Nevada Wasteland

War... War never changes...

The bombs had come without mercy, and the nuclear fires had burned their human builders into a scrambling, sorry picture of day-to-day survival. Government had collapsed, Law and Order were only found at the end of a gun, and Justice was burried in the irradiated dirt.

Out in the wilds of the western formerly-united States, no one had bothered to waste their oridnance. Few - if any - bombs impacted here. That didnt spare civilization. What didnt go to hell in the chaos of the fallout was swallowed up by the unforgiving sands of the Mojave Desert, come to reclaim the land with new vigor.

Here's where your sorry asses come in.

You've survived however you've survived; by the luck of the New California Republic, by the grace of Ceasar's Legion, or by the pure gritty determination of the Independant. You may've done some things you're not proud of.. or maybe you're very proud of them. Maybe you're the last hope for Good out here in this shit hole. .. Maybe you're just proud of the fear you bring. Whatever your story was, is, or will be, it starts here, as the dusty sun rises on yet another frying day in the Mojave wastes in the distant shadow of Ceasar's New Vegas.

----

Tam watched them stir, from underneath the red rock that was already in the sun. Like a lizard, she pressed her back against the warming sandstone to ease the night's chill out of her shoulders in preparation for the sun's merciless beating. With her rifle balanced on her folded knees and the comfort of the deep shadow all around her, she could afford a bit of smug, self-satisfied confidence.

Her take'd been small. It had to be. If she was going to milk these suckers for all they were worth before they got wise, she couldnt afford to get greedy. A bite of Cram, a few loose caps they'd been playing Caravan with, a half-empty bottle of water. Oh! And the penny.

Grinning down at its dull shine in her fingers, she turned it over and over between them. Worthless, to anyone else. But it struck her fancy, and its little flashes made her happy. She might just hang onto that. Carefully dropping it into one of the endlessly full pockets in the worn brahmin-leather trench coat, the heat of the rock was beginning to burn through it, reminding her that it would be time to move soon.

Below, they were already breaking camp. A couple of putzes slogging through the worst parts of the Mojave in a way that screamed they werent locals. One of them was in power armor. Oh, man, to get her hands on some of that... she'd be in caps until old age. Right now, though, it just gave her another reason to avoid the hell out of them while they were awake.

She gives them a while longer, until they were mobile; reduced to specks on the trek along the ruined asphalt. It's then that Tam moves, slithering down out of the rocks and into the baking sun. Man, it was a hot one today. How the hell the big one stood to be in that armor, she'd never know. Giggling to herself, she imagines him as a mutated, living can of cooked Scram, sizzling as he mosey'd along.

That thought amuses the scavenger for several more hours as Tam skips from scrub brush to gulley to dune, always out of sight, and grateful for the firepower in front of her that spooks or kills anything wild enough to come take a look.

So far, it was a good day in the Mojave.

The winds roamed over the jagged edges of century-old ruins and a landscape painted by the sun and nuclear infernos. Whirls of dust encircled the carcasses of decrepit buildings, who fell down and died like much of anything out here. As birds of carrion fed on the bodies of the fallen, and just the same the desert itself slowly consumed the remains of everything else, grinding it away one grain at a time with merciless winds. Burying it slowly with layers of overlapping decades of dust. Dust, made from the ashes of a world burned to cinders. Across the oceans of ash, past the maws of the Earth, lay the Mojave. The winds had to be the worst of it, horrible grinding sand peeling away at your skin one layer at a time. The desert here was no better than the horrors within it, still trying to eat you alive, only much slower. Faux beauty and false hopes dot out the land here and there in the form of colorful flowers and deceitful mirages. After a while, it just feels like a lie. Like it's trying hide it's true nature. This is the world we live in now, one of our own making.

We're all scavengers now, children of a broken society and still being defiant in our existence. Perhaps there is some sort of virtuous pride in that? Not bending down to a harsh truth, the stark reality of it. We're pretty screwed..... The clank and jingle of armored boots and clattering junk formed the rhythm they marched to, trudging on through the scornful glare of the early morning sun. The cool, forgiving chill of the night before was chased away by the harsh heat. The shimmering waves danced off the surface of the Paladins' armored suits, as the pack brahmin groaned in complaint at the heat. They marched through the night, not trusting of this unfamiliar territory. The black-visored gaze of their spotter scanned out over the horrizen, tapping the shoulder plate of his brother-in-arms. "Would you look at that sunrise.... Looks like the world's burning." The flamer stared at this sight, unflinching as his friend moved on.

"Uhh, you coming?"

"Shhh, your ruining the moment........ World burning..."

"I, uhhh, I think you've been out here a little too long...."

Cutting through the chatter like a knife, their squad commander marched up to their guide, an angry growl burning in his throat. "We haven't seen civilization in four days, we marched from sun up to sun down till the cycle repeated, only to be led by the nose around mountains and through canyons to nowhere, and we've been attacked by these 'Jackals' thrice already. At what point, Mutant, are you going to start playing the role we hired you for? Where are our Brothers? Where are we, for that matter?" The Paladin's voiced was aimed like a rifle at the large, robed figure leading them. Recommended as the only person that could take these "tourists" through the Mojave without having the Vegas Empire breathing down their necks. Edgar,wrapped in layers of canvas, burlap, and leather, the hunched-over misshapen being sighed in annoyance. This man had been drilling him with a spiteful glare since he was hired. Clearly a bigot, and ungrateful as well. Edgar knew this conversation had been brewing for days now.

"I do apologize, my dear sir, but I fear you have mistaken your information. You hired me as your guide through the Mojave. No more. And the reason you hired me was for one simple fact, no one else would even risk trying to get you through without the Legion's notice. Without my detours, we would all be crucified before noon. I charged you not one extra cap for this, so I believe gratitude is not much to ask. Oh, and I do believe that I did inform you of this before I was paid; I do not know of this 'Brotherhood of Steel'. I'm a guide, not a pip-boy." The mound of patchwork spoke in a surprisingly smooth voice, with odd hints of a reverberating hollowness to it. Unwilling to look face-to-face without the sun well behind him, Edgar kept his exact nature hidden this way for years. Even going so far as to not stand straight, always crouching down at around 6'5". Not human-looking, but enough.

The Star Paladin stood straight and powerfully, hoisting his Rockwell CZ53 threateningly in front of him. "This is why we shouldn't trust you damnable mutations. We are the fighting force of the Lyons Doctrine, the protectors of the Capitol Wastes. If these heathens, this 'Legion' wish to test our strength, then let them come and know our Steel. And our lead." Revving the barrels of his weapon at that last remark for emphasis, before his pauldron was gripped tightly by their scout. "Brother, we are not here to start wars. We are here to seek aid in ending our own. I've seen the patrols we've avoided, the guide as earned his pay." The fiery one did not like hearing that, batting away the hand of his ally with a bitter growl. "No more detours. We march straight. Straight through the desert to the nearest settlement. One of these damned locals has to know something. And we leave the guide behind as well, I'll take answers from the local wildlife before I hear another word from the mouth of this abomination...."

The disgruntled soldier marched away to urge the others to press on with greater haste, as the scout partook in Edgar's company. "Our brother..... he lost his family to the Super Mutants of the East Coast. Saw them torn from his own grasp. This hate is still hot within his heart, so I am sorry for his ways. You should have seen the day when Star Paladin Fawkes' was initiated." Edgar nodded in understanding. Such a thing would leave scars on any soul, how could one be blamed? Still, a short temper and a big gun could be the end of this little caravan. "See if you could perhaps convince your fearless leader to at least let me take you there. If he wants a straight line, so be it, but please..... try to keep the fingers off the triggers. I'd like to not have the dunes come alive with gunfire and explosions today, if that's all the same to you...."

Connor laid down his hand, an impressive flush. Under his helmet was a stupid grin at the unveiling of his hand, with a glimmer of confidence seeming to just shrine through. John looked impressed for a second, but then his expression morphed into that of of a scowl.


John then lays down his hand. A royal flush. His face once again morphs from that scowl to a charming grin. Victory was radiating from John's core. He had won his caps both from a better hand, and because his opponent was cheating. His arms came around the table and scooped the caps back towards him.



Perhaps John spoke too fast for fate's liking, or maybe it was just because he was an unlucky son of a bitch, but as soon as he finished bringing the caps to his end of the table, one of the back legs of his wooden chair snapped and sent him on his back.



Conner's head snapped to John's right arm, and a cold stare ensued.



John rolled his head over to his right side so he could see what Conner was referring to. There were some cards spilling out of his sleeve.



John began to stand up and dust himself off, placing all the cards back into the deck.



The two began to clean up their area and just take back their starting caps. The sun was high in the sky and cooked everything under it's bright rays. The area the two exiles had settled on was a small mechanic's shop, abandoned long ago. The garage door was left open to allow the rare but much appreciated breeze to sweep in and cool John down a little. Tools littered the ground, most of them so rusted they might just snap in two when picking them up. The small metal table that had been used for the poker game resided in the dead center of the room. A fine layer of dust coated everything, most likely radioactive as well, but what wasn't.

John put that deck of cards back on his belt. He took out the playboy magazine page and looked it over once for good measure. It was a beautiful young woman, wearing a few bits of cloth that resembled a maid outfit somehow was called clothing. Damn it'd be nice to have her here right now. Conner glanced over to the magazine page in John's hand and under the helmet was rolling his eyes.



John just put his hands up in a shrug and smirked. He put the page back onto his belt and felt around for something else. When he didn't find what he wanted at first, he looked up at Conner.



John continued to accuse Conner as Conner checked his own pack just to show John what a prick he was being. It was while looking through his pack that he noticed that he was missing some caps. He then turned his head to John.



John and Conner continued yelling at each other aimlessly, with neither side able to hear the other over their own yelling. Fingers were being pointed, fists raised in the air, and arms flailing around in order to make their argument. But one thing did come to shut them up, and that was when they both happened to look over to the small desk in the corner of the room where they left their food. There was a serving of cram they had left on a plate that they planned on eating after the poker game, with both of them taking half. But there was a bite already taken out of it. John and Conner both snapped their heads back to each other in that instant.

"You son of a bitch!" "You son of a bitch!"

There was a long and drawn out silence. Neither one of them took the slightest movement. It seemed like radioactive dust was forming on them because of how still and long that moment was. The sound of gunfire could be heard in the far off distance, but that was something that was completely normal in the wastes. It was John who took the first action to break the silence, throwing his hands up into the air quickly in the "fuck this shit" manner.



And with that, the two packed up the little they had and were back on the road. The Long 15. The road lived up to its name for sure, as it was a long trek. There wasn't much to do on the road other than walk. Not many animals could be seen, and there were practically no buildings to take shelter in or scavenge from. The sun beat down on the duo, mainly John, and baked everything. The heat waves in the distance could make one nauseous after staring at them for too long, and mirages would often appear off in the horizon. The occasional Gecko attack would occur or the rare raider attack, but those were short lived and easily handled by the power armored tank and the agile quick shooter. The two of them however, could not shake the feeling that someone, or something, was watching them. They would never spot anything to confirm this though, at all, and so they just blamed their imagination.

Their route consisted of following the road until they came across the right turn towards Nipton. From there they planned to just head up to New Vegas and see what they could fuck up over there. The silence that John demanded lasted for a good long while, the tensions not lowering for one second. They hadn't spoken for days. And each day, they found something was missing. Nothing big, of course, but small things that got really annoying. Each time John would just clench his jaw and continue the vow of silence, to which Conner upheld as well, or at least for a while. Conner was, indeed, the one to end the piercing silence and break out into song on their walk.





The silence was once again present. It persisted for maybe a single, painful moment.



John then opened his mouth once more, his voice very loud and controlling.



