Shh, don't ruin the magic. Let us keep thinking that this a seamless operation and let the crimes against morality, humanity, ghoulanity, mutanity, clawanity, and the Steelyboys continue.
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chiasaur11Never doubt a raccoon.Do you think it's trademarked?Registered Userregular
In Which Milo returns briefly to his comfort zone.
From the diary of Barbara Harris
Whelp, it's been a good last couple of days, I reckon. Been working with the squad, seein' interesting people and the like. Milo took us to a couple stops on the way down to Delta Bunker.
We met with some merchants and the like, where I snagged us some of them fancy Pancor Jackhammers and slugs. I may have forgotten to pay for 'em, though. Just one of those things.
At any rate, when we got down to the new bunker an' started to talk with everyone, Milo goes off to meet and greet with the locals. Well, they called it a bunker, but it was just a bunch of old buildings. Squad leader went and told me he liked the old kind better, with all the underground fixins. More homey, the way he figgers it. Can't rightly say I understand it all the way, been sleeping under the stars enough to get to like it, but it takes all kinds.
So, we're all swapping stories and waiting for Stitch to come in with the medical to patch up any folks who were hurting when John comes back smiling.
"Good news!"
Farsight looked over at him.
"Graft is legal?"
"Ha! Jocular, but no. We're cementing an alliance of sorts. You may remember certain wild rumors about robots."
Rage said somethin' next
"Fucking rumors? I heard a rumor. It involves me cutting someone's fucking head off and pissing down the fucking stump if I don't get straight fucking answers!"
Rage is a mighty colorful character. Always a pleasure to be around, even if some folks don't think so.
"At any rate, a small town near here has... dealt with one. Effectively. We've been assigned the investigation, and to, if possible, convince them to accept the protection of the Brotherhood."
"No risk, plenty of fresh air for those of you who like that kind of thing, and we collect some impressive technology. What could be better? If your answer is a thriving market community with vibrant local color, including all the amenities of civilization, well, you're in luck again. Junction City is one of the best places to meet and mingle outside of the Brotherhood itself. It must seem too good to be true, but here we are."
"Whore houses?"
Ice spoke up then.
"No."
She and Rage are funny together, all I can say there.
It sounded a mite on the dull side, but when you've been around long enough, dull sounds as good as anything else. So, Shaav got behind the wheel and we all rode on out.
Mostly an uneventful ride. Except the bit where we ran into a bunch of mutants and weird fellas.
Everybody was yelling and shooting at everybody else so's that we only had to clean up after.
They were carrying some impressive stuff. Brotherhood gear, plasma guns, and all. I hadn't seen most of that stuff 'ceptin in old books and the like. I mean, it was fancy.
Rage seemed impressed, and went poking at it. Awful clever when he wants to be.
Folks didn't seem too happy when we got there. Thought it might be Shaav's breath at first, poor fella, but he brushed a week ago. Turned out half of it was because we were Brotherhood. Not everybody had as much of a reason to like us as the folks back in Quincy. Stories about stealing kids, sending everybody to work camps and the like. Just the same kind of thing people say about Ghouls I figgered, until Milo winced under his environmental armor.
"Some of it's true. Not much, but I will admit some of our past actions have been less than perfect. Rest assured, however, we are only here to help. Well, that and to visit... Juan's Market, I think. Even in Chicago the deals are legendary."
I guess you might call that defusing the situation a little. Anyway, people started walking away.
Farsight seemed a little puzzled anyway.
"Juan's?"
"Only place I could remember. Been a while since I made deals stretching to junction city, and it was a useful hub back then."
Well, we were walking around a little, and a fella came up to us all excited for some reason. Said he wanted to sell us a robot part.
"A shame to hear about your mother, and a pleasure to hear that you found one of the robot parts you need. Of course, you wouldn't be in this particular situation with proper insurance."
"Insur..."
"And, what do you know, we have introductory rates today. Once in a lifetime!"
"Well, I dunno... my momma ain't... I mean..."
"Ah, I see. Not as urgent, just a fiscal difficulty. Shame, we have a doctor in town. Perhaps I could interest you in personal insurance. Or, may I interest you in syndicate shares? Partial ownership, in the long term..."
And on like that, until he had the part and everything else the fella was carrying.
I looked over, and the part happened to be a sex toy on a toaster, which, pleasant as one of those can be when a lady happens to be all alone at night, ain't exactly worth the money the fellow was asking.
"Milo? That robot part isn't..."
"Oh, yes. Clearly. But I do like to help people out in their time of need."
Times like that, I start to think I'm not exactly the least honest person in the squad.
Well, we go in to the town hall to talk about the robot that they were dealing with, but it didn't go as well as it could.
Mayor's assistant and Farsight were at each other's throat from the start. I mean, I like Stills, she's a fine person and all, but she's like a lot of folks around here. A bit prickly. So when she gets into talking with a person who doesn't much like her, well, things get messier than a room full of angry polecats.
"Fits you want to talk to Casey. Shit sticks together."
"Say that again. Go on..."
Milo broke it up, though.
"Well, look at the time! Lovely to meet you, mayor waiting, talk more later, please don't kill anyone."
Getting the mission got Farsight and Rage over the whole assistant issue quick enough.
Nina just got to talking about the actual shooting.
"What are we up against?"
"Reavers."
"I meant what are they, and how many. Robotic combat units, gigantic mutated bison, supermutants...?"
"No. Never heard of half that. They're just people."
Rage stared a little.
"Just raider assholes? Shit, we dealt with worse on the way over."
Milo nodded.
"Like I said, we're professionals, and the situation is well in hand. Jackhammers loaded, let's visit Hank, see what he knows. Sounds like a charming fellow, if prone to... indiscretions but let he who is without sin..."
Farsight leaned over next to me as Milo went on talking.
"I really hate when people take that quote out of context. And it's one of the most questionably canonical passages in the whole book. ...sorry, just had to say it."
Well, not my problem, I suppose. Just glad I could help her there.
We walk on out, and head for Hank's when she finally stops talking about it. And I don't mean gradually windin' down like she usually does when a bee gets buzzing in her bonnet. Just... stops.
Then she starts again with "EAT DIRT!"
And suddenly we're all in a big old firefight again.
Farsight and Rage pinned all them Reavers down while Milo worked around with his Jackhammer.
A last one walks in front of Farsight and we're done.
Rage and Milo go ahead to see if the Hank fella's okay.
He weren't. We saw his wife then, and there was nothin' to say. Not really. Only thing that makes it hurt less fresh that I've seen is going through it time and again, and I wouldn't wish that on other folks. And your hurt doesn't usually make theirs less, not when hers is fresh and yours has a couple decades to cool.
