyes, she could almost hear the tumbleweeds bound across the Mojave.

The Arizona desert was not the same. These harsh badlands were miles and miles of rocks and sand dunes, with only the Rockies, ever abundant to the north to break up the skyline. Linton didn’t think it would have been possible, but part of her missed the Mojave. She missed the glamor of the Strip and the company of her fellow soldiers.

Of course she would never voice any of these thoughts to the others. In her opinion too many New California Republic soldiers spent too much of their time complaining about their assignments. Linton refused to fall into their ranks. Instead, she had every intention of becoming an officer in the near future and, eventually, come to lead a command of her own.

“… Chems aint got anything to do with it,” Charley said with a snort. Linton snapped herself out of her thoughts to pick up the conversation the others were having. “Banditos are just too stupid to know they’re dead.” This brought a chuckle of laughter from the others as they marched across the desert toward a narrow canyon that split the ground like a crooked smile.
As they approached the canyon, Linton spotted something sticking up from the canyon. Without a word, the Roughnecks and N.C.R. soldiers raised their weapons to their shoulders. Owen brought his tomahawk and knife up and ready to be put to use. When they reached the lip of the canyon they found the destroyed vertibird.

It had slammed into the open earth with such force that the pilot had been ejected from the cockpit, his armored form lying several feet from the edge of the canyon. The vertibird itself was in ruins, the nelly of the machine crumpled by rock and earth, while one of its short wings had been ripped away to sit several yards away from the rest of the craft. Williams went in first, hopping down the short distance to the canyon floor. As the Roughnecks followed him, Linton heard him call back to the others.

“We’ve got a body down here.” Linton followed the others into the canyon as Meyers and Bill offered to stay above and keep an eye out for trouble. Once she had gotten to the bottom of the Canyon Linton saw just what Williams was talking about. An Enclave soldier, possibly an officer, judging by his clothing, had managed to crawl a few feet from the vertibird to sit against the canyon wall. There he had died, presumably from the wound that had spilled his blood in a trail from where he sat back to the vertibird.

The first to the body was James, first checking to see if the officer had been booby-trapped before giving the corpse a pat-down. After a moment he reached into the Officer’s pocket and removed a small holo-tape. Despite the blood that dripped from the device, Linton was sure it would still work. These small devices had the tendency to outlive the people who made the recordings on them, their sturdy design and small size ensured that they could withstand a beating. Owen produced a small device from his jacket that look a little like a cannibalized Pip-Boy. It lacked the screen and arm mount found on the standard devices, but had a slot for the holo-tape.

There’s no stopping them now.” The man speaking from the holo-tape sounded both weary and strained. “In the thirty plus years since the Rig’s been taken out, we’ve done nothing but lose ground. Any kind of strategic ground we held in the heartland is gone. When they started, we thought those Waste Templar, were nothing more than a more proactive version of the Brotherhood. How could we have been so blind?

“At first their progression was marked only by the loss of our facilities. What little forces we had disappeared over night!” There was an edge of savagery seeping into the voice as the man talked. To Linton it sounded like he was both defending his actions and cursing his enemy at the same time. “When we finally meet them they have this armor and these weapons, more advanced than anything I’ve ever seen.

“But that’s not the worst. Maybe we could have held out, maybe we could have defeated them, but not now. We wondered what they were after when they attacked our outposts and bases. Did they want to eliminate the competition? Were they after our technology? If only. No, they wanted information. They wanted to know about the vaults.

“They wanted to know about Vault 37. God forbid they ever get into that place. They won’t stop. They’ll take every inch of this country and move on to the next one. They’ll sweep the Americas, cross the ocean and conquer the world.” The holo-tape cut off for a moment. Linton assumed that it must have been the end of the recording, but just as abruptly as it cut off, the holo-tape came back to life.

Damn.” Now the man’s voice was a growl and a gurgle rolled into one. The sound of fire in the background told the N.C.R. soldier that this had been recorded after the crash. "They hit us hard. [censored] Vultures dropping out of the sky like the Four Horseman of the Apocalypse, and those knights, like walking tanks. There was no stopping them, but we couldn’t get them get Vault 37.

“I had to leave. I had to…,” the voice broke, and Linton heard a man gasp. Then he took a deep breath and continued. “I’ve put the security code for Vault 37 on this disk, don’t let them find it. Destroy the place before they get there. If this is the Enclave, you should know that we died fighting, that we never surrendered.” The man was growing quiet with each utterance. “We… never… surrendered.”