"The food is the spreadiest" "The wine is the headiest
"The pals are the readiest" "The gals are the steadiest
"The love the liveliest" "The life the loveliest
"Way back, way back" "Way back, home

". . . . Shit." Said Meagan Standing over a half dead Legionary. She was Shocked.

"Shut up Meg, he's gonna die anyway so lets shoot him and steal his stuff!" Said Yuri

"You think i'm talkin' about this guy? No! He has my old mail! damned Legionaries stealin' shit that ain't theres. . " Meagan then shot the Legionary and took back the mail. Yuri took the Ammo and guns, placing them in a large Rucksack with pockets. After that had a moment to gaze at the Vast, Empty, Un wanted Wasteland. New reno can be seen way out in the Distance. New Vegas right to the side of them. Novac, Goodsprings, Yuri's Broken gun, and other towns or things lay Scattered out in this Rash of a home. Deathclaws, Brahmin, Geckos, Bloat flies, Giant Ants, NCR, Legion, Khan, Powder gangers, Enclave, Super Mutants, Ghouls, RobCo, Settlers, Wasters, and the Dead, Raped, Dying, and alive are here to stay, and That will Never change Life in the Wasteland. Even if one Group leaves, then a new one takes it's place. So, Yuri and Meagan became Merchants, well, Idiot Merchants. But still, they may just live in this Hell.

"Well, Lets go to the Bar." Said Yuri as he started walking. Meagan followed.

It had been an unusually quiet day at the Followers of the Apocalypse clinic in New Reno, and Ben Powell was bored. He sat at a rusted metal desk at the rear of the clinic, balancing on the back two legs of his chair as he leaned back, puffing a cigarette while reading from a tattered book. Its pages were worn, and the words were faded, but Ben’s fingers clutched at it as if it were the most precious object in the world.

He murmured a line aloud. “Continual fear and danger of violent death…”

“What was that, Doctor Powell?”

It was that young, redheaded nurse, the new one fresh from training in the Confederacy. She poked her head into the room, sighing as she did.

“Doctor Powell, we’ve talked about this before. You can’t smoke inside the clinic. It’s bad for the patients.”

Ben glanced up at her, dog-eared his book, and placed it gently on the table. He rose, took a long draw from his cigarette, and stomped his foot loudly. The redheaded nurse took a half step back as Ben raised his boot, displaying the flattened remains of a cockroach. He exhaled.

“What’s bad for the patients is these suckers. They’re what’s bringing in infection. This…”

He took another draw from his cigarette.

“Won’t kill them for a few dozen years. And I think we both know they ain’t got that long, anyway. You Followers got all these goddamn books, you’d think you’d have read one of the medical textbooks by now.”

The nurse was clearly taken aback, her face contorting in shock at the sheer lack of tact in his response. She pointed a finger at him and opened her mouth to reply, but a sudden clamor at the front of the clinic cut their exchange short. They paused, traded a serious glance, and bolted for the front door.

The source of the commotion was a clean-shaven man who was noteworthy for three reasons: he was incredibly well-dressed, remarkably obese, and had his hands clutched around a wound in his stomach (or was it his chest? The man’s rotundity made it almost impossible to tell where one ended and the other began). He was screaming in agony as a handful of orderlies struggled to roll him onto one of the surgical beds.

“Oh, fuck! Oh, fuck me! Son of a bitch shot me! I’m dying! Help me, fuck, I’ve got a shitload of money, fuck, I’ll pay you, just fucking save me, please, dear God…”

Ben gently pushed his way through the orderlies, who had by then peeled away the clothing on the man’s chest to reveal an unusually large and bloody bullet wound. The redheaded nurse recoiled.

“Oh…oh my god. Oh my god, somebody do something! I…I can’t, I don’t know what to do, I can’t, I just --”

Ben reached across the bed and grabbed her wrist, momentarily removing the cigarette from his lips as he locked eyes with her. His voice was calm, the usual gruffness gone and replaced with a soft, almost fatherly tone.

“Take a deep breath, now. You can do this, Red. I just need you to put some pressure on the wound to slow down the blood flow. This is what you’ve trained for, kid. You can handle it.”

The redheaded nurse, still wide-eyed, nodded slowly, snatched up some gauze, and placed it on the wound. The gruffness returned to Ben’s voice, and he took another long draw from his cigarette.

“Good. Now hold it there. Somebody get me a pair of pliers or something else I can pull this bullet out with. And a scalpel. Douse ‘em both in alcohol, I don’t want this fat sack of shit getting an infection.”

One of the orderlies ran off, returning quickly with the required instruments. The fat man, who had been carrying on loudly the entire time, twisted his face in fear.

“A scalpel? What’s that for? Goddamnit, just pull the bullet out!”

This was the last straw for Ben. His words came softly, but with a sharpness and intensity that would have put the fear of God into a hardened Legionnaire.

“Goddamnit, you fat fuck, why don’t you just shut your goddamn mouth? Whoever shot you used a hollow point bullet, so unless you want me to save you some time, exercise, and diet and rip a few pounds of flesh from your fat fucking gut, I’m going to have to cut away some of the tissue. So why don’t you shut the fuck up and rest easy knowing that whoever paid to put a hit on your rich ass hired an idiot who thought that one shot to the gut would be enough for a guy whose got a layer of fat thick enough to qualify as a goddamn bullet proof vest.”

The room fell completely silent, and after a moment there was a light “clink.” Unbeknownst to the fat man, Ben had spent half of his verbal onslaught removing the slug from the man with uncanny precision.

“There. You’re done,” he turned to one of the older nurses and gestured to the redheaded nurse. “Hey, teach the kid here how to stitch somebody up. The wound should be fine, whoever came gunning for our Brahmin baron friend here was shit for shooting.”

The fat man gave an inquisitive look and muttered, “How did you --”

“I know your type. Might as well be wearing a goddamn sign over your head.”

Ben strolled back to the rear room, propped himself up in his chair, and took one last draw from his now nearly-extinguished cigarette. He reached for his book as he flicked the butt of the cigarette into a trash bin. He muttered to himself as he opened it.

“The life of man…nasty, brutish and short. Well, I’ll be damned, how appropriate. Not bad for the guy with the tiger and kid cartoons.”

God damn, but was that sun hot. Wiping at her brow underneath the brim of a floppy hat well passed its prime, Tam wasn't surprised that she came away with just more dirt on her glove. Sweat didn't stick around long in this oppressive heat. She hated traveling in the height of day. Everything could see you, the wind scoured you raw like sandpaper doused in turpentine, and to add insult to injury; the sun did its damnedest to cook you alive. But her marks were moving, so she did, too.

With any luck, the drain of slogging through sand and semi-melting asphalt would have them making camp soon. Please let them make camp soon, she thought silently. Not that she thought anything up there was listening. Except maybe that bastard Sun, because she swore the temperature managed to climb a degree or two just then...

Knocking back the last of the water she'd picked up while John and Connor were snoring, blissfully unawares of their nightly troublemaker, Tam sighed and tucked the empty bottle into a pocket of her backpack, and moved out of the questionable shelter of the prickly yucca palm. Was that singing? Nah. Couldn't be. Damn desert wind was making her hear things again. Like that time with the Nuka-cola jingle...

"Oooh, that burst of energy's atomic! Ya gotta want to want it! - NO! DAMMIT, fuck you, not again!"

Tam beats her palms against the dusty hat like a physical assault could chase the tune out. By the time she finishes suitably throttling her rebellious brain, John and Connor have gotten ahead of her again. Tam scrambles down the frying rock face and into the hills to catch up.

By her reckoning, they were getting somewhere close to Nipton. Not close enough to make it today, but close. And better to be near those ruins than the Legion. Yeah, that was a good idea, actually. Tonight would be 'The Big One'. The night she cleared these two poor suckers out for everything she could carry and ran like hell for the settlement. A little "Welcome to the Mojave" present for the pair. Maybe they'd learn to mount a watch, or sleep lighter, or put out some mines. She'd be doing them a favor, teaching them this lesson! Might even save their lives! She was a goddamn saint, risking her life to instruct new wastelanders in the finer points of keeping their heads. They should =thank= her, is what they should be doing.

"Ungrateful bastards.." She grumbles dejectedly before pulling a sticker out of her arm and ducking between an outcropping and a burned-out car on the sizzling road.

"Least you could do is walk in the shade for a bit... not that there's any shade, but you could find some. Iunno."

Waiting until Connor and John are once more at a safe distance, right around the time she swears she smells smoke, she's been in the sun so long, Tam crosses the road in a low, fast motion into better cover behind a crumbling highway divider.

How about a song for the road? comes that niggling, bastard little thought, despite all her efforts to the contrary... Oh that burst of energy's atomic...

"Oh my dear sweet dead God I hope you die in a fire."

It was an average day in New Reno, well, as average as it could be for a nine and a half Super-Mutant being held at gunpoint by some grunt gangster boys in a run down, decrepit office building in a shit-hole outskirt corner of the city. The sound of mutated crickets chirping in the distance and the skitter of radroach legs moving away from activity.

However, it wasn't meant to stay quite nor was this a peaceful negation. Earlier that very day, the mutant had gotten into a fight in front of a gun-store owned by the boss of the little runts who now stood in front of him, the main reason they were here, was to collect a debt for repairs after someone was tossed through the window for not allowing a Mutant in to browse their wears, well and maybe debt for a medical bill too.

"So... A fucking Mutie thinks he can toss our boss 'round and get off scott free, Butch."

"Bitch has another thing coming then, don't he Miguel. Rico! Get your piece out in case this gets bloody!"

"Shut the fuck up, Butch."

"Rico sort that shit out later, we got business to handle here. So, one more warning ugly, ya got the caps to pay up, or are we gonna have to take it out your giant mutated ass?" The thug Butch, stood in the back of the group, warily eying the mutant as he carefully and slowly loaded slugs into the Lever-Action shotgun in his hands for emphasis on his point of business.
In front of him stood two more thugs, Rico and Miguel or atleast, that's what they called each other. Miguel was the biggest of the three and the closest to Dex, brandishing a sledge hammer and clad in scrap metal armor. Rico stood to the left of him, a rusty .32 revolver in hand wearing your typical leather jacket punk outfit like Butch.

"Stupid humans, we told you to leave." Dex responded, underneath the goggles his eyes were traveling between the three who, assumed that in a group, they were able to bully anyone. Underneath his skull the others in his head seemed to chat away, urging various points of advice. A scowl crossed his scarred face before he suddenly barked out, "Grahhhaa! Lex! Kex! Rax! Shut up! Shut up now! They're listening to us!

Rico was backing up after the outburst, looking toward Butch. "Eyyyyy, Boss, I think we should you know scadattle, this cat is crazy."

"Notta change Ric, Boss's orders. Miguel! Break his knees!"

"Yippycayay!"

In a flash the heavier thug rushed forward, hammer going right at those knees with a metallic crack the tool smashed down on its mark, Miguel grinning like a shit-faced badger expecting the Mutant to drop. It was indeed a heavy blow but the hub-cap on his knee took the brunt then there was the skin and muscle of a Mutant under it, it'd just bruise.

A precious few seconds passed before Miguel looked up at his foe, his grin vanishing and being replaced a grimace of pain and pressure as Dex brought a heavy blow to the Human's gut and with the aid of his own metal plated knuckles dented his attacker's metal armor. "Oh fuck!" Were the last words out of his mouth, before Dex back-handed him in the left shoulder hard sending him toppling to hold his stomach and vomit from the previous blow.

At this point Rico had dropped his gun and darted out the building, screaming like a dying hooker being chased by a mad brahmin, leaving his high-up (and better armed) friend to deal with Dex alone. "Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit, fuck you, fuck you Rico!" Butch yelled as he lifted his gun, two loud bangs responded as Butch discharged two shotgun slugs into the Mutant.