Still, Milo nodded in all the right places, didn't bring up anything untoward. Just being a gentleman proper. We walk back out, paying our respects and promising to help with the funeral. Rage grabbed the Plasma rifle on the ground and hefted it a little. And Milo started drawing up plans once we were out.
"We have walls, right?"
"About 20 feet, good cover, clear LOS, snipers... We have a killing field, ladies and gents."
We got up on top, Ice guarded the door with an M2, and we went to work.
The Reavers were just standing there, waiting for an opening.
We never gave it to 'em. Milo did offer a chance for them to surrender, but they never took it, kept talking about Satansoft and such. Never heard of half the computery things they were mentioning. Guess that comes from being crazy folks.
Survivors ran back to try and regroup out of range, and normally, that'd be enough. But they were holding technology we were sent for and that meant more fussin' and hollerin'.
Farsight, Shaav, Rage, and Ice went on ahead to smoke them on out. Farsight picked up a couple of mines and found a couple more. Kept us from being sprayed with acid, which hurts even in environmental armor.
Then Rage went and found a new toy. Vindicator minigun, he said. I talked to Ice later, and apparently it was all kinds of impressive just before the war. German minigun built for anti-armor work, and stolen by our boys to work with power armor for the big war. Not normally the sort of thing you carry without a special rig, but Rage seemed happy to try it out, and I didn't want to leave the poor fella sadder than a rained out picnic.
We got some nicks and bruises going on ahead, but nothin' Shaav couldn't deal with.
And Farsight found a spot real nice for sniping. Said a couple of 'em took more to down than ordinary folks, and some of the bodies had weird bits and bobs, but compared to the mutants, this was a vacation. External guards went down to snipers.
First floor Ice had the Browning. Made a lot of a mess.
And most of the ones outside, well, Milo's finally figuring out the Pancor these days. It's a fine little gun, lots of power, not much kill, full auto. Not really the kind to prefer a gun when another solution does the job but when you've got to go with that kind of thing, it's works alright.
Besides, it conceals nicely for when you're working with civilized folks again, the kind who don't get too riled up if stuff goes a little on the missin' side.
The last Reaver outside, poor fella, stepped right in front of Shaav, crotch at claw level. It weren't any kind of pretty. At least Shaav didn't eat anything until after killin' this time. He's learning good habits from Farsight, seems like.
We all gathered up and went ahead.
Milo took out a mine when opening the door.
And we found ourselves a robot bit. Farsight said it matched up with something they saw earlier, and it wasn't good news.
All I knew was it looked ready to soak up a lot of firepower, and hardly seemed scratched. Heck, if'n I had the full set, I could patch it up with enough time. Farsight and Rage went upstairs.
Farsight found two bodies, one they made, one she did. Natural enough, once I heard that, I assumed it was one of them revenge things. She said she saw a hostile first. Reckon'd if she'd seen the body instead, might have succumbed to temptation, made it go a little slower.
Rage got the last couple with his fancy new gun, and we went to cleaning. Buried the bodies that weren't Reaver, took any technology we found, and went back to town. Half the job in the bag right off which looked alright.
Mayor seemed happier when we were all done, if a mite sarcastic.
Milo made sure to keep his ear while he got out an idea he'd been messing with.
"Now, obviously, you'd want to preserve an independent state of operation. Ideally, this would be a no fuss, no complication issue, but in the current climate, well..."
"We can take care of ourselves with the Reavers gone. We dealt with the robot well enough."
"And mutants? No need to answer, I can tell. What you would want, I guess, would be our protectorate package. No issues with anything beyond a slight tax, I know, hate them myself, and in exchange, the whole town can have basic protection whenever it wants. I can leave a pamphlet."
"Pamphlets."
Well, it wasn't the best I'd ever seen, but the printing was real nice, and the writing was good. Just needed a catchy slogan. The mayor kinda goggle eyed, and we stepped out.
"Right then. Jobs well done. Welcome to paid leave, everyone."
"Wait. What the fuck?"
Rage spoke for all of us about then, even if the language was on the rough side. Leave was all kinds of a surprise.
"I budgeted an extra few days for this mission on the logs, and there are few places better suited to a rousing vacation. Have fun."
And, well, we did, way I see it.
Don't know what everyone else was doing most of the time. I generally helped myself to some... less guarded things. Books, alcohol, ammo. Folks leave it lying around, things tend to go that way, I reckon. Better me than someone less honest and scrupulous. Even left a tab with Milo once we were leaving.
Rage and Ice were a bit miffed. Said something about these nasty critters in the sewer and a "piece of shit machine gun". Still, generally sounded all romantic.
Farsight said she was busy at the local chapel prayin' for the dead and pulling charity work. She seems to like it. Church bells ringing in the middle of a gunfight or something like that. Shaav was being all helpful in the charity, awful sweet of him.
And Milo was working on his vacation, seemed like. I saw him in a bar trying for some robot part.
Bartender didn't seem to like him much, no matter the angle.
"Ah, a Tragic fan. I can get you, oh, the power sixteen for the part? Only eight of each as far as I can tell."
"You play, fuckface?"
"Well, no, old rule, never sample your own wares, applies to psycho, applies to mentats, applies to Tragic. Keeps me impartial there."
"Fuck off."
"Well, we could play for it, but that seems unfair to start. Craps? Caravan?"
"Fuck. Off."
"Hmm. We do seem to be at an impasse."
"Does "impasse" mean you're getting out of here you Brotherhood piece of shit?"
"No, not really. It might mean I own the contract to your bar. It would be a shame if anything were to happen."
And then Milo made a hand gesture at me of some sort or other. It was a bit hard to guess. Still, I decided to look through what all I'd picked up.
Didn't have any of the guns with me, stashed them in the hummer to carry more of other people's stuff, which would be bad if it came down to a fuss.
Did have the papers from the town hall for the bar, which would be good if'n it didn't.
"Commander? Got the files you wanted."
"Ah! My associate, Miss Harris. She tends to handle certain matters of legal difficulty when my primary council is unavailable."
"Sounds more like a hot piece of ass on the side. Want to see what a real man is like, babe?"
"Classy as always, Rick. Classy as always. No, I assure you, she has many gifts beyond... that sort of thing, which I wouldn't know about at all. Your bar is now, in point of fact, my bar. Robot part or get out. Or, legally, we have the third option. I shoot you."
He seemed as angry with us for leaving as he did when I came in.
