Snippet #2417818

The sands sizzled on under the punishing suns with scarcely a word spoken amongst them, silence and heat blanketing them as they pushed forward. A straight path, through the open desert towards the Long 15, out in the wide open. Edgar had never been of the lucky sort, but some kinda deity must have held compassion for them, as the only eyes the out-of-towners drew were those of migrating big-horners and crazed, partially sun-cooked geckos. The later of which only flared it's warning colors before scampering off into oblivion. The highway they were aiming for could be seen in the distance, the long, black snake of asphalt stretching out, trying to eat the horizon. Couldn't have been more than seven or so dunes ahead, but anyone who'd ever trekked the Mojave knew dunes had a bad habit of multiplying when you weren't looking. Of course, that was still a lot of wide-open, and the higher elevations surrounding them put everyone a little on edge.

Then they heard it, a slight crunch, the tumble of loose rocks. Random ambiance for anyone else, but Ed knew this may as well have been a "you're boned" sign lit up in neon yellow. Pivoting to alert his traveling party, he saw that they already knew. Silent hand gestures gave orders he couldn't read, as their scout vanished over an embankment. Rocks and ditches were utilized as cover, and that dead silence became suffocating. No one spoke, moved, or even breathed. These guys have been in ambushes before, which Edgar hoped was a good thing. He himself was slowly ducking out of the scene, that little angel on his shoulder scolding him for not trying to help. Logic did a fine job of swatting it off, seeing as no amount of silver tongue ass-kissing or wheel-greasing would get them out of this pinch. Better leave the gun-totting boy scouts to deal with it than just eat a lot of bullets.

A flock of carrion birds bolted up into the sky, nearly drawing the Brotherhood's fire before they realized it was nothing. Their lack of a attention was enough, though, as the black mask of a Legion recruit popped out of his hole with a rifle. Unfortunately for him, his face was excavated by a .308 round. The sniper's shot sparked the full-on firefight. Legion heads poked out of everywhere, guns flinging rounds as fast as they could. "For Elder Lyons! And The Pride!" The Brotherhood retaliated with far superior firepower, minigun and laser rifles covering the flamers approach, and before long the Legions position was being purged with hellish flames. "Haha! Light meat or dark, Captain?" The issue was not who was better equipped, it was numbers. Edgar started counting, and when he went over twenty he realized this was no patrol. They were waiting for this, they had to have been following them. Apparently some of his detours had been compromised, or maybe this was just fate punishing him for having the audacity to try and pull this stunt.

The BoS were heavily outnumbered, but they had one thing going for them in spades. The only thing .357 rounds could do to power-armor was make neat little lead pancakes. Or at least that's what Edgar first thought, till one of them took a shot right to the forehead, nearly knocking him over. While that didn't kill him, the follow-up shot to his exposed throat sure did.



Carter, the flamer with that last battle-cry, looked like he was having the time of his life. That time got cut short, as a burst of automatic fire peppered his back and punctured his tank. A jet of flame screamed from the hole, the pitch increasing as the clock ticked down. He never ran, instead charging into the enemies position. "Yeah?! Well Fuck You Too!" he yelled, as the blast caught both sides of the fight. The gatling-gun wielding Paladin sprawled out over the ground, the ammo belt to his weapon severed, rendering it useless. Another nameless Knight tried to cover him, and his reward was a well-timed frag grenade at his feet. Never had a chance. The Paladin stood amidst the smoke, helmet removed as he readied for the enemy. The gunfire stopped once the Legion saw their foe held no firearm. Both sides seemed to hold some asinine archaic ideals about melee combat, as the Legion drew sharpened blades and spears. The Paladin shed the ammo-pack from his back, gripping at the handle of his backup weapon. The technologically enhanced hammer hummed as it built up charge.

As the rabble rushed towards him, he wore only a smirk before letting the head of his hammer drop to the ground. He began charging the remnants, hammer dragging the ground, sparking over the rocks and terrain as he roared out in defiance. The first two to meet him were demolished by the kinetic burst his sledge unleashed on impact, rending limbs and liquefying innards. His hands jutted out, gripping the throat of the next-in-line, and with the enhanced strength of his armor, he hoisted and then slammed the boy into the ground with a grisly crunch. The tip of a spear pierced into his shoulder as he swung again, sending flying another Legionnaire. The edge of a machete met the softened area of his abdomen, puncturing his suit and downing him. In his last moments while falling, the Paladin brought his super sledge down on the kneecap of his attacker. Crawling over and gouging out the man's eyes with his thumbs, he looked up at the overshadowing presence of the Centurion, who'd been leading them.

"Qui est hoc qui contumax in Imperium?" uttered the leader of slaves and murderers, the hand of Caesar, through a face hidden in steel. He knelt down to meet the fiery eyes of this fallen warrior, gripping his pauldron to steady the Paladin. "Fac vos tenditis genu ut Caesar?" The Paladin's head lolled a bit from blood loss, but the hate was still in his eyes. He looked right into the face of this bastard before him, and spat as much blood as he could manage right at his eyes. The insult earned him only an execution, but such insolence, such defiance in the face of the Legion, it doubtlessly gave him pride in his own death, as the blade came down on his neck. A gruesome scene, which Edgar spied upon from his hiding place. He couldn't count more than two left, enough to sneak past. In the little war between morality and logic that waged on in his head, survival came out on top. Backing away only to hear the cocking of a carbine behind him, Edgar quickly realized that there were three left. "Uhhh, Ave True to Caesar?"

The hooded vet uttered only silence as he took aim, and just when Ed thought he might have to take desperate actions, the son-of-a-bitch's jugular was torn out by a bullet. Looks like the Legion weren't that great at counting either, the scout with the rifle was still in the game. Keeping a slow march forward, the sniper let loose another round, gut-shotting the remaining veteran. The Centurion reached for his rifle, but wasn't fast enough. A rapid succession of precise shots undid him, nailing first his arm, downing him with another to the abdomen, and then with a brief pause, perhaps to relish the look in the man's eyes, the Brother of Steel put the last round in his clip squarely through the eye-slits in the Centurion's helmet. Sliding in the fresh magazine, the scout took one last moment to scope out for survivors.



Before another word could be said, the still-flaming figure of an armored BoS came galloping over the dune from where he went boom. "Wooooo! Free shit!" he cried as he eagerly began to loot the dead. Edgar stared on, dumbstruck. "He's...... not dead?" "Yeah, this isn't the first time he got carried away, so we started adding extra plating under his tank. He's gone up five times now." "......He's still on fi-" "Yeah, give him a second...." "Hey, what smells like shiiiiioooOh My God!" And now he was running around, on fire, and Edgar's vision of these men as noble warriors and disciplined soldiers was as gone as the house cat. As the flamer doused himself with what water was left in the Aqua Pura barrels, Edgar turned to the scout in disbelief.



With smoke still rolling into the air from the miniature war zone, Edgar watched as the two walked off into the distance. He tilted his head up, staring into the sky above trying to seek answers. Excuse me, Universe? I'd like to file a complaint, this crap stopped making sense and I feel you're not taking my existence very seriously.... With that, he shuffled around for a slightly hidden spot to sit and rest a bit, finding all this random idiocy to be very tiring.