Blood soon painted the wall behind Dex's shoulder as the first of the two shots nailed him right where he was unarmored, the buck shot tearing into the muscle and flesh of his right shoulder the second slamming into his chest being partially deflected by the make-shift armor there. "Go to hell, Human!" Dex roared as he lunged, smashing his massive fist into the man's face. There was a crunching noise and then a snapping noise as Butch hit the ground and twitched. "Oops..."

Dex stopped and took his breath, pain flaring through his body as he slow regained his breath, eyes twitching under his goggles as he ran one of his hands through his own bloodies shoulder. "Get help, you fucking moron!" Lex shoyed in his head, nodding the large creature blundered his way outside before walking onto the street. The round lead shot had actually severed a artery, causing him to stagger, in his head he could hear Rax screaming and trying to take control, fending the other off for now as Kex cried. "Shut up, shut up, shut up..." Dex murmured the entire time.

However, luck was on his side, within ten minutes he spotted a sign and even better yet a certain symbol. The New Reno Followers of the Apocalypse clinic. For the most part, people would get out of the way of a Super-Mutant limping through the streets, only staring and watching as he made his way to the door.

Dex basically smashed his way through the door, clutching his bleeding shoulder as he shouted out at the top of his massive lungs. "I need medical attention, fucking humans!" Stepping on and breaking a chair in the waiting room as people inside pressed themselves to walls as he beat his fist on the luckily sturdy desk. "Now!"

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.

As night fell and the stars began to shine through the cloudy air with that peculiar orange tinge (Not at all how Frost had read they were supposed to be.) the Ranger climbed down from his perch high on the cliffs overlooking the Colorado. There, nestled in the shade and cover of large tumbled boulders he had rested away much of the daylight hours in relative ease, but now it was time to return to his trek.
"Today, next town..." He mumbled to himself, scrutinizing his map as he drew a line from his finger up towards Vegas, "Novac..." He could probably reach the ridge line just east of the place in a few hours, should be no problem skirting the Legion outposts in-between in the dark, he would see any patrols before they saw him. He always did.

Hefting his rucksack, he followed the trail down to the river side and refilled his canteen. He gave his face a quick splash, sighing with satisfaction at the cool touch of the water before standing. Pulling a bandana around his neck up across his mouth, he slipped on his helmet, blinking rapidly to adjust his eyes to the night vision settings of the equipment. Rucksack on and AMR in hand he set out, scrambling up the ridge towards Highway 93. At the top he gave a long look in all directions, picking out the shifting glow of Legion campfires against the stony canyon walls at Cottonwood Cove. His interest piqued, he raised the AMR to his eye, taking a look through the scope at the distant encampment. He could see very little, only a few small shapes moving around. The chances of him hitting anyone were preposterously low.
With a sigh he shouldered the gun and began sliding down the steep slope, from there he would hit the highway and head towards Novac to try and find something useful to do.

Lorcan Bás Connolly

Holding his hand up, Lorcan admired the suns rays as its light past through the cracks between his fingers. In his other hand was a freshly opened bottle of whiskey, a gift from a recently-made friend. "As I look upon the world, I find my sanity slowly drifting like dust simply frolicking in the wind." Lorcan stood up from his chair and took a large swig of his whiskey. "Oi, that was pretty good. What do you think?" He turned his head, looking to the wall behind him. "Oi? I'm talking to you." Taking another drink, Lorcan put the whiskey bottle down on the ground. Lorcan sighed and walked around the wall. "What, you don't want to talk anymore? You all were so keen on it when you made me stop earlier." Behind the wall were three Legionnaires, all buried up to their necks in the Mojave sand. Lorcan walked over to the one in the center, crouching in front of him. "Do you feel like talking? I understand you guys aren't real big on trusting outsiders. But, I mean, you're going to have to trust me eventually." Lorcan stood up and started pacing in front of the three. "I can't believe how you treat me after everything I've done for you already. I mean, if it weren't for me, your friend would have to visit the clinic to get that tooth pulled." Lorcan walked over the the Legionnaire on the right, bending down and grabbing his head. He ran his right hand index finger along the man's chin before forcing open the man's mouth to reveal a bloody mess, all his teeth missing and his gums a deep purple, likely due to a major loss of blood. "Granted, it did not go as smoothly as I thought it would, but I was under a severe amount of pressure. I mean he just kept struggling and my hand just couldn't stay steady... probably from all the alcohol." Lorcan stood back up and walked over to the center Legionnaire. "I guess I'll stay here for awhile. When you're ready to talk I'm ready to listen." In the blink of an eye, Lorcan removed his Sequoia and shot the right Legionnaire in the temple with pinpoint accuracy, despite not turning his head to aim. The Sequoia was a powerful revolver, normally used with two hands by most. Even with this, Lorcan fired the gun one-handed and revealed little to no reaction to the recoil, his arm staying steady.

"Monster." Lorcan turned his head to the Legionnaire on the left, who up until this point had been mostly ignored by Lorcan. Letting out a loud sigh, Lorcan walked over to the man and grabbed him by the hair, tilting his head back. "No. Not a monster. Want to know something? See, for the most part, the NCR doesn't know how to fight the Legion. See, to catch a living Legionnaire isn't difficult, you just have to know how to do it. Knock them unconscious, keep them from going the way of the blade and killing themselves. You see, I've noticed something. Due to the fact you are expected to kill yourselves before getting captured, the level of torture you can endure has never been truly explored. I'll be right back." Lorcan disappeared around the corner, kicking up dirt into their faces as he did so. He came back not even a minute later. "Where was I? Oh yeah, for the most part the NCR does not allow torture. That's why people like me exist. I say people, person. That's why I exist. To do what needs to be done, so the bear can continue to eat." Lorcan grabbed the Legionnaire by the hair once again and removed a pair of binoculars from inside his coat. Holding them up to the Legionnaire's eyes, he directed his sight directly to the sun. The Legionnaire screamed out in pain.

Lorcan continued this for precisely five minutes. "Three... two... one. And we have a new form of torture! Congratulations, tell them what he has won. Blindness. You will never regain sight. Your strongest sense has left you forever." Lorcan stood up, the Legionnaire passing out from the pain and shock. He walked over to the other one, who was noticeably shaking despite most of his body being unusable. "Alright, the next contestant is up to play! Let's hope he can do better than the last one." The Legionnaire begged Lorcan, finally agreeing to tell him whatever he wanted to know. After a few questions Lorcan grabbed the man's throat. "Come on! I told you what you wanted to know!" Lorcan smiled and patted the man on the head with his other hand. "Did you really think I give a shit about patrol routes? Damn, kid, you're dumber than I thought you'd be. This isn't about information. This is about sending a message." Lorcan removed a small blade from his back pocket, a butterfly knife that he flipped open. "No one likes a rat, Legionnaire. I removed his speech. Speak no evil. I removed his sight. See no evil. All that's left is Hear no evil." The Legionnaire screamed, Lorcan not even bothering to hide the noise.

The blind Legionnaire awoke, finding himself free of his hole. "Sanus, are you okay? Sanus?!" Using his hands to find his way around, he crawled on the ground, patting the ground in front of him. He eventually hit something hard, but furry, like someone's hair. "Sanus? Answer me!" Moving his hands around, he found Sanus' head to be completely covered in a thick liquid, realizing immediately the only thing that it could be. Standing up, Sanus put his hands out in front of him. The heat from the sun was similar to how it was before he past out, so he knew he couldn't have been out for long. Taking small steps, the Legionnaire ventured out into the waste, hoping that a patrol would find him in his drifting.

The Mojave was a very bipolar environment, just like any desert really. Days were excruciatingly hot, and the nights were blisteringly cold. Add, say, 250 years of radioactive post-apocalypse, and it gets worse. Much worse. The lucky few who had power armor were much better off, having a built in temperature and humidity regulator. For the other poor bastards, the night was like winter. The wind had a strong sting to it, and the dirt and sand being thrown around by the wind could easily cut one open. If an unfortunate wanderer found himself out in the middle of the Mojave at night, the only hope he had was to bury himself in the sand for the warmth it absorbed during the day. Then the last thing he could do was pray that something doesn't eat his sorry ass.

The sight of Nipton was one that was very reminiscent of being practically anywhere in America; it was mainly black and looked like it would topple over at any second. The legion had razed it long ago, and it had been left as an example of "The Great Caesar's" power. Legion flags dotted the area. Crosses with men and women mounted to them lined the road into the city. This place had been turned into a graveyard, where enemies of the legion would be crucified to send a message, the same message the ruins itself hammered. The wind itself was visible, leaving an even more sinister aura. Whether it was the eroding ashes being carried away from the ruins, the razor sharp pebbles and debris, or the very tragedy and despair that seemed to radiate from the ruins was up for debate. Or, perhaps, it was a little of all three.

And, speaking of earlier sorry asses, John and Conner had just made their way up the road to Nipton, surrounded on both side by crucified skeletons in the middle of the night. John was indeed one of the poor souls without power armor, so needless to say he was a little chilly. Conner, on the other hand, was bright eyed and bushy tailed, singing his god damn tunes with no shame. Even with the seemingly never serious attitude the two exiles had, the sight of all the dead was enough to silence the two in a long trek of respect. There was a strong variety among the dead. There were many NCR soldiers hanging on the crosses, their uniforms torn and swaying greatly to do the amount of slack that was once held tight by flesh. Raiders seemed to make up another of the higher populations of the dead. On a rare cross one could see a Desert Ranger, and one corpse sported what could only be broken down enclave armor. At one cross in particular, John stopped. He got down on one knee, and his shivering ceased. In front of him hung a body that couldn't have been more than 4 feet tall, donning what once could have been a nice yellow dress. Bits of decaying flesh still dotted the corpse, and traces of hair were still able to be found on the head. At the base of the cross was teddy bear, laying on its side as if it had been dropped. It was covered in dirt, and required a little bit of digging to actually get it out. Stuffing was coming out from different holes the toy had received among the years. Old blood stains coated the bear, and attached to its ear was a tag that could be opened. The tag read: "This is the best friend of:


John clenched onto the bear, forcing out some stuffing that was taken away by the wind. John concluded from the clothing that the bodies adjacent to this one were the child's parents. The assumed father's chest still held a throwing spear that went right through the rib cage. Conner took a few steps over towards John.



Conner didn't respond with anything but a hand on John's shoulder. It was unusual for John to take to this mood, and the duo had seen some pretty gruesome and dreadful things before. John took a few moments of silence before carefully sliding the bear under his belt and continuing on the path. They weren't too far from reaching the town at this point, but one last stop from John delayed their arrival even further. Once again it was at a crucified body, but this time John reached his hand up to grab something after quick examination. He snapped off a dog tag from the corpse, accidentally taking the head off with it. The skull fell at his feet, and even it was almost carried off by the wind. The dog tag was of the BOS, something he had not seen in a long time. The person's name was Veronica Santangelo, of the Mojave Chapter. John put the dog tag in his pouch, in case he ever did come across a member.

Upon entering the town, the scene was not much better. Crosses lined the street up to the remains of the town hall, and piles of bodies remained at the base of the stairs. The town had been looted beyond its usefulness, and nothing that could ever be useful remained in the town. John and Conner decided to take refuge in the town hall, hoping to call it a night. They set up on the base floor and Conner went into his pack to grab some food they saved up, only to find that it had already been opened. His head snapped to John, and John looked to what was in his hand. Conner inhaled to prepare to yell at John, but John intercepted.