Milo bought me a drink after. Awful nice.
Next day, met up with Farsight and Shaav. Talked a little, seemed they were doing some housecalls. Most places don't got enough stims most of the time, and good doctors aren't common. Heard someone was sick, so they went to help.
Well, and there was a good mechanic living in the same house, which would be mighty helpful after losing so many when the Supermutants went around.
I was kind of the best talker there, which made it my job to explain the plan.
"There's a Deathclaw. Right there."
"Yessum. You see, we reckon your father has one of them nasty lumps in 'im, and someone oughta pull it out and patch him back up. Ain't much trouble, but we'll need your cooperation."
"Deathclaw."
"Yup. Ah, he's operatin' already. Sorry about that. You might want to look away for a minute."
Shaav was lickin' his fingers off after, and the fella's screaming sounded a lot healthier.
"Ah, good! He's lookin' right as rain there. Tell you what, you come on down in a couple days. Bunker's nice and roomy."
"He's not dead. Shouldn't... I mean a Deathclaw...."
Farsight looked up then.
"We get that a lot."
Last day came all too quick. Met up by Juan's Emporium. Milo walked in first. Told us all to browse the shelves, look like customers.
He was smiling for a bit. Milo walked up to him.
"Ah! Juan! How's civilian life treating you?"
And the smiling stopped.
"John Milo. Thought they'd have hanged you by now."
"Look, you're still alive, and a jammed firearm, well, I did offer the warranty."
Farsight stepped forward.
"Are we missing anything?"
"Ah, yes. This fine fellow is Brotherhood. Or was, until, well, Supermutants, rifle accident, leg injury. Long story, and there's no point in assigning fault."
Juan spoke then.
"Of course not."
Farsight just leaned back a little.
"Well, I wish I could be surprised. Well, bad news first. Hank's dead. Funeral soon. Good news. Johnny there's been a bit less of a shit lately. Or a lot less."
"Define less."
"Risking life and limb for the Brotherhood. Not selling miniguns to raiders. That kind of thing. He's not honest, but he'll get the part to the right people."
Juan looked at us all for a second, then just kinda sighed.
"They at least put him in the box, right?"
"And on suicide missions. If there were more good squad leaders, he'd be on a tree right now."
And the shopkeeper was smiling again.
"Well, it's a start. And any time the rest of you come by, well, Brotherhood's always welcome here. Even the Deathclaw."
Went pretty well, I thought.
And Farsight snapped a salute on the way out.
Went pretty well. And all the robot parts are nice, they're letting all us mechanically inclined folks take a crack when we got time. Figure it can't be too hard to get figgered. Smoothest mission in a long time.
We've been going good, though.
Asked Farsight why she thought it. Didn't have much of an answer.
Milo can sell ice to an Eskimo and then charge an ice-handling fee and a refrigerated goods tax.
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chiasaur11Never doubt a raccoon.Do you think it's trademarked?Registered Userregular
In Which Promotion is discussed.
From the journals of Knight Commander John Milo
Paladin. Old title, dating back more than half a millennium. The twelve greatest warriors in the court of Charlemagne, they were fearless in battle. Generous in victory, defiant in the depths of defeat, and generally the models of military valor.
Also, almost entirely a publicity stunt, which makes the title very dear to my heart.
I was talking to the new mechanic when things started, making sure all the side channels were running properly when one of the squires came by with a message.
"John Milo?"
"Yes?"
"Wow, it is you! Heh, figured you be seven feet tall or... wow. Wait until I tell the guys!"
"Just another ordinary grunt. Why did..."
"General Dekker wants to see you, sir! And you aren't."
Well, I appreciate a compliment, and I'm sure most members of the brotherhood couldn't keep a good black market running for this long.
Magpie was already spreading out to their usual post mission activities, (Drinking, the range, and the like.) which meant taking company was out of the question. I prepared my excuses, general purpose for now, and went ahead.
"General Dekker, you wanted to see me, sir?"
"Yes. Sit down."
So much for a brief dressing down.
"You've been wondering, I suspect, why you aren't a Paladin yet."
"No sir."
The reasons were abundant to the point of absurdity. Only 20% of Paladins weren't Brotherhood born, to start. I was already going up the ranks unusually fast.
And, of course, I was constantly on the edge of disciplinary action.
"Of course you are! Talk of the whole bunker. John Milo, the way I hear it, is a miracle worker. Took rejects and problem soldiers, turned them into the best unit the Brotherhood has seen."
"I wouldn't say that sir."
"No, never. You're too humble."
And he spit.
"But the Elders don't see it the way you do. It's unanimous. Next Paladin is John fucking Milo. In fact, they're saying you've proven yourself well enough to skip the apprenticeship stage, straight to full Paladin. But that won't happen for a very simple reason."
He sucked in breath.
"What makes a Paladin a Paladin?"
Honor? No, cliche answer. And it wouldn't help me. Not training or skill, there are outsiders and knights who can match some of them. I went for the obvious.
"Power armor."
He looked me in the eye then. He didn't want me to know, but I was right already. I just had to stick the dismount.
"And why would that be?"
"Old brotherhood or us, sir? The reasons are different."
"Us."
"It means we're still alive, sir."
"Millions of people share the same distinction."
"No, sir. They just haven't died yet."
"There's a distinction, I assume."
Enough rope to hang myself. Or to climb out.
"Yessir. The old brotherhood, the cities, the raiders, and the vaults? They're all picking off the corpse of the old world. And when the ruins run dry, they fall over. We're building our own armor, our own weapons. It took me more effort than I'd like to find the specs for the old T-51Bs to compare them to the modern, and we're finally coming out ahead. I know the price, and the criticism. Same labor that builds a suit of power armor could build a hundred suits of combat gear for more strict military benefit, but that isn't the point. Paladins are a symbol, sir. They show that no matter what happens, Steel endures. And rebuilds."
He smiled a little. Not dead yet.
"Very good. But some people want the reward without the effort. Vultures. And if you want to earn that armor..."
He slapped some papers on the desk.
"A few days ago, a team of Paladins went to Quincy to relieve some of the Matriarch children on guard duty and protect against a raider attack. The locals were apparently grateful and a celebration seemed natural enough. Several locals used the occasion to poison the group, steal their weapons and armor, and slit their throats. Several guards were involved with the conspiracy, and they have been dealt with accordingly."
He sighed.
"The environmental armor, the weapons... they mean nothing. But..."
"Yessir. The power armor is sacred. I'll inform the troops."
Paladin! The possibilities... but there were more important things.