When the holo-tape clicked off, the soldiers were left in stunned silence. Linton, Williams and Meyers stared at one another, While James scratched his beard. Owen stared at the holo-tape as though he were hoping something more would come out of the device. Linton found herself wondering just how powerful an organization would have to be in order to destroy the Enclave. Granted the N.C.R. military had wiped out Navaro, but that had been a pyrrhic victory at best, with the casualties measuring in the hundreds. James was the first to speak. “I think we need to get ya’ll to New Gettysburg.”

I would appreciate that.

Part 9: Hunting

Camp Boardin: approximately half a day’s walk from vault 37

As the sun sank behind the hills, Camp Boardin began to stir to life. The tribe who resided within the ruins of what had once been a boarding school lit bonfires and electric lamps, continuing to celebrate their victory. After months of tireless work they had managed to bring a Vulture down to Earth. They had since brought the wreckage back to their camp to see if anything was salvageable. As their lights illuminated the barren desert, unseen soldiers in armor advanced on the small beacon of civilization.

At the head of the group, Captain Rho moved his men into position. The warriors who gathered near him were dragoons, the elite air cavalry of the Templar. Each man was dressed in black armor, a small and lighter model than the Crusaders, and armed with Laser Rapid Capacitor Weapons. However none of them were intending on using the bright and noisy weapons for dealing with the savages within the tribe. Instead they used a smaller version of the Crusader’s sword: a Qatar. Unlike the Crusaders’ weapon, the Dragoon version used no plasma, it was a simple, yet effect, killing tool.

As though to demonstrate this line of thought, Rho silently slipped behind one of Camp Boardin’s guards and slid the blade neatly into the man’s neck. The Captain gripped the man’s face, clamping the man’s mouth shut. Around him, other armored forms moved noiselessly through the night, cutting one tribal down after another. No alarms were raised, no voices cried out in the dark. The Dragoons went about their work in total silence. With the outer area cleared of savages, Captain Rho signaled his men to move further into the camp.

As they neared the enormous bonfire, they began to hear the music and laughter of a small village celebrating. Around the fire, nearly two dozen figures danced in drunken revelry. Turning to his soldiers the captain made a circle in the air, and then opened his hand before closing it into a fist. Without a word, the other soldiers disappeared into the surrounding shadows. As they took their positions around the bonfire, just out of sight, just beyond the ranged of the fire’s light, Camp Boardin continued its celebration unaware of the blood shed to come.

Once each Dragoon had taken his position, the entire group began to move closer to the fire, creating a closing noose around the tribals. The moment before Rho could make his move and slide his blade into another man, one of the women dancing was sent spinning. As she came to a stop, dizzy and laughing her eyes fell upon the captain. Her eyes widened and a scream split the night air to carry over the music and send the tribals into a panic.

By then, however, it was too late. The Dragoons cut down one savage after another, letting their blades tear into flesh with shocking efficiency. As Rho cut down one tribal, the woman’s blood spraying across his faceplate, a round of .20 gauge buckshot slammed into his shoulder. As the shot harmlessly bounced off his armor, the dragoon captain raised his eyes to the shooter. Still clutching the obviously useless shotgun was what appeared to be the dead woman’s husband, judging by his expression of outrage and pain.

Grinning, Rho pushed the corpse aside without dignity or care. With a shout, the man rushed forward, his shotgun held like a club. As soon as the man was close enough, the captain took a step backwards, turning his body and used one hand to push the savage’s weapon aside. In the same motion Rho pulled the man forward before sliding his blade into the tribal’s spine. With the same callous nature, Rho let the man fall to the ground.

As the last of the savages were mopped up, something caught the captain’s eye. At the edge of the camp three of his soldiers stood side by side, watching a half dozen forms quickly disappearing into the desert. Judging by their laughter and pointing, Rho deduced that they were giving the tribals a running start.

“Let one get away,” Rho ordered. As one the men brought their Laser R.C.W.s to their shoulders and fired a short barrage. Of the six runaways, only one continued his escape. Rho was sure the man would go to the nearest town and tell every person in earshot about the Templar, and how they had eradicated his people in a single night.