John stopped at the sudden sound of a quick creek. We're being watched. He vaulted over Conner's head and from behind started to try and push Conner, which was a good attempt, except for the fact that Conner wasn't moving at all. To change this little problem, John quickly drew his knife and very carefully...stabbed Conner right in the right ass cheek. The quick jump of pain and surprise from Conner was enough for John to guide him into the nearest room and shut the door. John turned back to face Conner and found that they were very close together...in a small room...a small bathroom. Conner was staring at John, unamused.



On that last note, John opened the door and nonchalantly walked back over to where they had set up. God dammit he took the pinyon nuts! And so with 1 less serving of pinyon nuts, the two exiles put their little trap into effect...

Nipton was just one of THOSE places, you know? The places that hadn't ever really been anything special until they just up and became a living embodiment of Hell clawing its way onto the surface. It stank, it smoked, the crows circled, and - when she'd first scurried into its shadows - the sights of Legion Justice had been enough to turn even her carrion-hardened stomach. She'd resolved anew to avoid the ever-living HELL out of the Legion and their particular notions. As messages go, the skeleton of Nipton against the Mojave sky was pretty goddamn effective.

Patrols had continued to use the place to doll out particularly greusome examples of their authority, and Tam occasionally passed by close enough to see if there was anything useful still hanging from the dead. More than once, in a rare show of Mojave mercy, she'd spent a bullet on the poor bastards still twisting on the crosses. Plenty of ways to die out in the wastes, but she wasnt at all fond of that one.

And then these crazy bastards she was following pass through. With the light low, and their dirty shadow hiding behind a collapsing general store, they even go inside the Town Hall and dont come out.

"They're making CAMP here?!" The thought is so ludicrous that she questions it out loud, looking over her shoulder as if to share that bemusement with someone. There's no one there, of course, but that doesnt stop her from focusing on empty air to share the moment.

'"Congratulations, boys, you've just been upgraded from loopy to batshit crazy."

Shaking her head in disbelief, Tam circles the building. It was comming apart at the seems, by this point, but maybe they figured it would keep the coyotes off.

'Rather the 'yotes than a Legion patrol, but hey. Maybe where you're from you like to make it easy.'

Tam finds a broken window on the first floor, and slinks over the sill and into the building head-first. As soon as her boot shifts her weight onto the dry-rotting floorboards, she feels more than hears the low, short noise that eeks out. The voices in the distance stop for a moment, before there's a shuffling movement and the sound of a door closing.

Tam doesnt move - doesnt breathe - for several very long moments. Nothing comes looking, and there arent any noises that would indicate an agressive search. She stays still even longer. Had she been made, or would they dismiss it as an old building about ready to fall in on itself?

Sliding to a hall corner, she can hear the voices again, muffled. Behind a door. Which one? That one. With the bathroom icon. ... Well, who was she to judge? Love was where you found it, I guess. Good for them.

Suppressing a snicker, Tam withdraws back into the depths of the building. Better she didnt take anything just yet and really betray her presence. Picking her way across a section of floor that looked ready to give even under -her- stick-twig weight, Tam finds a good spot in the darkness underneath a tilted filing cabinet.

Yep. Much better she didnt take anything. Leave them guessing until tonight. Unconsiously, her hand drifts up to her mouth to pop in a newly-found pinyon nut to munch on while she waits.

==== And now for something completely different ====

Not really. I lied. So sue me.

It's hours and hours before Tam really moves again. Curled up in her dark corner, she only occasionally extends a leg or arm to keep the blood flowing. When it's good and cold, when the night was in its deadest hours and even the coyotes were ducking the wind that hissed and rattled outside, when even Tam was tempted to call the whole thing off and just go to sleep. That's when she stirs.

Torso first; to hear and see while she rolled her shoulders and checked her pistol. Then her legs; rocked back and forth until she was sure they'd move without popping in protest.

Mincing across the boards - aware now of their noise and shifting her weight to prevent a creek - Tam takes almost a half hour to get across the building to Connor and John's camp. A thin, tattered little ghost, Tam grins stupidly at their supposedly sleeping forms. Seeing it - if John or Connor managed to actually stay awake - they might think the thief was fully aware of their game and just chose to keep playing it.

Her free hand - the right was occupied by a hefty-looking pistol - flicks out. In a flash, the cram is off the plate and in her mouth. Without pausing, she plucks up a magazine intended for one of their weapons. Doesnt even look at it, it just disappears silently into her coat. No picking around tonight; she was going for the big haul. Anything they'd left out gets pawed over and probably picked up. Even random things, like a plate or fork. Even an empty Dandy Boy wrapper.

Still quiet as a bad dream, Tam's breezed into the center of the camp, now, and her sticky fingers reach out towards John's own precious Baby....

Apollo

Apollo awoke in the abandoned house, cringing from the pain in his lower right abdomen. He had arrived in the Mojave a few days ago, but rather than looking for his target he has had to treat his injuries from the travel. He held his side, realizing the shoddy stitch work he had performed hadn't lasted. Feeling around his body, he realized several of his wounds had opened up again, including the ones on his shoulder, his leg, and his neck. The wounds were a few days old, so very little blood was escaping him, but it still hurt like hell none the less. Apollo rummaged through his bag, trying to find the supplies he had picked up in Primm. "Damn that guy," Apollo thought to himself. He was positive had he not run into that Stranger he would have traversed the road just fine or would have escaped with minimal damage. Instead he is now low on ammo and spent most of his caps on medical supplies. But, he did what he had to do considering once he emerged from the wreckage he past out from exhaustion and blood loss. Had a caravan not spotted him from the road, he most likely would not be alive right now. Apollo finally found what he was looking for. He removed a shot of Med-X from his backpack and stuck it into one of the veins on his arm. It only took a few seconds to kick in, as the pain in his body disappeared. "Alright... I guess I should redo these stitches."

Apollo had spent little time salvaging anything from the house as he nearly collapsed when he first entered the place. Searching cabinets, dressers, under the tattered rugs, anywhere that could hold something of value. Walking into the next room, Apollo spotted a safe, old world by the look of it. He walked over to it, bending down and running his hand along the door. It had yet to be open, but this fact surprised Apollo. Rather than its old owners, it was likely used by whoever lived in this house last. There was Wasteland odds and ends in the house, meaning someone was using it prior to Apollo. Too bad, Apollo wasn't much of a safe cracker. He would normally just strategically place a frag, blow it up, and call it a day with whatever survived the explosion. But, due to his lack of funds and ammo, he thought whatever was in it wasn't worth any of the contents on him. Deciding to come back for it later after he had made a little caps, he grabbed his things and prepared to leave the house. He had decided to take a few small scale jobs once he reached New Vegas to make some caps. But in the meantime, he was going to continue his search for his target.

The job came out of an unknown contractor. While collecting for his previous job, a man approached him with an envelope. The man gave him no name, only the envelope and a hefty bag of caps. It felt like nearly a thousand caps were in the bag, something even Apollo had never been offered for a job. The man told him that was only half of his payment if he managed to kill his target. Without a second thought, Apollo took the job. All he has to go on is that his target is in the Mojave and due to unknown reasons, his target can't leave the desert. So, rather than waiting for the person to reveal themselves, Apollo has to go on a wild goose chase.

Exiting the house, Apollo walked into the night sky, realizing he had slept longer than he originally planned. Looking for any identifying markers, he learned the town was called Nipton from a nearly destroyed sign. Apollo now remembered why the town didn't seem to have any people. He noticed the crosses, but paid little attention to them as it wasn't something he had not seen before. Checking to make sure his sword was secure and his gun was still holstered on his side, Apollo was finally on his way to New Vegas. Apollo personally preferred to travel at night, as then he didn't have to feel the Suns rays agitating his scars. Plus, Apollo wasn't one to stick to roads, so he had little chance of being ambushed. Before leaving town, Apollo decided to check the general store for supplies, maybe find an extra shot of Med-X or two. As he went to open the door, the sight of a figure approaching caused him to remove his knife and move upon the figure on instinct. His eyes widened at the sight of a the person being a Legionnaire. Apollo noticed thee man's had been cut out, but whoever did it had cauterized the wounds, allowing his victim to be able to survive for at least another day or two. Apollo was surprised the Legionnaire had made it this far with those wounds, but now was not a time to be impressed. Removing his knife from its place at the Legionnaires neck, Apollo touched the man on the shoulder. The Legionnaire jumped back and fell to the ground, likely not sensing Apollo's presence until then.

Apollo bent down by the Legionnaire. "Relax, I'm not going to hurt you. How did you get here?" The Legionnaire was shaking, a rare sight from someone in the Legion. "H-he took them. He took them. Please, you have to return me to a Legion camp!" The Legionnaire reached out and grabbed Apollo's arms. "He? Well, whatever." Apollo began to help the Legionnaire stand up, only to stop as he turned his head back to the crosses. This Legionnaire was too young to have been involved, but who knows what he had done before. "Hey! What are you waiting for?! Help me!" Apollo stood up and brought out his gun, a silver .45 caliber pistol that shined brightly in the darkness. "You won't make it. Those wounds were to let you survive for a few hours, maybe a few days." Apollo wasn't lying, the boy wouldn't make it. Lucky for Apollo, it just happened to coincide with his desire to make someone pay for what happened here, even if it was long ago. "No, please... just get me to a ca-" before he could finish, Apollo fired a single shot into the man's head, killing him instantly. The sound was loud given the caliber of the weapon, causing Apollo to quickly grab his stuff and continue on his way. After that he had completely forgotten about entering the General Store. Holstering his pistol, Apollo continued north out of Nipton, sticking to the right side of the road, under the cliffs hanging over.

Conner was dead silent as the two wandered down Nipton's main street, his visor gazing from body to body as they continued. Thoughts began reeling through his head as he noted the uniforms of the NCR troopers. he'd never seen such soldiers, only faint whispers on the wind of their reeling existence. In this place, the world seemed dead, even more dead that the cold ruins of humanity that were left from the war. Each moment Conner gazed at one of the skeletons or otherwise he could have swore they were laughing at John and Conner as if dragged them down with them.

Conner stopped as they came across the body of the Enclave Trooper. He'd turn and watch John head off to another corpse before walking toward the broken heap of power armor and bone. While John was mourning Conner was working on pulling the body down, using his trench knife to slash the hemp rope holding it in place. As soon as it was down, he'd wearily place a few pieces in his pack. After all, survival was still a prime directive. Carrying the Enclave helmet back against his side, he'd walk back to John.



The ex-Knights helmeted gaze would turn to the corpse of the little girl and he closed his eyes and reached out placing a hand on his friend's shoulder. The thought of whatever monster could do that, it made his blood boil and he pulled the hand away and squeezed his fingers to his palm. When they arrived at the corpse of their fallen brethen, he again would boil.





Their plan had been set up, Conner lay against a wall watching and waiting. There was a faint green-glow to his visor but that could likely be disregarded by anyone without knowledge of the t-45d's internal systems and optical specs. On his lap lay the broken busted Enclave helmet and next to him, an enticing plate of Cram, yummy.

He was completely still looking in that hunk of armor. Almost eery at this time of night, it seemed pale like a skeleton and cold as steel. Well, it was titanium steel but that was beside the point. Underneath the suit the man waited for that little thief. And right then, right as he began to drift off he saw a hand reach down and grab the Cram.

Under the helmet a smirk slowly began to form, laying completely still as she took thing from thing and got into his entire field of vision. A slow, sadistic, ominous grin that'd likely either scare off or seduce a Deathclaw crossed his face under that helmet. Second by second he'd wait for her to get into place, go towards John. Everything coming into a blank by blank point and case of their plan.

Right as she reached for the Baby his own hand would spring up as fast as he could move it, the metal joints making a grating noise as his helmet mounted light flicked on and his head flicked up. And less than a second later, his filtered voice rattled from his helmet.