"Sir, Harris and Stills seemed to have friends in Quincy. How are... Warden Felix, the ghouls, and..."
He swept his hand
"Fine, as far as I can tell. Not that it matters. You are going to Coldwater. You are finding our armor. And you will not show mercy. Are we clear"
"Yessir! I'll grab the troops. "
Well, it's true what they say. Misfortune brings opportunity. You just have to survive long enough to take advantage.
chiasaur11Never doubt a raccoon.Do you think it's trademarked?Registered Userregular
In Which steel is not strong
From the journals of Nina "Farsight" Stills
Don't have long to write. There's some bigtime ceremonial Brotherhood crap going on, and I doubt they'd let me miss it even if I wanted to. Perils of finally standing out.
It doesn't feel good doing it on the graves of decent men and women, but either way, they're settled now, and I couldn't have known then. Or at least, that's what makes sleeping easier.
Turns out some of the Quincy hostages were ungrateful bastards, killed most of our replacement squad, seriously injured the rest, and broke a few bones for every member of the town watch too stupid or too honest to help them with the plan. At least they still had the half shred of conscience to avoid killing any of their own.
We were sent to, well, Milo said rescue the town they were oppressing preferably without lethal force, but that's obviously patented John Milo bullshit. We were there to get back the power armor and kill anyone in our way. The old tech-worshipping bastardry that crops up from time to time.
Insertion went smooth. Maybe it was Shaav's driving.
Or maybe it was the paladin with a plasma rifle and an awful attitude. I don't know how Milo dumped that job on me, but I had to talk to him for the briefing.
"Sir, Squire Stills, callsign Farsight. I'm with Magpie."
"Do I look like I give. a. FUCK? Every second you take to get our armor back is another FUCKING second the Brotherhood of Steel looks weak in front of the wasteland AND WE CANNOT AFFORD THAT! GET YOUR ASSES MOVING!"
I'd rather get a briefing from Rage.
By the time I caught up with Milo, he was already getting better intel from the locals.
"Four layers, easily defensible, thank you very much. I know how this looks, and the Brotherhood will do everything in its power to compensate you fine people for this, well, crime, no better word for it. We failed you, and you can be sure... Ah, one moment."
He turned to face me.
"This is my associate, Nina Stills, on loan from the Desert Rangers out west. Fine folks there, part of our good neighbor programs and such. What do you have for us from the quartermaster?"
"Swearing, and we both get enough of that from Rage. Nothing new."
"Pity. Well, must be off. And... ah. Yes. Harris, we're leaving now."
Babs had a Browning Automatic rifle in her backpack, and was whistling innocently. Which, for most people would be a tell, but Babs seems to always be elbow deep in someone else's pocket, whistling or not.
"Shucks, boss."
"It can wait, at least until we find Shaav. No telling what he's been up to. He's been reading 'Anatomy: Descriptive and Surgical' lately, and as fine a fellow as he is, it could lead to unfortunate impressions of the sort we are working very hard to dispel."
We found him in someone's house. I don't know why he was there. I don't want to know why he was there. And I don't know why the homeowner was stupid enough to be arguing with a Deathclaw.
"Fascist!"
"Shaav not Italian! Shaav 100% American!"
Well, at least some of the history lessons took.
Every second they kept talking was another second closer to the idiot in the house getting a well deserved death, but we would already have enough people shooting us without deserving it.
"Yes you are Shaav. And that means doing your job, so get your ass out of here before I lose my temper."
Unfortunately, the moron managed one more suicide attempt before we were out.
"HOW MANY RECRUIT KIDS YOU KILLED THIS YEAR?"
Shaav looked at his claws and flexed them for a second. I began looking for good cover. Veteran ranger armor is a lot better than most local equipment, but it wouldn't last long with a whole town shooting at us.
"One... Two... three! Shaav ate three kids and Broodmother Farsight say that's okay as long as Shaav very sorry and never do it again except if they shoot at Shaav or Shaav's friends. Goodbye!"
I was about to start breathing again when I noticed something. Call it combat radar, call it instinct, but if you've been around long enough, you start to sense when someone's aiming at you. I hit the dirt just as a round of 5.56mm flew over my head. Brotherhood ammunition. For general purposes, I'd heard a lot of knights swear by it.
Deathclaw hunting, though? There you'd want something more... fifty caliber. Shaav provided an object lesson.
They had Brotherhood guns and armor. But that didn't mean much without training and combat experience. When a Deathclaw comes calling, it separates the veterans from the rookies really, really quickly. Also the rookies from the rookies, in terms of individual limbs.
We were still sorting the salvageable armor bits from the organs when I saw the chapel. I know it's not a majority opinion here, but I've always thought there were things more sacred than tech. And if anyone was unarmed for confession instead of pillaging the place, well, it'd be an easier capture if they'd go quietly, and an easier kill if they wouldn't.
I shouldn't have worried about Guldo's people desecrating the place. Local priest was doing it well enough himself.
At least there was some gear in the back. Flamethrowers, armor, and SAWs from the bandits. I wish I could say that he was the sorriest excuse for a priest I'd ever met.
I also wished he'd drawn on us so I could have killed him and done the wasteland a favor. Well, ineffable plans.
Meanwhile, Milo found the local markets and was busy cornering them. It's kind of sad to watch. They think they're getting a bargain, smiling the whole time. Meanwhile, John is getting everything he wants without losing anything of value.
It's worse when they try to con him. It's worse than Raiders charging us with spears and machetes. At least that's over quickly.
We were running into the cockroach races when this greasy bastard started approaching us. I move my hand for my holster. Magnum isn't too useful for mutants or deathclaws, but it works fine on ordinary scum.
"I would like to speak to, how do you say, the man in charge."
I jabbed a thumb in Milo's direction with my left. Spring clip holster on the right. Just in case.
He gave some crap about mutual respect. Then got to the point.
He wanted us to ice someone for him. Rage was chomping at the bit for the work. I didn't like it. We're soldiers and, if you fall for the stuff they sell initiates, Knights. Not assassins. It's why I can sleep with a couple hundred dead on my conscience.
Milo nodded a little.
"You know, it's funny you should talk about being businessmen. I know exactly what you mean."
"Exactly. We're practical men. Our honor is a practical thing."
"Worked the Brotherhood supply lines for years. Never the, ahem, night trade, it was a little complicated for my tastes, but otherwise, well, men of business."
"So, you'll do me this favor?"
"No."
And our squad leader jammed a plasma pistol into the Don's eye."