As his eyes continued to wander he found the three people he was looking for: the two responsible for shooting down the Vulture, and the tribe’s leader. The two men who’d attacked the Vulture were unconscious, both being held by their hair by a dragoon. As the captain began to remove his helmet, the dust around the camp began to stir. A moment later a vertibird descended, extinguishing the bonfire, leaving only a limited number of electric lamps to light the remains of Camp Boardin.

Emissary Wilhelm Leek stepped from the vertibird. As the man approached the collection of dragoons and tribesmen, Captain Rho made sure to avoid the man’s eyes. There was only one word in the captain’s extensive vocabulary to describe what he would find in those blue pools: evil. Leek was certainly a valuable member of the Templar; he had complete faith in his orders and would carry them out without hesitation. However there was still a cruelty, a lust for violence and destruction that seemed to linger with the emissary.

The tribal leader opened his mouth to say something, but Rho kicked him behind his knees, sending the man to the ground. Without waiting for the order to do so, the captain then lifted the man by his hair so that he could look Leek in the eyes. Wilhelm bent over so that his face was level with the prisoner’s.

“Listen to me very carefully,” Leek said softly. “You are going to tell me where the Pinkerton Detective you hired has run off to, or I am going to kill you in the slowest, most painful way that I know how.” From the expression on the tribal’s face, Rho first thought the man would not comply. After a few moments of staring into Leek’s eyes, something within him broke.

“She went to New Gettysburg,” the man said, a quiver of fear in his voice. With that done, Leek stood and looked at the captain.

“Kill him and tie those two out where the desert can get to them,” Wilhelm order pointing first to the lead, then to the two unconscious men. Without another word, or even a glance back, the emissary turned and marched to his vertibird.

“You said you wouldn’t kill me!” the tribal leader shouted, vainly struggling against Rho’s grip on his shoulder. As the captain primed his blade to execute the man, Leek turned to frown at the tribal leader.

“No,” the emissary snapped with a hint of impatience. “I said if you didn’t tell me I would kill you. I didn’t say a damned thing about what would happen if you did.” Captain Rho waited for the emissary to finish before killing the savage. With that, the Templar left Camp Boardin, the entire population, save three, scattered across the ground.

I'll be putting the next chapter up soon. I'm not sure if anyone is still reading this.

Also I think I've figured out where this is going. It'll be broken into three pieces, and this first one is just about halfway there.

Is anyone still interested in this?

i signed up just because of this story
so far its awesome so keep up the good work

I’m still reading it, its very enjoying. You posses a great writing talent. Also Inspiring It’s making me think about writing up a short story. If I find the time I might sit for a while and start brewing up some Ideas.

Thank you.



Thanks. Can't wait to read it.

Part 10: Fortified

New Gettysburg

As they neared the settlement of New Gettysburg, Meyers felt his jaw drop. The small town he’d heard so much about was less of a settlement and more of a fortress. For starters, it had been built upon a mesa that jutted up from the desert floor, offering only a narrow path to the town itself. New Gettysburg appeared to have once been nothing more than an Old World town, made of short stone buildings, but someone had since added heavy steel and concrete walls to fill in the gaps that had once been alley ways.

The most intimidating factor of the stone village was that at every corner, atop every house that lined the edge of the town, was an artillery piece. Some were old world heavy machine guns, like the pair that watched the main road, while others were massive howitzers that made even the cannon at the Hoover Dam seem under powered. One in particular stood out from the rest, a multi-barreled machine that looked like an oversized mini-gun. It stood over the main entrance, and hanging beneath it was a banner that said, “All raiders have to talk to Loud Mouth before entering,” with an arrow pointing up to the defensive weapon.

“Welcome to New Gettysburg,” James said merrily, as he slapped Meyers on the back. As they drew nearer to the entrance, the NCR soldier could see that it was, in fact, a Vault-Tec Vault Door. When James nodded to a People’s Federation of Texas soldier, who sat complacently on the paraqet over the door, Meyers could hear a Brahmin grunt in agitation and the door rolled to one side. Before it did, he saw the number, “Forty Three,” written in the center of the massive device.

“There used to be a vault, right in the center of the town,” James explained, seeing the look of surprise on Meyers’s face. “Supposedly Vault Forty Three was inhabited entirely by soldiers. I’m not sure how that happened, with a war on and all, but they came out after the bombs fell, booted the raiders out, and took over the town.”