His voice was loud and gruff as he quickly climbed to his feet. The helmet on his lap clattering off as he tried to draw his Trench Knife, making as much noise as possible to try and wake his compatriot up to deal with there unwanted guess. It was finally time to get their shit back.

The world had changed, yet remained. Darker with more meaning, yet brighter and more veiled. The sky blurred together in both the glare of the sun and glow of the moon, day and night strobed together in a ephemeral twilight as the clouds raced across the sky like a time-lapse film. This dreamscape stretched on with sands of burnt grey to the ocean waters of gleaming silver. The bodies of every lost soul consumed by the bombs of old lay scattered upon the blackened Earth or hung on crucifix, lining the hills in the distance. Jutting out of the waters, towering monsters of steel on thin legs, belching fire like dragons into a broken sky. Edgar was taken aback by the mystique of it all, finding in the gloom a story to be written. He could not explain how he got here, only that this place held all the meaning in the world, a muse to the soul of the wandering.



As the last word left his toothy mouth, upon the shadowy silhouette of a dead tree fluttered down a bird of black plume. A raven, crowing his presence and speaking only one word. "Nevermore!" Slightly startled Edgar looked upon this bird, eyes narrowing. "You? How did you get here?" The bird paid him no never mind, cleaning it's feathers and cawing once more. "Didn't I eat you?" The gaze of the raven snapped to Edgar, a soul-piercing glare that unnerved the deathclaw. "Your poetry sucks...." it hissed. Before Ed had time to even think about it talking, the bird let loose a hideous caw, morphing into a monstrous form as it did so. It grew so large, it completely crushed the tree it was perched on, it's eyes burned with black fire, and it's beak became serrated ebony blades. All this in an instant, as it lurched forward to devour the deathclaw.....

Edgar's eyes shot wide open as he let out a reverberating howl/yelp of fear. Flailing at the air with his claws, he was taken off-balance by the load he carried on his back. Still in the throws of his day-mare, he rolled back onto his pack, his feet, tail, and arms thrashing about in a rather shameful display. Finally it dawned upon him, only a dream. Alas, it seemed that realization was too late, as he could hear several things in his pack crunching under his weight. With a bit of a struggle, he managed to roll back onto his feet and compose himself, scanning around to see if he'd "exposed himself" to anything other than the bloat flies. Thankfully, there wasn't a soul in miles. That's when the smell hit him, a lingering reminder of the battle not long ago. Scavengers of all kinds gathered in the carrion pit, picking clean the dead. Looking up near the sun, Edgar had barely slept a few hours, as it was only now nearing noon. Still, all the bodies was likely to attract more than just some dogs before long, best to soldier on.

It wasn't long at all before the talons of Edgar's feet clacked upon the asphalt of the old I-15, the heat slightly sizzling the pads underneath. Still, a road was exactly what he wanted right now, a safe route used by most caravans. The winds were starting to pick up a little, but nothing too damning. No, right now the real impediment was Edgar's stomach, griping over how long it's been since he last ate. Thankfully, bountiful pickings were not that far off, likely heading towards the battlefield Ed had just left. The sound of an almost-skipping waddle crunched in his ear, the wind carrying it's scent right up to Edgar. Geckos. Excuse me, Waiter? Yes, I believe I'll have the buffet.... What little lips Edgar had curled into a grin as he scuffled around a few crashed cars. One of which was propped up by two others, making a neat little hidey-hole for his things. Removing his backpack, Edgar leveraged one of the cars up with his shoulder and slid the pack underneath. After diligently lowering the vehicle back down, making sure nothing was crunching, Ed shimmied out of his robes and stretched. Walking around squat all day and all night left more kinks in his back than there were notches on Frank Sinatra's bed post.

God did it feel good to stand upright, but there wasn't any time to waste. Edgar couldn't risk somebody seeing him. Stalking his way over the dunes, drawing nearer to his quarry, he actually started to drool a little bit as he went in. There was no chase, no epic struggle of predator and prey, no glorious tale to regale any listener over. It was a freaking gecko, the dumb little bastard didn't even realize the deathclaw was there till it's face was practically in Ed's mouth. It was a strange orchestra of textures to be sure. Chewy hide, tangy meat, juicy insides, and lot's of crunchy bones. The latter of which kept getting stuck in Edgar's teeth. Three servings of lizard later, Edgar was feeling quite satisfied and very slothful. Though the winds were getting pretty strong now, carrying a lot of dust, and Ed began to worry that they might be brewing a storm before long. Being right next to the damn Dry Lake meant visibility would be nil. He had to get off the roads, all the patrols in the desert would be walking them now and Ed sure as hell didn't want to meet any Legion. Struggling to lift off with his gecko-filled gut, he lurched back to reclaim his things, all the while fidgeting with his teeth. Damn bones. Even though Edgar was armed with a set of 12-inch toothpicks on each hand, trying to use them was like trying to play "Operation" after first taping the tweezers to the end of a pool cue. There was a certain level of added difficulty that wasn't needed.

Ed decided it might be a good idea to try and go through the Ivanpah Dry Lakes now before the winds got really bad. Not a bright idea. The very second he was more than ten feet from the black stretch, the brewing dust storm completely enveloped him. Now he couldn't get back if he wanted to. Worse yet, all he could taste the entire time was gecko from all the bits still stuck in his teeth. Good lord, his breath was going to smell like a compost heap before too long. Of all the things to survive the apocalypse, why couldn't one of them have been mints? Ed wasn't quite sure how long he'd been going in circles, lost in the dust, but the sun was starting to sink behind the horizen. Great, cause darkness makes everything better. A gust of powerful wind hit right in his face, shooting off his hood. "Oh, come on now! Can't I catch one break?! This whole day has just been a big, steaming pile..... of......."Edgar droned off as he finally saw something, a dark silhouette against the bland brown backdrop. A.... cross? The winds began to untimely settle, revealing the morbid and soul-damning scene before him. Like his dream before, they were scattered all over, each still carrying the carcass of some tormented soul. He'd wandered his way to Nipton. Edgar had heard the stories but.... he never envisioned something like this. What could they have done to deserve this? Some of them..... Dear God, some of them were families.

He was taken aback, so much so he didn't even think about his hood. How could a God, any God, allow this? To stand witness to something so horrid? Surely, he can't be watching us anymore. Finally fixing his hood, Edgar bowed his head and did something he had never done before. He prayed. Prayed that the golden gates he'd been told of still stayed open, if only for the poor souls such as these. He prayed that there was indeed Balm in Gilead, that heaven was everything we thought it to be. An eternity of paradise and peace. Though deeply Edgar wondered if anything, even heaven, could make up for this. From down the hill tumbled an NCR helmet, stopping at Edgar's feet. With careful clawed digits he lifted it, walking it back to it's owner. The soldier had been there, hung on those wood planks for quite a while. As Ed gently shoved the helm back into the dirt at the cross's base, making sure the wind wouldn't dislodge it again, an old poem sprang to mind.



He didn't want to linger here, but the winds weren't letting up and getting lost in the lake bed again wasn't very appealing. Looking around, Edgar was entering from the back of the town, not that far from what looked to be the town hall. The only damn building here not about to get blown away. He hoped. Trying to be as stealthy as he could manage, Ed crept up to a large window, peering through into the darkness. Anything could have taken up refuge in there, so it was a very wise idea to try and scope it out first. Still, he had to leave his pack somewhere, so after jimmying the window open and taking a quick look-around, he gently plopped his cargo down by the sill. Not two steps away from the window, a loud gunshot rang through the air. Edgar traveled with enough Gun Runners caravans to know that was a magnum. Couldn't tell what caliber, but it didn't matter. He just didn't want to meet it's owner. Deciding that it was better to be in the darkness of the building where he could see, as opposed to outside in the dust where he couldn't, Ed dragged his large form inside. The winds gave an eerie feeling, like the building was rocking gently. It was hell on the equilibrium. Edgar skulked around on all fours, as low to the ground as he could manage. With one claw, he flicked the lip of his hood up till it rested perched on the tips of his horns. That greatly helped him see, no longer hindering his field of vision, and it was luckily dark enough that Ed would likely see others before they saw him.

He could hear movement, voices. It actually sounded like a scuffle was about to break out. Still, leering around a corner, the only thing Edgar saw was...... Oh, that's not good. "Umm, nice doggy? Good boy?" A weathered old mutt with missing patches of fur was busy chowing down on a dead rat before perking it's ears up at Edgar's presence. It let out a territorial snarl before it's brain registered exactly what Ed was. It's attitude pulled a 180, cowering in fear with it's tail between it's legs and urinating on the floor. It looked like it was about to bolt any second, likely to make a lot of racket as it did. "Shhh! Shhh! It's okay! It's okay, boy.... I'm not gonna hur-*belch!*" The dog mistook sudden outburst of sound for a growl, and just as predicted began whimpering, yelping, and howling as it took off through a hole in the wall. Damn You, Gecko! Deep beyond what Ed could see, he could make out that the residence of this house took notice. They were likely going to investigate, which made Edgar panic a bit. Before he could move, an old tic which he thought gone made it's way back. ("Nevermore!") Ed's hand clamped down over his muzzle, backing away towards the window. Now? Of all times, that one comes back now?!

Man, today just wasn't his day.....

Lorcan Bás Connolly

About An Hour Before The Events In Nipton...

Two Legionnaires stood on the outside of the Outpost near the edge of the Mojave, where the Long 15 enters the desert. Formally a Ranger Outpost, it had been taken over by the Legion after the loss of Hoover. The night was quiet, as was the usual lately. With the growing strength of the Legion, security around such outposts was much tighter than the rather lax treatment given by the NCR. The two guards were use to serving the night shift together, and as such were planning on spending most of their night chatting and maybe playing a hand of caravan or two. On the outside of the Outpost laid the former monument to the peace between the NCR and Desert Rangers. The monument was in ruins, having been torn down and left to collect sand within its hollowed remains. The Legionnaires would often challenge each other to bets, most often pertaining to who could defame the once large fixture of the Mojave with the most scrutiny.

"Hey," said one Legionnaire to the other, "Did you hear about that guy who hit the jackpot at The Forum? I heard he really pissed off the person put in charge of running it by Caesar."
"Oh yeah? How much did he get?"
"Rumor says nearly two thousand. With that kind of money we could get out of bitch duty for sure."
"Rumor? Man, I told you, you shouldn't listen to rumors. Especially, the ones that come out of New Ve-"

The Legionnaires stopped talking, the sound of a loud clapping interrupting their conversation. The sound was coming from the remnants of the statues, more specifically, behind the torso of the NCR Ranger. The Legionnaires looked at each other, nodding in agreement to check it out. Despite their placement within the Mojave, the two were clearly experienced in combat, but mostly against raiders and the occasional loose criminal. They moved in unison, covering each others backs while moving toward the noise. As they got closer, they could hear a voice, that seemed to be... singing. The two moved closer, standing on the opposite side of the fallen statue. The voice became perfectly clear, the clapping somewhat inconsistent with the rhythm of the song.

"I didn't have a thing where my balls used to hang,
But I got a wood medal and a fine harangue.
Now I'm a fucking hero.

Mourn your dead land of the free
If you want to be a hero follow me.
Mourn your dead land of the free
If you want to be a hero follow me..."