"You see, one of the things I learned is never to take an offer when the other party isn't being honest and aboveboard with the facts as given. Oh, you can hold things back here and there, part of the game. But the idea is, well, to use your term, mutual respect. Trust. And fair pay for services supplied. None of those apply here. Which makes this less a business transaction, and more, let's be honest here, a crime."
The way I see things, there hasn't been much difference. But watching the bastard sweat made up for it.
He dropped some supplies as he ran. Stims, drugs, standard lowlife stuff. Probably our pay for the job, if we were dumb enough to take it. Which made this a best case scenario.
Rage didn't seem to be on the same page as I was.
"What the FUCK was that about?"
"Oh, he wanted us to kill a Paladin. Not in anyone's best interest, I think. Anything further would be above both our clearances, walls have ears, and so on."
Rage didn't stop muttering "What the Fuck" until Ice said to shut up.
Have I mentioned before that Oliver is a good person to have around? Of course, at this point, anyone who can shut Rage up is worth knowing.
She gestured towards the ground.
"Bodies."
Rage shrugged.
"Knife wounds. Ain't our fucking problem. I thought the assholes we were looking for had, oh, FUCKING GUNS."
Well, a couple of them didn't. A burst from the Pancor dealt with the problem before they could close the distance.
"Fucking dumbshits. HEY COCKSUCKERS! EVEN THE FUCKING DEATHCLAW KNOWS WHEN TO FUCKING USE GRENADES!"
Milo looked up.
"Lost them gambling, I expect. Anyone else feeling lucky?"
I was the first person to respond.
"Would I be here if I was?"
"Well, I reckon so. Lot more folks dead than walking after one of our little visits, and we're all still here."
Babs had a point, as much as I hate to admit it. I'm good, and I like to think that it isn't all coincidence we're still breathing. But...
We were heading to the tables when another idiot came running at us.
"YOU ASSHOLES! GIVE HER...oh. You're actual Brotherhood, aren't you?"
I stared at him for a second.
"Are you dead for calling us assholes?"
"No...?"
"Then we're the good guys. Problem?"
Apparently, Guldo's gang kidnapped his sister and were planning to rape her. Since they have power armor, he's shit out of luck unless we save the day.
At least it wasn't a long walk.
Babs picked the lock, and we all caught an eyeful of Raider cock.
And I mean full. We all respond differently to seeing one of God's marvels. I went with silent awe, Babs, a dirty joke under her breath. Milo shrugged.
Rage went with plasma.
I doubt there's a worse way to die.
Milo gave the standard "Our pleasure, goodness of our hearts" speech well enough that anyone outside the squad wouldn't guess how pissed he was that we got jack shit for the job, and the "power armor" in the room wasn't. Meaning we had four suits to retrieve still.
And that part of the mission? It went worse than I was expecting.
chiasaur11Never doubt a raccoon.Do you think it's trademarked?Registered Userregular
In Which talking solves few problems.
The Journals of Nina "Farsight" Stills, continued
We headed into the casino after that, job well done, and Milo burned his frustrations at the tables. Apparently, he's banned from every casino he's ever entered.
This one was no exception. Five minutes at longest, and they're several thousand caps in the hole, doing everything they can to get John out the door.
Then I notice Shaav and Rage haven't been in sight for four of the five.
A minigun's whine and a couple explosions by the back entrance makes our exit less conspicuous, and get us the bodies of a couple more thieves. Rage may be a fucking psychopath, but things like this? They make me glad he's our psychopath.
A standard breach and clear found us another one of Guldo's gang in a back room, and everything was going about as smoothly as it could.
Until we found an M2 in one of the supply crates, along with an M60. Heavy weapons were bad enough in big open fields. Here, we'd run into them in close quarters, and anyone could use them if they had power armor.
Also, I spotted a sniper when we moved from building to building. Good position, good weapon. If the man holding it had been halfway competent, we'd have been bleeding and scared running in, maybe a man down. If I'd been up there, we'd all have been dead before anyone else noticed.
Amateurs, and it would cost them their lives.
For example, you don't walk right into LOS when the opposition has shotguns aimed at your head in burst fire mode. Even if you wing one of them, the rest will kill you in seconds.
Shaav patched up any injuries, and we went on. Then I saw it.
Rocket launcher. If we moved to close range, sure, the asshole would blow himself up. But he'd take us with him. I aimed for the eyes, and nearly got my eyebrows singed off when he hit a wall.
He was dead, though, and Rage dealt with the rest. Sniper fire to keep them down, minigun in position when they get back up. They covered it in basic. They also covered what to do when someone is trying it on you, but it didn't seem we'd need to worry about that any time soon.
We go up the stairs like there's nothing left that can threaten us.
And run smack dab into a suit of power armor with a flamethrower. If it was up to spec, we'd have been screwed, even with training. No maneuvering room, and switching the jackhammers to armor piercing slugs would take too long to do us any good.
But the bulletproof lenses were gone. Don't ask me why, probably difficulty with HUD integration or something. Aimed shots and a lot of luck meant we didn't get warm.
And the M2 kept him and his friends from getting up again.
Babs had the armor off the corpse before it cooled.
"Shoot. Reckon this ain't going to work for us. Busted. I could fix it, but it weren't an easy sort of job. Three, four days at best."
Milo shrugged.
"Also incredibly heavy. We can pick it up on the way back. Shame, but you can't expect it to be combat ready immediately after being hit with anti-tank weapons. It's "
Pick it up later. Oh, how we laughed at that before we were done. Bitter, cynical laughter.
The reason? The minefield from hell was outside. I don't know how it worked. I don't know how the chucklefuck morons we were dealing with set something so nasty up. But it was impossible to find the things until you, or someone else, stepped on them. Oh, and clearing an area? No guarantee there wouldn't be more mines deeper. Armor took most of the impact, which is why any of us are still alive.
Oh, and there was a sniper at the end of it, operating from a perfect position. That was really great. I barely managed to tag him when a shot ripped through my shoulder. No permanent damage, and I could still shoot, but it hurt like nothing else.
Which meant I was distracted when Milo tried to disarm a mine.
At least he took it well.
"Technically, it was a success. No serious injuries, no-one dead, and a little scarring is terribly useful in impressing townsfolk. Best possible outcome, I like to think."
We were all just past the minefield when an M2 started yelling at us. Another "If we weren't against fuckups, we'd be dead" moment.
But we were, and we managed to solve the problem.
Bandaged, bruised, and bleeding, I spotted another of the suits. Like the first one, someone was wearing it. Unlike the first one, it was in decent repair.
Also unlike the first, we were in ideal sniping range. It took a couple shots to break the visor, but the one that got in? It bounced. When we checked, the skull was basically chunks of shrapnel covered in a meaty paste.