“Yeah, except back then it was called Indian Wells,” Bill interjected, continuing James’s line of reasoning. “About thirty or so years ago, Legion came this way, looking to expand. Of course, they didn’t know that, two days prior, the local Militia Group had just traded with Habs for Loud Mouth up there.” The Roughneck pointed at the massive weapon that sat over the entrance.

“They came charging up that ramp, expecting to take the whole town in one night.” As Bill continued his story, the group made their way into the fortified town. On the outside New Gettysburg looked like a fortress, but from the inside it could have been any other small town in the Mojave. There was a definite lack of neon, but other than that it could have been Good Springs or Prim. Though none of the N.C.R. soldiers had been through here before, the Roughnecks clear had, as they made a bee-line toward a small structure, labeled Maggie’s.

“Then, old Loud Mouth spoke up. By the time he was done talking, every one of those Legion sonsa[censored]es were flat on their faces. The Hab the locals had been trading with said, ‘Just like the Old World Gettysburg.’ Locals decided that was a good name for it.” Bill finished his story just as the Roughnecks entered Maggie’s.

Looking around the small bar, Meyers noticed two women who stood out from the rest of the prospectors, cattle ranchers and P.F.T. soldiers. The first was a friendly woman who looked like she’d been around since before Cesar had conquered the region. She was as thin as the next wastelander, and though she wore a friendly smile, her eyes betrayed a clever mischief and inner strength that led Meyers to believe she had tussled with her fair share of miscreants in her day. The woman had long grey hair tied in a ponytail and she wore a simple, blue, cotton dress. The smile she gave James and his Roughnecks was knowing and friendly as she led them to a table.

“Thanks Maggie,” James said as he took a seat. As they did Meyers stole another glance at the second woman. Where Maggie had stood out because of her kindness, this woman broke the mold through her keen eyes and her shrewd stare. Meyers found himself garnering the same impression from her that he might from a Stalker. Sure she was beautiful, but she was even more dangerous. Her dirty blond hair fell to just over her ears, and she was adorned in the trappings of either a mercenary or a wanderer.

One of the Prospectors evidently didn’t catch the same feeling from this woman as Meyers did, as he went strolling up to her, trying to start a conversation. With practiced grace and ease, the woman slid the end of her table toward herself as the man tried to rest his arm on it. The result was that he missed, leaned over too far and slammed his head into the end of the table. The woman made no move to help the prospector as he lay on the floor, clearly unconscious, but she did move to a new table, one that was free of sleeping prospectors.

“So where’s this Magistrate?” Williams asked. Feeling a sigh escape his lips, Meyers took a seat next to Charley. At this point he didn’t really care if they got in touch with the Magistrate or not. As long as he could get back to McCarren in the near future, and not be killed by some horrible flying machine, he’d be a happy man. Of course neither Linton nor Williams shared his sentiment. Both of them could have been officers, willing to go above and beyond for the republic.

“That’s a damned good question,” James answered, an edge of steel in his voice. “Maggie, where in the hell, is Tanner? He should be here this time of night.” Meyers felt his stomach bottom out, like he’d swallowed a brick and it was trying to drop through the seat of his pants. If the Magistrate wasn’t here, they wouldn’t be going home anytime soon, and that probably would mean another long march through the desert.

“He left about two days ago. Last I heard he was heading for Gallup.” When Maggie finished, James cursed through clenched teeth.

“Piss poor god damned timing,” James hissed. “That bastard isn’t worth the air he breathes. He spends all his time lounging here, and then when we actually need the bastard he runs off to New Mexico.” The lieutenant let out another string of swears. “First contact with the west other than the Legion, the Templar going nuts and that Vault crap, and h picks now to take a vacation!”

“Maybe you should keep your voice down,” Owen said quietly. As James took a deep breath, presumably to keep from screaming, Meyers glanced at Williams. Unlike the other at the table, who were glancing around the bar to see who had heard James’s rant, Williams was staring directly at the blonde woman who had stood out earlier. As she stood to leave, Meyers felt the hair on the back of his neck stand on end.

My tongue is tied, I want to offer advice to say something worth while....And there is something, it's there at the tip of tongue, balancing precariously and about to fall off, but it just won't let go. It's about your diction and dialogue, there is something, something...but I disappoint myself for the words can not flow forth from my mouth, so I'm left with just to simple words. But you know what, they express my thoughts exactly.

Excellent job.