The two Legionnaire's moved slowly around the statue, the voice sounding as little more than a whisper but the clapping still persisting. As they rounded the statue, they held up their rifles and pointed them directly at the person. The man was slapping his leg and muttering to himself, sitting down and using the statue to support his back. His brown hat was angled down, hiding the man's face as he seemed to be staring blankly at the ground. The Legionnaires lowered their guns and approached the man, one taping him on the shoulder with the tip of his rifle. "Hey, what are you doing out here? The sunset a while ago. Leave." Despite the command, the man continued to sit on the ground, clapping his leg and muttering. "Hey!" The Legionnaire walked in front of the man and kicked dirt at the man's shoes. "I'm talking to you, asshole!" The man raised his hand and motioned for the Legionnaire to come closer. The Legionnaire raised an eyebrow, motioning for his comrade to watch the man for any sudden moves. The Legionnaire moved closer to the man, nearly being face to face with him.

"When one and twenty cannon thunder
Into the bloody wild blue yonder
For a patriotic ball-less wonder.
Now I'm a fucking hero!"

The man grabbed the Legionnaire by the throat and pivoted his body, using the Legionnaire as a human shield, even while sitting. Removing the Legionnaires knife from his left hip holster, and throwing it at the other, he pierced the man's throat. The Legionnaire managed to get a few shots off, but due to his wound they were more from his hand tightening around the trigger, causing him to mostly shoot at the ground. Lorcan snapped the others neck, calmly standing up and leaving the Legionnaires body were it laid. Removing his Sequoia from his right hip holster, Lorcan cracked his neck and began a slow pace toward the Outpost.

Present Time...

Apollo

Adjusting the strap of his sheathe, Apollo continued his walk down the road. He decided to take one last look at Nipton before continuing up the road too far to see it. His eyes widened at what he saw. Nipton was only a short ways up the Long 15 from the Outpost. Next to Primm, it was probably the closest place where civilization was bound to sprite up. Due to this, few beyond the settlements of Nipton and Primm could see what Apollo saw as he turned around. In the distance, Apollo could see a fire, burning brightly in the night sky. The fire was in the direction of the Outpost. While it was not large enough to bring day to the night sky, anyone within a few mile radius only had to turn their head to see the flames burning brilliantly. Apollo knew the Outpost was under Legion control, so why would someone in their right mind dare attack it? He remembered the situation from only a few minutes ago, connecting the vague dots in his mind. "Couldn't be the same guy who did that, could it? Raiders aren't brave enough to try doing either feat. So, who could do this?" Apollo shook the puzzle from his head. The fire was likely to draw any nearby patrols to it, likely a set up for an ambush by whoever was pulling the strings. Apollo began to turn back around before he came to a realization. "The fire will be put out... most of the supplies surviving the blaze. The Legion patrols will likely leave only a few guards to monitor the Outpost while they get additional help. Incapacitate said guards and collect any salvage from the wreckage. Return to Nipton and wait out the Legion. They believe the town deserted, making it ideal. Would it be wise to try that?" Apollo felt his bag, feeling the eternal disappointment of low ammo and supplies. Taking a deep breath he turned back down the road and began walking, deciding that he would have to see more of Nipton than he had planned.

The town hall had lost most of its sturdiness over the years, as had many structures in this world. The floor boards creaked, the doors would open and shut on their own, and the ceilings looked like they were about to collapse on you. The wind from outside picked up a bit, making the building shake a little. John had intended to stay up the whole time, determined to find this son of a bitch. The problem was, however, that John was tired. Every bit of sleep counts in the wasteland, and he had learned how to sleep quickly and lightly. He dreamed of being back in the capital wasteland, back with all of his old friends and his family. He was on a mission with Lyons Pride. The Pride was overrun by Super Mutants, and they are all gunned down around John, who is now the sole survivor standing alone in the middle of the a city block. The ground give out under him, and he falls into the black abyss, only to land back in the Citadel. Elder Sarah Lyons is there in front of him, arms crossed and head shaking with disapproval.



Her voice was cold and sharp. It really hurt John, real deep. The only thing that was worse, was his parents doing the same thing. This was followed by all of the chapter voicing their disappointment with him. The voices clumped together. The noise hurt, and John fell to one knee with his hands over his ears, shaking his head over and over while saying:



The chapter and all of its inhabitants burst into flames, engulfing the area around John. When the flames cleared, John found himself in the Arlington Cemetery, skulls flooding the ground. on the crosses he could read the names of his comrades, including his parents and Elder Lyons. There was also one for Conner.



He awoke with a jump. Across the room Conner was still sleeping, or at least pretending to sleep. John was now covered in sweat despite the low temperature of the place. He figured now that he'd just stay awake for the rest of the night, he didn't want to go back to be greeted by his subconscious again tonight.

It wasn't for another hour or so until the trap was finally ready to be sprung. He didn't use his eyes to try and spot the thieve, he knew it'd be too easy for him to give up their trap that way. Instead, he was keeping his ears ready, and was doing his best to feel any kind of slight breeze that came his way. Eventually, he did feel a very slight push of air that was out of the ordinary, but it wasn't quite enough for him to suspect it was time yet. Luckily, Conner was watching behind that power armor of his. The thieve took a few miscellaneous items and then stopped near John. John got the slight inclination that something was not right. In fact, it's like something was tangling inside of him...his Baby was in danger...

Conner was the first to act, however. The bulky bastard jumped to his feet and over to the thieve, making a racket.



Before anything else happened, anything at all, John took his move. His hands moved faster than light itself, or so it seemed. The thieve was ready to bolt and get the fuck away, but before that thieve could break out into a sprint, John had the barrel of The Baby pointed towards their new captive. His right hand remained on the trigger, and his left hand came to his face, putting one finger to his lips.



The immediate reaction was projectile cram being launched right at his face. A loud bang followed, probably scaring any shit out of the thieve. But, fortunately for said thieve, it was not The Baby that had just been fired. It was from within Nipton, probably from either outside or in another building then.



He gave a quick smile to the thieve, and then left the building in a hurry. He ducked behind the nearest building after leaving the town hall, waiting. He heard a door open and shut. Unfortunately, the wind made it hard for him to judge exactly where it was. He slowly made his way forward in the direction he heard the door, but by that time, whoever had fired the shot was gone. All that was left was a bullet shell and a dead legion. Shame, legion had no caps on him. After concluding that there was nothing he could conclude other than the guy not being here anymore, he walked out the door. On the ground he noticed the feint foot prints leading out of town. He quickly followed, finding exactly what he was looking for. There, maybe 50 yards ahead of him, was Apollo. He had just taken one step back towards Nipton when John stepped into sight, his face still covered in half chewed cram, unbeknownst to him.

Dawn broke across the wastes in a blaze of beautiful irradiated glory as Frost entered Novac, his helmet tucked safely in his pack and his overcoat buttoned over his armor he looked like any fool wandering the wastelands. Albeit a rather heavily armed one. Ahead the giant lizard loomed across town like a child's rendition of some guardian creature, he had been able to see it from miles away, quite the definitive landmark it was, (not that that was hard to achieve in these wasted lands), and now he was able to observe it in all it's ancient... Splendour. As he walked the road up he could feel eyes upon him, humble folk no doubt peaking from the windows at this stranger and wondering what harm he wished to cause them. You'll be disappointed then, I'm not here to do harm. Not intentionally anyhow. he thought to himself grimly, adjusting the lay of his rifle across his shoulders.

"You there! Stop where you are!" Frost halted, he had just turned around one of the houses towards the main intersection that the town was built around. The voice was commanding, but also tired and wary, and it belonged to an old man holding a mean double barreled shotgun that was pointed directly at Frost.
"I'm not here to cause trouble." Frost said calmly, hands on hips, "Just passin' through, maybe willing to do a little work."
The man waved the shotgun at him, suspicion plain on his face. "Work eh? You don't look much in for handlin' cattle, not live ones anyway. This here is a ranching town. Unless you think you'r gonna replace the old lads with that big rifle of yours."
"What lads?" Frost asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Couple boys used to watch over the town, snipers from the NCR, ex. They used to hang out up in that there dino. It was before your time, they aren't around anymore."
"Legion?"
"More or less. Ole' Dinky there didn't used to have that big hole up in his smile, if you get my point."
Frost studied the dino for a moment, face impassive, "I see. What about work then, anything need doing that a man like myself could do?"
The old man laughed, a hearty 'Hyah Ha ha' but didn't lower his gun, "And what type o' man would you be then boy? Don't look like no harmless fella to me. You look like a mighty fine killer, we don't have need of your type right now. Not anymore."
Frost frowned, "I can do other things than kill. I'm at home on the wastes, surely that is a talent that you could make use of."
A flicker of some vague emotion crossed the old man's face, Hope maybe? If so, a rare sight indeed and not one that Frost had expected. But it left just as quickly as it came. "I suppose you'll want to charge a fortune won't you boy? Were poor simple folk here, we don't have the time or money to pay for the likes of you."
"Just enough for a few necessary supplies, it will depend on the job of course." Frost could smell a hit, the man wanted something, the fact that he hadn't denied him outright was proof enough of that. "Why, you need something done?"
The man lowered his shotgun, looking thoughtful. "I've got a boy, name of James, lad's the only family I have left, and he dun ran off after that merchant girl, Elain, who passed by here. He's a good boy though, promised he would come back even if she wouldn't, well. That was three weeks ago yesterday and I aint seen hide nor hair of him. My boy's gone and disappeared, and he aint the first one either. Those merchants were headed out towards Primm by way of Nipton and everyone know folk been going missing out that way for years now. We tried to tell em' so but they wouldn't listen, head thick as a brahmin the leader had. Well, I know there aint much of a chance, but I aint one for giving up on kin. I want my boy back, and I'm willing to pay ya if you can do it." The man spit, looking away from Frost's face and blinking rapidly a few times.
Must be hard for him to talk about this. He knows as well as I do the boy's likely dead, it's how things are, but does that really make it easier to accept? Frost looked off into the distance, scanning out of habit as he thought. Nipton was of course, back the way he had come, although he hadn't come through it. Instead preferring to enter the Mojave along the Colorado to avoid detection. It was still back the opposite way of Vegas, his intended destination and if the lad wasn't there he would have to head to Primm, even farther away. Although if he remembered correctly there was a direct route from Primm to Vegas. Hell.
"Yeah, I'll do it. If you haven't received word in the next two weeks you should assume the worst, whats your name?"
"The name's Bill. Bill Short I'm called. I run the motel over yonder. Come on over and you can have a drink before you leave, a rest too if you need it. No one will bother you here, I've got a picture of little James in there you can look at too, might help."
Frost nodded with a small, tight smile, and followed the old man as he marched with shotgun over his shoulder towards the motel. A few hours later he would leave, back the way he had come, to go find the father his son but until then he may as well catch up on some sleep, even if he did have to do so with his machete drawn.

"Peeka-Boo Darlin', I see you!"

Like someone had just flipped on a light switch, Tam's fear sent adrenaline shooting from head to toe. She didn't really register the words, or stop to see the mass of metal move. Like a jackrabbit kicked up from under a rock, she was already springing...

"Shhh...Don't wake The Baby"

... Right into a gun barrel. Looking cross-eyed down at the black rifle that suddenly cropped up underneath her nose, the scrawny woman channels her inner Super China-Fu Spitting Cobra Style and propels a mouthful of half-chewed Cram right into John's face. It's slimy, it's salty, it smells kind of like pork and kind of like dogfood. Somehow a blinding poison seemed a little preferable.

In the middle of deciding weather to shoot her for that humiliating attempt at escape or to shoot Connor for laughing at it, Apollo's not-so-distant gunshot rings out.

No, it wasn't Baby that fired, but that doesn't stop Tam from dropping to the deck like she HAD been shot, or was hoping to avoid BEING shot. Actually, it's probably lucky for John that her Flight response won out head and shoulders against her Fight response, because that .45 had been pointed at his gut. Out here, a caliber like that would've probably been fatal even if Baby had been quick to return the favor.