Everyone else was too busy finding out power armor has limits to notice Rage coming in with the Vindicator.
We marked another bunch of heavy gear for later retrieval, and Milo cut the lights.
"Less obvious approach, more intimidation value. What Batman would do, I'm sure."
"Who?"
"Doesn't matter."
He was right, it made getting the drop on the last few snipers easy.
And it made it easier to ignore the civilians they'd massacred.
Even if the 50 cal bursting let you see the bodies for a second longer than you'd like. Not new, but it's a distraction when you don't need it.
Only one room left for Guldo to hide in. Two suits of armor would be nasty, but we could probably manage.
Ice reloaded the M2, Rage readied the Vindicator...
Milo stood by the door and yelled.
"Guldo? It doesn't need to end this way!"
"You're not taking..."
"I know, you had reasons. They seemed good at the time, I'm sure. But now, there's no way to get out. There's plenty of bodies to pass off as you. Just hand over the armor, surrender quietly. We pass you off as a collaborator or similar. You get a lawyer..."
"Shaav lawyer!"
"Or, you know what, you can be your own attorney if you'd prefer. Everyone with you gets out alive. I can keep your family safe."
"And I just walk away?"
I looked at Milo then. Well, glared would be better.
"Well, no. You're guilty as sin. I can probably wrangle things so you don't die, if you let me, but labor camp seems like a best case scenario. You, well, you did kill Paladins."
I figured it couldn't be left there.
"He killed innocent people. That's more than enough."
"Well, yes. Of course. Either way, I like to think I'm offering the best deal you will hear for the remainder of your life. What do you say?"
"You're probably right on that last count, at least for my art. If a real Paladin was here, you wouldn't have gotten that last offer. Settle any last regrets. You die today."
It got messy, but in the end?
Not one of the bastards got out alive.
Their last words (Probably "Fuck you Brotherhood assholes" or "The pain") were drowned in gunfire. Minimal injuries for us, mission complete.
Then I noticed the problem. Well, the first one.
"Three armors. They said four."
"We checked everywhere. Crap. Well, I'll find a glitch in the inventory system or something. We did all we could at this point. Good work, everyone."
Then Rage went with the bigger issue.
"How the fuck are we going to carry all of this shit?"
Milo just froze.
"Well, we can't leave any ammunition, of course, local gangs might start it over again. And the armor is the assignment. And there's a minefield. Well."
We didn't come up with a solution. Just... walking over the mines, back and forth, carrying absurd amounts of supplies. It was bad enough the first time. Every round after was torture.
Finally, we got everything to the quartermaster, staggered in the humvee, and slumped until Shaav got us back home.
I figured we'd get medical, a shower, and enough alcohol to forget there was such a thing as land mines. Not this time.
Also, I read every instance of Guldo's name as "guido." I feel bad, now.
Nerivant on
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chiasaur11Never doubt a raccoon.Do you think it's trademarked?Registered Userregular
In Which good times are briefly had by most.
From the journals of Nina "Farsight" Stills.
Head still aching from yesterday, and I'm the most combat ready member of the squad. You hear stories of how drunk everyone gets after a Paladin, but it sounds like the standard bravado bullshit.
It wasn't. I've never seen so much alcohol in one place.
But that was the long, hazy end of the night. It started with a call to the Elders with everyone else in the squad. Except Milo.
They looked over a roster. A scribe stepped forward.
"Initiate Oliver"
"Present."
"Initiate Josephs"
"Here."
"Squire Wolcott"
"What the hell do you fucking want?"
"Squire Harris"
"Sure 'nuff!"
"Squire Stills"
"Present."
And then he looked again at the sheet. Twice, even, before he sucked in a lungful of air.
"Doctor Sir Shaav Gammorin Esquire MD PHD GCB OBE."
"Yes!"
He looked at Shaav for a second, mouthed "What the fuck" and shrugged.
"You have served with Knight Commander Milo. You have fought with him, shed blood with him, and seen him at his best and his worst. Does anyone here have reason to deny him the title of Paladin?"
There were words right behind my lips, then I thought for a second.
On one hand, yes. He was a shitty little bastard when we met. Black market deals, dead weight in a firefight. But he'd gotten better. Or stayed the same, but focused on helping the Brotherhood. He'd taken bullets for everyone else. And he managed things that no-one else could.
I stayed quiet. Everyone else did the same.
"I'll take that as a no. Ceremony's in an hour."
I made it in time, but Harris and Josephs had things come up urgently just before.
Apparently, it was a standard ceremony.
Milo swore the oath, which he'd apparently memorized back in January.
And he got the armor, Blue pauldrons and cape with a stylized magpie in white. Another fine entry in the game of "How the hell did he get one ready that fast."
Three cheers, and time for the afterparty.
We go back to the private barracks, and see Babs and Stitch with The Still.
In full working order for the first time in months.
"Ta-daa! Got it all workin' as a sort of an armor warmin' gift."
"You shouldn't have."
Truer words have seldom been spoken. We burned the old insignia as a last semi-official gesture, and then?
Alcohol induced haze.
I know my limits, more or less, and ended the night in a bed. Everyone else was in various puddles of vomit when I last saw them.
And Rage, well, I wouldn't want to be anywhere near him when he wakes up.
Good booze, good squad, and we're most of us still breathing. What more could anyone want in a party?
We also see that the true hero of the story is back in action.
Welcome back, still.
Well, it has seen more men and women through the missions than anything or anyone else.
I propose another promotion. Paladin Still.
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chiasaur11Never doubt a raccoon.Do you think it's trademarked?Registered Userregular
In Which the Dog Days are over.
From the journals of Paladin Lord John Milo
I don't remember last night very well at all, but I am sure I did my armor proud. Not for any past achievement. But there was no vomit on the cape or the inside of my helmet, which is a job well done, all things considered.
Farsight woke me to a remarkable headache. Again, the details of the last night were incredibly vague, but the pain roughly matched the alcohol consumption, making it a minor issue.
I smiled through it, of course. Showing weakness at the wrong time can ruin negotiations for weeks.
"General wants to see you, Paladin. And before you ask, you were drunk, and Shaav was wearing a tux and I don't know what the hell either."
About then I remembered through the haze that no-one could see if I was smiling through the helmet. Also, it was on backwards, which slaughtered what dignity I had.
"Thank you, Farsight."
Rotate helmet. Lock position. Try not to stumble.