Part 11: New Gettysburg No More (1 of 3)

New Gettysburg

As the sun gave up its hold on the desert, sending the town of New Gettysburg into darkness, Williams slept in a flat, soft bed for the first time in weeks. Maggie had been generous enough to let the Roughnecks, N.C.R. soldiers and Owen to rent the beds over her bar for the night. Though he was just as exhausted as the others, Williams hadn’t been able to fall asleep. There was something lingering in the back of his mind, something he’d missed, that refused to let his mind rest.

When rest finally overtook him, his dreams were fitful. In them, he found himself at the gate to New Vegas, trying to get into the Strip. There was something vitally important for him inside the Lucky 38, and he had to get in. The securitrons wouldn’t let him pass; they told him that no one was allowed to bring pets inside casinos. When Williams looked, he could see that he was, in fact trying to ride a bright yellow Brahmin into Vegas. Before he could try to placate the robotic guards they killed the pack animal. Then, Williams raised his hands to his eyes and, to his shock and horror, found that someone had grafted some kind of steel armor to his skin. Before he could shout or scream, someone gently shook him awake.

“Hey, wake up.” Williams snapped awake, his eyes squinting in the dark, trying to find the source of the voice. “Maggie thinks she has a signal from Gallup. You up?’ Nodding, the N.C.R. soldier rolled out of his bed. Not waiting for him, James went to the next bed and shook Meyers awake. Like most soldiers in the wasteland, Williams went to bed with his boots on. He remembered some of the officers telling stories about rooky soldiers caught unaware and fending off Legion, raiders or hungry creatures in nothing but their underwear.

With Meyers awake, James led the two soldiers out of their room and toward the radio station next to the bar. As they passed another door, Charley poked his head through the crack. “What’s up boss?”

Once James had repeated the story Charley followed them to the street. Still trying to bring himself back to a state of alert readiness, Williams stopped rolled his neck. As he stood there, the door to Charley’s room opened again. This time Linton stepped through, still pulling her uniform back into place. When she saw Williams standing in the hallway looking at her, her face went beet red with embarrassment.

“Did you make a friend?” As he asked, Williams grinned broadly.

“Shut up,” Linton snapped, refusing to meet his eyes. Laughing at her discomfort, Williams grabbed his Little Gun and followed her toward the exit. Once they were outside Williams glanced at the small radio tower that sat next to a simple lean to, wondering why they were getting a signal from the other side of P.F.T. territory in the middle of the night. As he neared the building, the light feeling in his chest dissipated slightly.

The blonde woman from the bar was out and about as well. Williams tried to recall her reaction in the bar when James had mentioned the New California Republic and Waste Templar. She’d moved quickly to hide her expression, but he was sure he’d seen shock and surprise on her features. However, when the Roughneck had mentioned the Vault, Williams was sure he’d seen something more important: recognition, like she was already familiar with the subject.

“What the [censored] are you looking at?” Not realizing that he’d been staring, Williams turned to continue to the radio. As he did, the sound of static and radio whispers reached his ears. It didn’t sound to him as though Gallup was calling anyone. Instead it sounded more like they were hearing a conversation.

“… south by southwest…” As he listened, Williams felt his stomach tighten, and his heart rate climb. There was something that wasn’t right about the situation at hand. “Primary… concentrate…” Williams turned back to the woman. Her face had gone pale, her eyes as wide as dinner plates. When she saw him looking, she blinked and hid one arm behind her back. Reacting, Williams raised his weapon and put the sights right between her eyes.

“You’re a damned spy,” the N.C.R. soldier accused. As he moved closer to her, she began to move away, her arm still behind her back. The pvssyr from the radio began to increase as more half-finished words began to echo from New Gettysburg’s walls.

“No,” the woman responded, raising one hand as though to placate the soldier before her. “This isn’t what it looks like.” As she spoke she tried to move further away. As Williams followed her, his rifle still trained on her forehead, she stepped on a rock, tripped over her own two feet and fell to the ground. As the N.C.R. trooper moved to stand over her, James exited the lean-to looking at Williams like the soldier might have lost his mind.

Part 11: New Gettysburg No More (2 of 3)

Before the Roughneck could say a word, the air was suddenly alive with a heavy buzz. Williams’s blood turned to ice. Time seemed to slow and the night was suddenly as bright as day with green light. Six pairs of plasma bolts rained down from the heavens, like stars crashing to Earth, turning Loud Mouth, two howitzers and a dozen soldiers into nothing more than glowing piles of radioactive dust and vapor.