This second escape tactic didn't work, either, as Tam is quick to recognize that her trousers have gotten very warm. Not wet. No, we don't need a repeat of the Primm incident. Just warm.. Hot. Very hot. OW!

Her attempt to roll aside out of grabbing range quickly turned into a semi-wild thrashing, cursing rodeo as coals from a tin tray campfire set the front of the would-be thief smoking heavily. Every semblance of serious business just flew right out the freakin window as this tiny female fought desperately - with THIER junk falling out of every pocket and pouch with a jumble of noise - to not combust into flames.

"Well god dammit! Conner, you stay here with our friend, I'm going to go check it out."

He'd rather go confront an unknown and armed threat than stay in here with Tam. That should say something.

After an unsuccessful grab or two, Connor's metal gauntlet would catch the scruff of the battered leather jacket. With a heave and the benefit of the Brotherhood power armor, he is successful in hauling Tam right off the ground like a disobedient puppy. Continuing to furiously swat at stubborn whisps of smoke, her pistol now on the ground and her rifle strapped behind her to her backpack, Tam resorts to one of her more lethal weapons. Her silver tongue.

"H-hey, now! Let's not get crazy! We can talk this out, right? You're obviously new out here and I know my way around the Mojave, and you wouldn't want to run into any Legion patrols, right? Right? I know all the tricks, no worries! Number one A-ok, big guy! Look, I didn't even scuff your armor - do you need that polished, by the way? I know a guy. But you're sitting on Legion turf right now, you know! Anyone else woulda killed you, but not me! No way, Tam's lookin out for you, yeah, that's right. Seriously, if it's out here and you're looking for it, I can get it!"

Her rambling was fast and meek, encouraging Connor to dismiss her entirely as a threat. As good as she'd been at ghosting behind two trained ex BoS, she was even better at looking insignificant.

"Here - just... Just put me down.." Her attempts to twist around in her jacket to properly face him are unsuccessful, "And we can just talk, right? You want it, I've got it, or I can get it. No worries! You guys are going to want to fast-track outta here before the Legion hear you're up in Nipton, I know the easy way! What do you want, caps? Caravans? Chicks? ..... Guys?"

Wink wink.

Apollo

Apollo caught sight of John as he started to make his return to Nipton. Despite the person in front of him, Apollo was still far more focused on getting to the Outpost before the Legion arrived, that way he could stake out the place while they went about the clean up. The person in front of him didn't notice the fire off in the distance, which was of no surprise seeing as how Apollo could only notice it from the rise in the north road. At this distance the heat could not be felt, nor likely the screams that were surely persisting. "Guess I should of used my knife..." Apollo mumbled to himself as he continued walking forward. He continued to walk til he was only twenty yards in front of John, but his lax demeanor would likely cause little caution in the former Knight. Apollo yawned heavily, shrugging as if to mock John and his inquiry. .44 Caliber Henry Repeater, Old World weapon. Biggest flaws are its speed, long distance accuracy, and reload time. Dangerous weapon to wield. Apollo eyed the man head to toe, his expression indifferent. Modified combat armor with a scratched out logo on the right shoulder. Likely NCR or Brotherhood of Steel, though whichever it may be matters little. A deserter. Investigating gunshots in the open... not likely to be alone. Threat, moderate. Apollo stood there in silence for a few seconds, likely making John either nervous or annoyed. "Just a humble courier passing through. Came back when I realized I forgot to search the town for supplies. If this is about the Legionnaire, one could obviously see it was a mercy killing. Though, I doubt a man staying in a deserted ghost town would feel any inclination to avenge a fallen stranger."

Apollo could hear a woman on the inside of the building. Though he could make out what she was saying, he wasn't about to reveal that he was catching it. "Sounds like you have friends. They should be more quiet. You never know when a patrol might roll through." Apollo considered that the girl's voice was trying to catch attention on purpose. No one smart enough to survive in the Mojave would be that loud. Perhaps she thought she had a better chance with the unknown entity outside than the known one in. "I didn't know there were others here. Forgive me if I startled anyone, but since that is the case I will take my leave." Apollo decided to go back up the road and circle around Nipton, so as to avoid suspicion. Normally, he would have probably kept walking, drawn Lucille and told John to keep his distance. But, due mostly to the fact he could count his current bullets on one hand, he really couldn't afford losing any of them right now. "It was nice to me-" Before Apollo could finish his eyes widened and his back stiffened. Taking a long draw of the air and cupping his ear, Apollo looked to the North road, the way he was about to start walking. He looked back at John, not paying attention to whether or not he sensed it. "Do you hear that? A howling... but not wolves. Mongrels. Legion Mongrels." Apollo took a heavy sigh, realizing that they were arriving far ahead of his expectations. Well, it wasn't a big deal, he thought. All he would have to do is hide in an abandoned house for a while and let them pass. He would have to give up on going to the Outpost, but that was better than what would happen if he continued his efforts. He turned back to John, with a worn expression on his face, his demeanor quite different than the mysterious stranger aura he was giving off only a few minutes earlier.

"Well, I suggest you take your friend and your hostage and lie low for a while and let them pass. I'll be hiding in the General S-" Apollo palmed his face and took another sigh. The dead Legionnaire. Shit. Mongrel smells it, gets my scent. Apollo looked to John, once again a stressed expression covering his face. "I take it you tried to search the Legionnaire for anything useful?" Waiting for John's confirmation, Apollo let out a curse word under his breath before taking a deep inhale. "Alright, here's the deal. Sorry if I am moving to fast for you but its my nature. In about three minutes, a group of Legionnaire are going to appear around that ridge on their way to the Outpost on the Long 15. However, no matter what we do they will find that Legionnaire over there and since we both went near it, those dogs I heard will pick up our scents. They will look for us. They will find us. And they will kill us... unless of course we get inside that building with your friend and captive and bunker down. Its either that, or we stand here and get gunned down. So, what's it going to be, Stranger?"

A voice rang out of the darkness beyond Edgar's vision. Stalking these dank halls, he found a section of wall that was "less than private", a tiny peephole rotting it's way through the antiquity floral patterns of the dry wall. Finally he could spy the scene which played out. Two figures mildly struggled with each other, well..... one struggled, the other just kinda used minimal effort to keep his hold. The power armor he wore instantly flashed Ed back to his little episode in the desert, but the coloration's were off. Doubting that the ever-righteous "Brotherhood of Steel" was aloud to change their fashion sense, the best Edgar could figure is that this was some mook who got lucky scavenging. The rather scrawny girl, or woman? Too hard to tell age like this, and she was rather scrawny. Either way, she bargained like a Junktown jerky vendor, Ed had enough wasteland experience to know that this could really only go one of two ways. One of them would be really, really bad for her.



Moral dilemma solved, Ed made a plan. A conveniently placed window in full sight of the archway our suspected villain would have to go through made the perfect setting point. Now all that was needed was bait. Edgar's bog of goodies would work, partly opened like a sliced Christmas ham to show all the loveliness that was in it. Ed hoped the armored-up nudnik would Wonder, Wonder, what's in the Wonder bag enough to start poking through it. A hole in the ceiling led up to the second story of the building. Now, to get his attention......



That did it. After Ed's rendition of Mr. Astaire, complete with radio static, the ne'er-do-well in question began to approach the bag, one hand still gripped around his hostage's wrist. Apparently he wasn't completely without common sense, since in his other hand he held a rather nasty looking RCW. Thankfully, he let go of her for a second to sift through his new-found loot. She was already starting to quietly inch away from the kid in the candy store, putting enough space for Edgar to land down from above. Ed took a bit of measure to make sure the only thing visible to the woman was a whole lot of burlap on his back, while the stormtrooper was already starting to react to the not-so-stealthy thump behind him. it didn't matter much now, though.



Before Conner's little pew-pew gun could even change orientation, Edgar's prehistoric-looking foot launched him like a missile through the window. Well, window and part of the wall next to it. But he was in armor, right? He'll be fine. The man in the tin can clinged, clanged, bounced, bonged, tumbled, and rolled his way down the hill, the only thing louder than the racket his suit was making was the never-ending stream of swears that'd make a fiend blush. Ed didn't even bother to turn around, partly because even though he was squatting down at around six-and-a-half feet tall, he knew she'd still likely be able to see up his hood, and Edgar wasn't willing to bank on it being too dark to make out certain key facial features. The other part was because he could hear her scrambling away. Still, he spoke out loud enough hoping she;d hear him.



Ed bent down and carefully tweezered the hook on his bag closed before slinging it back over his shoulder. Though there was something a little odd.... it felt lighter than usual. Though Ed didn't get much a chance to question this, as the newly made portal to the outside let the wind in. And on that wind rode a sound which made fret greatly. A deep, rumbling howl coming from far in the distance, likely not something a human would easily hear, at least not up by the town hall. This wasn't a wolf to be sure, as even wolves of today still had a somewhat majestic and haunting tone. This was guttural, feral, rabid even. Something bred to hunt men, by men. By legion. These were the howls of mongrels.

Frost had achieved precious little sleep in the few hours he had spent at the Dino Dee-Lite, coming to the conclusion that beds were a prime example of the word uncomfortable, and left shortly after partaking of Bill's delicious fresh coffee. People were awfully forthcoming when it had gotten through they're thick skulls that you weren't there to kill them he had reflected, wondering how he might make it easier to pound that bit of information into them in the future. No matter the particulars of social interactions though, Frost had been tired, and it was Hot, even though it was late in the afternoon when he had left. This led to only one logical conclusion of course, find a hole and go to sleep. Such a task however, could prove to be very dangerous.

Rifle slung over his shoulder, Frost slunk through the tall swaying grass below a cliff face and made good time in the evening gloom. His intended course for Nipton had been simple and characteristic of him, following the basic principal of make it to high ground and travel where you could see your enemies before they would see you. This had led him in a relatively simple path after he climbed up one of the many long ridges that crisscrossed the Mojave, according to his map it was as simple as going straight all the way there. He was searching the cliff line for some sort of more material cover than the flora he was currently using, a tumble of fallen rocks perhaps, a nook that he could squeeze into and sleep away the last vestiges of daytime heat. Suddenly Frost stopped, head cocked, listening. He thought... Yes, there it was again. An almost imperceptible Sssssssss. Wearily, he gripped his machete with his right hand, ready to draw it at an instants notice, and took a breath to calm his racing heart, scanning the grass that a moment ago had been so friendly but now he was sure hid dangers immeasurable.
From behind him came a fast, painfully high pitched buzzing sound, less than a heartbeat later it was echoed all around him, he counted at least four different rattles but the noise ran together, making it impossible to tell how many there really were. His mouth went dry, and he licked his lips as he drew the machete and simultaneously unholstered his flare gun. Frost was a hunter, it was his life's work and he was very good at it, thusly, it was a terrifying feeling to so suddenly be demoted down to the status of prey. For prey he now was, and those who hunted him were fearsome beasts indeed.
The buzzing stopped, and the only constant was the faint hissing that now lingered on the edge of hearing, punctuated by short sharp bursts of those high powered rattles. The hunters were circling, closing in on him in a confusing pattern that only they knew. He had seen it before, from high on a cliff he had watched through a pair of binoculars as the Nightstalkers encircled and slew a group of well armed raiders. Samuel had bayed him watch and learn, so that he might have a better chance if such a situation ever fell upon him, the old ghoul could be a bastard like that sometimes.

Frost learned his lesson well.