I'd read a little about power armor operation when I was young. Old magazines about "Our Boys" giving the dirty ChiComs hell, an operation manual from somewhere which would, I suppose, have been classified, and more recently the Brotherhood instructional guide. It made adjusting a little easier, but fine motor movements would be more or less impossible for a while. This is, I am sad to say, my fifth attempt at logging this little round of thoughts in the PIP.
Still, I managed to stumble my way into the command center.
Dekker was was waiting for me, and I managed a salute while still upright. An excellent showing.
"Paladin Milo reporting for duty, sir."
"And, I expect, drunk off your ass?"
No point in lying.
"Yes, sir. If you want any..."
"I'll ask."
"Yes sir."
"I'm guessing a smart fellow like you already knows what a Paladin Lord is."
Independent operators. No reports except to the Head Elder and, occasionally, the ruling general.
Also, highly classified. Officially, the rank was left behind on the West Coast.
"I probably shouldn't, sir."
"But you do. Well, in light of pressing circumstances we can ignore that, and go through with the promotion ceremony."
He slapped an insignia on the table.
"Congratulations. You're fucking promoted. We have a list of personnel. You'll be briefed with your selections at 800 tomorrow, and I hope for your sake you'll be sober."
"Due respect, but I think I have my selections already. Squire Stills, Squire Harris, Squire Wolcott..."
"I wish it was that easy. The Elders want operational security on this one, and they think their choices will do better than yours. Or a majority do, at any rate, and we're not here to question orders. You'll have to leave Magpie squad to their own devices."
"Yes sir. I recommend leaving Harris in charge. Anyone else, they'll just tear each other apart. And this is an order?"
"I'm afraid so."
Salute. Grab list. Leave.
I rarely hate promotion. This is one of those times.
The candidates!
Cookie. Good news is, she's got great stats. Bad news, she's built for melee, when people have 50 cals and the like. In time, she could be useful, but...
John. Good news, he's a great doctor. Bad news, his traits cancel out, he's not able to carry the good big guns, and his name is redundant.
Vector. Same basic abilities as Farsight, but with less small guns, better sneak, and no outdoorsmanship.
Kaisa. No combat abilities. At all. Milo's bad enough.
Bob. Remember what I said about Cookie? That, but moreso.
Fran. Same principle, but she can sneak to get the drop on enemies, so that's something.
Pump. Yeah, I'm out of things to say on this kind of mutant.
Boomer. Good with explosives. Not so good with rifles and shotguns. Still, some uses.
Chuck. Not good at range thanks to lousy perception, but at least he can shoot.
Toni. Good with big guns. Very good, even. Bad AC, though.
And Harold. No, a different Harold with a tree growing out of his head. Easy mistake to make.
You've seen the options. Now make an informed decision. Hopefully, not one based entirely on making me suffer.
Forgiving me for saying it, but they all look pretty shit. Why is one built for melee, but with 5 strength? Another built for big guns but without the strength to carry them? And the supermutants with gun skills have poor AG, PE, and LK.
Milo is obviously being punished for something. Personally I'd recommend Cookie, Bob, Kaisa, Fran, and Pump. Although I think that's maybe based on making you suffer.
Do the regular Milo thing.
Talk to the bigwigs, get them to invest in your company, then walk away with Magpie squadron at your side and the wigs convinced that it's exactly what they wanted.
Cause Shaav's gonna be pissed if you leave him at home.
First, is this temporary or permanent? If temp, these're my choices. If perm, fuck what the brass wants, send the idiots wherever Magpie officially gets assigned, jump in the truck, and tell Shaav to drive to our next mission. By the time they figure it out, John can have the boys up top convinced that it was a mutiny.
Now, temp ideas:
Take Vector, because John probably can't sleep at night without someone at least Farsight-esque watching his back at this point.
Then take Kaisa because I believe she has the exact same face sprite as Farsight, and I want to see you justify that. Bonus points for long-lost sisterhood or something similarly cliche. This also feeds into the above.
Toni seems useful.
Chuck. Any PER bonus items you could strap onto him?
You've gotta take Boomer, for the character scenes.
Well, remember that one of the best strategies for the coming mission is putting a character in power armor, loading them to the gills with drugs, and winning with your 100%+ damage threshhold.
My reccommendation is you have have John (Milo) sit out the combat; have John (old doctor/samurai) solo the mission like a true Paladin Lord spec ops agent (chem resistant sucks, but he's the only one who can use heavy weapons and power armor); and have Pump/Cookie/Fran/Bob get fed to the robots like they deserve.
Forgiving me for saying it, but they all look pretty shit.
That's my initial thought, too.
Make sure Vector and Kaisa are part of the team. Kaisa for the face=Farsight issue, Vector so that you have someone actually competent at long-range combat. Bonus points for being an ex-stripper.
Take Pump because ... seriously? Pump?
Then take Toni for the energy weapons skill, give her something heavy with the plasmas, and let he go to town. Plus, Toni/Pump 'shipping.
Don't have much to say about this. They all look kinda awful. But I'd take Vector and John at least. A sniper and a doctor'll be useful, even though it's not Doctor Sir Shaav Gammorin Esquire MD PHD GCB OBE.
M A G I K A Z A M
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chiasaur11Never doubt a raccoon.Do you think it's trademarked?Registered Userregular
In Which John Milo makes friends and influences people.
From the journals of Paladin Lord John Milo
I met with Stills and Harris before we left. Details would be a breach of trust, of course, but the raw basics seem an acceptable courtesy.
And it always helps to have another eye for the dossiers. Little details and the like.
"I'll be brief. Dekker assigned me long range patrol and troop evaluations. One power armor missing on the reports is more difficult to explain than I expected, you know how it is. I'll be working with five of these soldiers. Any advice?"
Babs had nothing to add of course, except the simple fact none of them knew how to secure a locker, but Farsight was more helpful.
"Asshole, bitch, asshole, asshole, brown nosing asshole... shit."
"Kaisa? So, you know her?"
"Second cousin or something. Mom's side of the family. You are not working with her."
"She's that intolerable?"
"No. She's fine. But she's even worse than you are at frontline work. I like her too much to let you get her killed."
She paused for a second.
"And vice versa."
"So, no-one you would recommend?"
She pulled out a sheet. Vector's by the look of it.
"I said she was a bitch. I didn't say she was a bad soldier. John's good from everything I've heard. Brotherhood longer than we've been alive. Maybe a couple mutants to soak bullets. And Fran's supposedly good enough to kill anything that breathes if you give her a ripper."
"Thank you. I had roughly the same plans already, but it's good to have them confirmed. Harris?"
"Yessir!"