Williams was suddenly upended, sent flying through the air, as a wave of heat and pressure slammed into him, like a runaway Brahmin. As the ringing in his ears blocked out every noise save the heavy thumps that seemed to travel through his bones, the N.C.R. soldier tried desperately to roll to his feet. Something heavy was pinning his feet to the ground. Looking down, the private found a charred corpse lying on his knees.

With a gasp Williams pushed the body away, freeing himself as more explosions added to the chaos of New Gettysburg. Both of the heavy machineguns sitting atop were alight with automatic weapons fire, tracers splitting the darkness to chase the unseen Vultures. The remaining howitzers were being pushed, changing their firing radius to cover the entrance. As the high-pitched ringing changed from deafening to a steady ambiance he could hear men shouting, screaming, amid the constant of gunfire that harmonized with the crackle of fires.

Someone shoved their shoulder under his armpit, bringing the N.C.R. trooper to his feet as yet another explosion shook the ground beneath their feet. The vault door, what had seemed like an impregnable defense, only hours ago, was thrown backwards from its hinges, leaving New Gettysburg open. As Linton continued to pull Williams away from the carnage and toward the questionable safety of Maggie’s, something from some dark pit of humanity’s nightmares strode through the door.

Covered from head to foot in black steel, it stood tall enough that it was forced to bow its head to enter New Gettysburg. Its head was pointed and angular with a narrow slit that seemed to provide some semblance of vision to whomever wore the design. Every natural angle and joint was accented by a sharp spike or harsh corner, as though the creator of the power armor had focused the suit’s aesthetic qualities solely toward ensuing terror. Affixed to one arm was a massive shield, decorated with a red cross. In its other hand the monstrosity held a spear, a simple looking device, almost like the ones the Legion were fond of using. As the armored figure moved further into New Gettysburg, the device’s function became apparent. The spear point split open before unleashing a torrent of orange flames, sending a stream of light and heat into one building after another.

At last coming to his senses, Williams broke free of Linton’s grasp and dashed toward the fallen woman. Whether the blond woman had hit her head when she’d fallen or it was a result of the attack, Williams neither knew nor cared, but either way she hadn’t moved since the destruction of New Gettysburg had begun. Slipping his Little Gun over one shoulder, Williams grabbed the woman by the arms and began to drag her toward Maggie’s.

“Who the hell is this?” Linton shouted as Williams pulled the woman into the bar. He could see from the way the N.C.R. soldier’s eyes were wide and the flush in her cheeks that she was riding an adrenaline high. Linton looked like she was ready to run a mile with a Brahmin on her back if she needed to.

James and three surviving Roughnecks, Bill, Charley and a man called Liam backed into the bar along with Meyers, each man attempting to down the armored machine that was still burning the town to ashes. And as Williams saw, it was no longer alone. Two more hulking figures had moved into New Gettysburg along with half a baker’s dozen smaller figures in lighter armor. Like most of the weapons in New Gettysburg, the small arms fire from the Roughnecks glanced off the heavy duty armor, having no apparent effect on the occupant within.

Either due to luck or skill, Bill managed a direct hit on one of the smaller figures’ weapon, sending the Laser R.C.W. to the ground. The armor clad soldier turned its vision on Maggie’s before drawing a short blade and charging forward. As he pushed his rifle to his shoulder, and watched his bullets go flying off into the night with almost no effect, Williams realized that he was going to die. There was nothing he could do to stop it either. Nothing would stop this armored fiend from carving him and the others into ribbons.

And it was as he was assured of his demise that a piece of the shadows detached itself from its surroundings and fell on his attacker. Owen rolled away to stand between what Williams could only assume was a Waste Templar and Maggie’s. The Hab had a vicious snarl plastered over his features and held both his hand-axe and knife as though he could cut through steel with them. With a slight twitch of movement the knife seemed to change, several lines of orange lines running down the length of the blade.

When the armored soldier rose to his feet, Owen charged forward. With practiced ease, the Hab used his tomahawk to brush aside the blade, before twisting ramming the knife up and into the other man’s helmet. Williams didn’t know what had changed about the Hab’s blade, but it slit into the steel like it was cutting through cheese. Behind the visor there was a flash of light and the vague outline of a man’s screaming face before Owen removed the knife and let his opponent fall to the ground.