He pulled back the hammer of the flare gun with his thumb, Click, the hissing stopped, all sound stopped. The silence was absolute and the tension was sharp as a knifes edge. Then something close behind him growled and he swung around, machete raised. There it was, it's serpentine head waving back and forth and it's long forked tongue flickering in and out between vicious hinged fangs. Time slowed and Frosts senses seemed full to bursting as the sinuous furred body tensed and then suddenly everything was a frantic lashing of fangs and claws as the furious creature launched itself at him. He backhanded it with the machete, the blade biting deep into it's shoulder and knocking it to the side with a yelp, but as the first creature fell to the ground another lunged from behind and to the left of Frost and sank it's teeth into his right forearm. The thick leather of his coat stopped much of the bite, but the venomous fangs slipped through and pierced his arm. Simultaneously another Nightstalker ran forwards from his left and jumped at his face, forcing Frost to stagger back. He shot it with the flare pistol and a bright ball of fire exploded into existence upon the creatures chest, bits of flame splattered across the area. Frost's eyes watered from the flash and wave of heat and he fell backwards onto the other Nightstalker but the creature he had shot was worse off, the fire had caught on it's ragged dirty fur and it was now a flaming, yelping panic that scrambled away from the Ranger with a high pitched shriek and tore off through the grass. A trail of flame spreading throughout the brush marked the little fireball's passage, soon the entire hill would be on fire.
He did not have time to ruminate on this problem however, the second creature was savaging his arm still, squirming under his weight but still fighting. Too busy to cry out in pain, Frost swung the now empty flare gun into the creature's snout with all his might, causing it to let go with a whimper. The Nightstalker thrashed and Frost rolled off of it and scrambled away, grabbing his machete from where he had dropped it. His arm felt like fire but as the creature righted itself he still buried the machete in it's neck with a satisfying thwack of steel chopping through flesh. Panting heavily Frost looked around him, the hill was in flames but the dry flora of the mojave created very little smoke when it burned, and the fire had only a short range to burn as the ridge was broken up by shelves of bare stone. A few yards away the first NightStalker was limping away from the encroaching flames, dragging one of it's paws and trailing blood. Hopefully the rest of the pack had run off.
Frost wasted no time in this uncertain situation and turned away, holstering his flare pistol and with his good arm unclipping and slipping on his helmet. Better, the heat was not so insistent, not yet anyhow. Switching the machete to his good hand he shouldered his way through the burning grass and scrambled down the slope, slipping and sliding on loose rock. Near the bottom balance finally eluded his tired body and he slipped, falling hard on his ass and sliding the last few feet down.

After that he had kept walking away from the fire, which soon burned up the last of it's fuel and extinguished itself. When he had made it a ways away he had stopped and examined his wound. Nightstalkers were highly venomous, and while much of the bite had been blocked by the thick leather of his great coat and left only a very nasty bruise, the two venom fangs had easily bypassed his protection and released the toxins inside of him. A problem, as he did not have antivenom on him. Not to self, buy or make antivenom as soon as possible, and keep at all times. If I live through this... Well, there was no use dwelling on that, he would do what he could and hope that he might find serious aid in Nipton. Venom first aid was simple, try your best to keep it from reaching your heart and spreading throughout your bloodstream, and hope that your body could fight it off until you found help. He had torn a strip of cloth from his shirt, and bound it tightly a few inches up from the wound on his arm, not cutting off circulation completely, but still slowing it down. Oddly enough, the wound had hurt only the way a flesh wound should, and did not feel the same as if he had been bitten by something venemous. A delayed reaction, there is hope yet for me! He had thought, but for good measure he injected a stimpack into the offending limb, wincing as the long needle pierced his flesh. The drug would hopefully increase his body's fighting potential and slow the spread of the toxins.
Now it was night time and he was standing on the ridge still, within near sight of the desolate form of Nipton and his arm felt like a nest of angry, frustrated flies. He pulled out another stimpack and injected it, he was certain they were helping, but that was the third one he had used and he only had one left. He sighed, the situation seemed bleak but all he could do was push forwards and hope for the best.
Having long since thumbed on the night vision sensors in his helmet, he now used this to his full advantage as he snuck down towards the town, moving slowly and deliberately with his flare pistol drawn. A blinding weapon was the best defense in a night time situation if he was caught off guard. Far away in the distance a howl broke the still night air coming from the direction of the Colorado, it was answered by another, some ways to the north of the first, and then another. The Legion uses hunting dogs to track down they're enemies.... Could they be after me? I thought that my presence was unknown. Perhaps the brush fire... No, I cant imagine why... He holstered his flare gun and slipped his rifle off of his shoulder, snapping the bipod into place he groaned softly as his injured arm took the weight of the heavy rifle. "This hurts like a sonofabitch." he muttered, taking position on a rocky outcropping that overlooked both Nipton and the road approaching it that the legionaries would have to take. He knew the legion was coming, that was his one advantage and he would make full use of it. Perhaps they would even have some antivenom he could take from they're corpses. He certainly hoped so.

((JOHN))

John watched Apollo approach, and was likewise wearing a shroud of indifference - if leaned a little more towards 'Annoyed'. The cram he'd missed wiping was starting to slither its way down his collar. Damn that little desert rat.

He shrugged when Apollo made an explanation for the corpse on the road, "You're right. I dont give a damn about the Legion sap." And that was that as far as he appeared to be concerned.

John returned the favor of studying Apollo, noting that the others' eyes stuck to Baby for more than a few seconds. A man that knew his weapons, and knew how to use them. If Apollo was 'just a humble courier', then John was a tapdancing Ghoul. But for the moment, the both of them were satisfied staring eachother down in the fassion of all dangerous men meeting for the first time. With neither particularly anxious to turn their back, the standoff might've dragged on longer, but the desert wind seaces to be the only thing howling.

"Mongrels. Legion Mongrels." Apollo advises him. John didnt have much experience in the Mojave, but anything attatched to the Legion was bad news, and any animal gnarly enough to make a noise like that was clearly unafraid of whatever might hear it.

When Apollo next suggests that they bunker down in the building, John bristles, and is about to flat refuse, when Apollo is proven right. No, John wasnt alone. That was his backup right there. The big man in the power armor. ... Flying through the window and part of the wall.

"Connor, what-!" John's tone is incredulous. He'd just left the man alone with a girl half the weight of his left arm. There was no way she'd -

Something shifts in the shadow of the gaping hole. Something bigger than Tam. John settles Baby firmly on the dark opening when the Howls come again, forcing him to hiss a swear between his teeth. There was no time to get tangled up in some new threat, their time was already running short.

With more guns and the fact that John himself liked having armor on, odds were that he could just run this guy off in the hopes that the Legion would just chase after him. But John wasn't that cold, was he? Geez, maybe life out was starting to take it's toll. It was something to consider though. While the prospect of a gunfight (which he knew was going to happen) had it's ups and downs, the deciding thing was John's knowledge on how the universe liked to get it's jollies.

John had never been a lucky man, by any means, and whenever he thought he could cheat his own bad fortune, it'd only retaliate by biting him in the ass that much harder. It's like narrowly avoiding stepping in a bear trap, only to stumble and land your face in it instead. So sure, John could avoid the Legion today, but something worse would just happen instead. Like falling down a mine shaft full of Cazadors. Or walking in on Conner naked....

John chose Legion.

With a curse that probably matches Connors, he pulls on the big man's armor -hard- to start him into the same cover Apollo was probably already moving for.

"Out of grade school and still getting beaten up by girls, huh, Connor?"

--------

((TAM))

At some point in her rambling charm, Connor's attention had left her. Pulling her behind in an iron grip that - short of gnawing through her own wrist - she wasn't going to wriggle loose of, her captor reached down to rifle through a bag that Tam was sure hadn't been there before. Something was interesting enough that he even needed two hands. Encouraged by her sudden and absolutely demure silence, he released Tam. Hardly willing to believe the kind of luck that took, she used her newfound freedom to put a feather-soft step between them. And then another. And then a third. In an eyeblink, she was out of grabbing range. A breath, and she was almost far enough to sprint for it.

Then the ceiling falls in. A mass of burlap =mean= plummets down behind Connor, and out of some kind of packrat reflex, Tam jerks forward to grab the satchel of all things out of harms way. Oh, wow, were those snow globes?? No time to study her find more carefully, because with an cringe-worthy WHOMP!, Connor's form has gone through the window.

Hop-skipping back from the hand that reaches backwards to reclaim the bait-bag, she pulls from her own the well-worn hunting rifle. Now, it would be impolite to aim it at her erstwhile savior, but that doesn't stop her from lifting it just aside from his torso. It's torso? That was bigger than even armored Connor had been. Super mutie? Through all that burlap, who could tell in this light.

And then that howl.

"Aw, brother, Tam, can you pick a party or can you pick a party?" She laments, backpeddling deeper into the building's shadows.

"If you're really keen on helping, pal, you can keep us clear of those Mongrels. They find us and we're -both- chewtoys."

Showing no intention of making it easy for the dogs to chase her down in the open, Tam lets the rifle droop onto a sling and shimmies up a broken staircase, squeezing between the wall and a tilted filing cabinet like a greased up molerat. There were windows and holes a-plenty on the second floor. Places maybe she could wriggle into that the dogs and their equally rabid masters couldn't dig her out.

After dragging Tam through a room and a half to the bag, Conner stood there rifling through it, only to find it was a bag of snowglobes; useless snowglobes, hardly worth a cap.





Behind him came a quite familiar voice, and at this point. He'd also realize he just had a lapse of common sense and let go of Tam. The big hunk of power armor would then try to turn and find out what the fuck was going on, only to receive a foot to the back of his titanium plated ass with enough force to propel him through the wooden structure they were within; (the structure doesn't need much merit in the first place.)

First with a surprised shout, that could easily have been mistaken for a girl's scream; the man went flying through the wood an shanty glass with a loud crash and creaking noise, his armor making a heavy clang as it hit the dirt and dried clay around the building with following and resounding clangs followed by a less-than-proper-English-explicative every three seconds. With a final "cal-thunk" at the bottom of the hill.

A few seconds after his train-whacker of a ride; he would gaze about, vision blurred and ears buzzing from hitting his head on a rock... Maybe John was right about the brain damage after all. However, the silence wouldn't last long.



Then a howl would ring in the distance, and another, oh followed by more, goodie! Conner's head would turn and he'd reach for his RCW. He was utterly fuming now and the howl wasn't helping. He'd gaze at the direction it first came from.




All this commotion had likely sent John running, who did indeed run up and grab him in an attempt to drag the armored thug to cover. It wouldn't take much though, Conner did indeed stand and start running but not toward the cover with John. He was darting straight toward the old building he was just violently ejected from, but right as he got towards the hole he made. He heard, well, that was barking behind him.

Conner would turn to see a group of four of those mutt's charging at him, teeth bared, foaming from the muzzle, and fur frilled, the whole nine yards of attempted dog intimidation. However, in Power Armor, Dogs don't really scare you and Conner didn't buy it. He'd raise his RCW with a not-so-choice phrase.



And with that, the rhythmic humming and discharge of energy went through the air as Conner opened fire on the lead Mongrel. As the bolts of laser energy hit, the hunting dog cried and yelped as loud as it could. The heated energy actually lighting its fur on fire and burning the thing alive, as it fell to the dirt the others kept going only for a second to meet the same fate. Once the next few dogs go into close quarters, Conner quickly hoisted his rifle and drew his Trench knife off his chest and as expected the first dog lunged. It would indeed impact on Conner's arm, teeth only scrapping across his forearm plate. Once its paws it the ground, Conner kicked it in the ribs, literally. The poor animal went flying a good couple feet into the air and back about seven due to the enhanced strength. It yelped for a few miniscule seconds and fell limp; now it was the next one's turn the rabid dog jumped and Conner swung and in a lucky catch, connected the knuckle of his knife to its next with a sicking pop. With a repeat of the last animal's final actions. More dogs were likely on there way but these were dead. With a gaze and step into the building Conner would proceed to search for the bastard who punted him.