“James, we have to go,” Owen said as he entered Maggie’s and looked at the expression on James’s face. It was evident that the lieutenant had no wish to leave. Williams could see it in the man’s eyes as a cluster of P.F.T. soldiers were set alight by the hungry flames being cast by the Templar. Those soldiers dropped to their knees, their arms moving as though they were trying to wave the fires out. They were already dead, but their body continued to move before they collapsed to the ground.
“James,” Williams said evenly. “You have a new mission now. You have to get us to the right people or this is going to happen again.” When the lieutenant didn’t respond, Williams grabbed him by both shoulders and turned him away from the carnage. “There’s nothing you can do for them!” At last the Roughneck was shaken from his stupor.

“There’s a back exit,” James explained, leading the group toward the back of the bar. “It goes to the sewers, and those exit about half a mile from the town. Maggie you’re coming with us.” Glancing at the bar, Williams found the barkeeper, a hunting shotgun in hand, looking like she might go out and fight the Templar herself.

“I think I’ll stay a while longer.” From the stony expression on her face, it didn’t seem like she’d be changing her mind. James must have agreed with Williams’s assessment because he nodded to the woman and continued on. The N.C.R. private hoisted the blond woman over one shoulder and followed him, trying to ignore the shouts and screams of agony from behind him.

Part 11: New Gettysburg No More (3 of 3)

Once they had made it out of the town, emerging from the sewers into a shallow gulch, Williams laid the woman down with less grace than he probably should have afforded a possible concussion. His chest heaving, the NCR soldier risked a glance back at the doomed town. Flashes of light, plumes of fire, and the deafening thumps of explosives rang out from the town, the sounds of a horrific and bloody skirmish the likes of which made the war with the Legion seem like little more than a pillow fight. It reminded Williams of his tour against the Brotherhood of Steel, how a dozen lives could be sacrificed in an instant.

“Who’s that?” James asked, his voice dangerous. His eyes were roaming between Williams, the unconscious woman and New Gettysburg. Putting himself in the Lieutenant’s shoes, Williams could understand the other man’s frustration and outrage. The Roughneck had been forced to run away from a fight, forced to leave his men to die at the hands of the enemy. He was standing only a short walk from where an unspeakable slaughter was occurring.

“She knows something,” Williams responded. “She reacted when you talked about the Vault and she recognized the Vulture.”

“Fine, we’ll take the Pinkerton back with us to Gallup,” James said shortly. “Owen, I’m sorry but you’re on your own, you can come with us, or not, but we have to get to Gallup. We need to get the rest of Texas with us, get them organized. They need to know what happened here.”

“No,” the Hab responded, his voice as hard as nails. “This thing with the Vault will be over before you even get to Gallup, let alone when the P.F.T. has actually organized. We need to get to Hab territory, neutralize this Vault, and we’ll need her to find it.” As James and Owen argued back and forth, Williams realized that both men were right.

“We need to split up,” Williams muttered, more to himself than to the others. Yet, he had everyone’s complete and undivided attention. “Meyers, you need to go with James to Gallup. You’re the new N.C.R. envoy. Tell them they can expect help from the west.” Meyers nodded, his expression stony. “Linton, get back to McCarran, tell Colonel Hsu what’s happening out here, tell him what kind of support we need. James, can you spare anyone to go with her?” Looking at Williams as though the Californian had lost his mind, James nudged Charley who nodded.

“What about you?” Linton asked. Williams glanced at the blond woman before looking to Owen.

“You’re right. We have to get to that Vault before the Templar do.” Nodding to the Pinkerton, whatever that was, James continued, “We take her and that holo-tape somewhere where they can do some good, before the Templar can get inside Vault 37.” Owens nodded, looking at Williams with an expression of respect. “We each do our part and we stand some chance of stopping that from happening again.”

With that each group split off for their own destinations. There were no good byes, or farewells, only some looks of encouragement before they were all on their way. Linton and Charley headed south, to give New Gettysburg a wide birth before heading west to the Mojave. Meanwhile, James, Meyers, Bill and Liam departed east toward Gallup and the People’s Federation of Texas. With the Pinkerton woman over his shoulder again, Williams followed Owen north toward Hab territory.

Thanks to everyone for their support and feedback. Yttrium, that was very poetic.

Still looking good.