"You're in charge until I get back."
"Will do."
I expected more of a reaction.
"Is there... anything else? It could be a while."
Babs blushed, if there's any way to tell with a ghoul.
"Could you, uh, sign somethin' for me? Remember you by until you come back and suchlike."
Well, I signed it. Just a sheet of paper, although I have a voice murmuring it won't be an ordinary sheet of paper by this time tomorrow. She's learned her lessons well on the subject of Brotherhood official procedure and useful gaps therein. I'm proud. And worried for the future. Mostly proud.
I managed to meet with the new squad at Dekker's office. No discussion with the group as a whole beyond "Special assignment". It's better to start things as "Professional Paladin Lord" rather than "John Milo, who just ten months ago tried to sell you the Field Museum."
Most of the time, at any rate. Personal talk would come later.
The briefing was fairly quick.
"So, you're all here. Good. You've heard about the menace from the west. Prewar synthetics "purifying" the wasteland. They're finally in range. Great Bend. "
General nodding, even from the supermutants. Still not time to talk.
"We found out in the worst way possible. Switchblade squad was KIA in the initial encounter. Paladin Lord Milo will be leading the mission. He is one of our finest, and you will respect his authority."
I'm amazed he managed to keep a straight face. Still, it set the right note.
"Get your equipment and get ready to move. Rescue any survivors, destroy any robots, secure any tech. Standard rules of engagement. Dismissed."
I headed for the jeep to wait and greet the troops as they came. A little one on one time tends to be a better place for chitchat than the alternatives so far.
John was first.
"So, you're the hot-shot Paladin. Not the first one I've worked with."
"I hope I can live up to their examples."
He snorted.
"It won't be hard. They're all dead."
"I hope to surpass them."
"Good luck, kid. You try and do that. Paladin Lords are the ones who get the job done. You're not usually the ones who come back alive after. I'll try to pick up the pieces."
He rummaged in the trunk. Most of the heavy weapons went to the old squad, but I'd kept a couple pieces when I knew a buyer or thought it would be needed.
"Flamethrower and a 249. Not bad. First time things went so wrong I wound up on the frontline, we had one of the SAWS. Didn't know how to fire it, I was a medic. But I held down the trigger and got lucky. A raider got chopped in two, the others ran at the sight. Wasn't enough of anyone else to patch, but I managed to hold out until reinforcement showed."
"I hope you've gotten better since."
"Better, yes. Luckier, not particularly."
And with that encouraging thought, into the hummer for him.
Next came Cookie and Pump. Together. Giggling.
I hate to spoil a special moment, so words were kept to a minimum. I told them the melee weapons were in the trunk, they each grabbed a super sledge, and climbed in. I was very glad to be in the driver's seat this time. The other positions looked... cramped.
Vector came after that.
"Ah, Vector. Farsight mentioned you were an excellent sniper. Pleasure to make your acquaintance."
"Heh. Bitch told you I was good. Did she say I was the best?"
"No."
I refrained from mentioning she kept the title to herself. It seemed contentious at best.
"Of course not. She couldn't take the damage to her ego. Well, now you'll see how a real sniper handles things. "
"I'll be glad to. Pleasure to work with you."
She grabbed a sniper rifle and one of the surplus Neosteads. All to the good.
As soon as she was gone, I had a ripper at my throat.
I'm not the most observant man in the world, but generally if someone is coming towards me with a chainsaw sword, I notice.
"Fran, I assume? Please say you aren't planning to move the device at my throat further. The armor might break it, and then we'll both be in the box."
"Right."
She stepped into view without a sound.
"Just testing your observation skills. I like knowing the strengths and weaknesses of anyone I'm working with, sir."
"I'm guessing I failed?"
"At least you noticed before I broke the skin."
I can't say it was my ideal squad, but they have potential. And without Farsight mapping a route, we'll probably have time to get to know each other in combat.
Farsight isn't mapping and I'm driving. There's no chance we'll avoid trouble.
chiasaur11Never doubt a raccoon.Do you think it's trademarked?Registered Userregular
edited November 2011
In Which Milo's credentials are questioned
John Bierce: Combat journal.
New hot-shot Paladin. I guess I hadn't been seeing enough people die lately, or I was all out of people I know. Either way, it's going to be a pain in the ass washing all the blood off my armor after this mission. And apparently one of the other poor suckers they roped in is an Elder's sister, or half sister, or something which will only be more fun when explaining everything.
Shit, this is why I try to stay in the infirmary and avoid fieldwork. But no, Brotherhood needs grunts more than neurosurgeons.
First night out was pretty dull.
Some fancy bandits tried to hold us up, we killed 'em. Paladin said they were Reavers, but at my age you stop giving a fuck what fancy names they go for. Raiders is raiders, sea to shining irradiated sea.
Then we found some bodies other than the raiders. Well, not bodies, exactly. Robots or something. The paladin held his wrist up to 'em and looked back and forth for a bit. Then I looked a little closer.
Now, I don't know that much about the PIP-boys. Brotherhood hands 'em out to recruits nowadays and you try to ignore the beeping while you do your fucking job. Yes, I know you can link with other whatchumacallums to have them do something. You said it fifteen times.
But I'd seen enough to know the Paladin's didn't have a big Brotherhood label strapped on it like everyone else's.
I mean, I give it a couple weeks at best until it stops mattering, but the recruiters probably missed something. Or a lot of things.
He turned to us a second after that.
"Well, I have good news and bad. The good is we are definitely headed in the right direction! The bad news is the robots seem... slightly more durable than would be ideal."
The sniper, Vector or something, stared at him.
"Are they bulletproof?"
"No, not entirely, I mean, if you had sufficient time..."
"Then I can deal with them. Might want to tell the idiots with the knives and hammers to stay back."
Overconfidence. Never seen that before.
Next night, more raiders.
Fran was gone from the hummer by the time I had the SAW ready.
And there were a lot of bodies waiting outside even before the sniper and I were going. Paladin didn't manage much. He said he was busy driving. Ha. Busy being a coward is more likely, from all I hear. Oh, the surface stories are negotiator, thinker, tactician.
Most of the time, they're just cover for some overpromoted idiot with contacts who likes to hide while other people do his dying.
He stopped at a farm to buy one 50 caliber Depleted Uranium round. That doesn't scream combat experience. Sniper, she went for 7.62 and a shotgun. Nice and reasonable. The 50 Cals, less so. They'd be overkill on power armor. I've seen mutants, I've seen raiders, even killed a Deathclaw once. None of them needed that much raw firepower with armor piercing rounds. Rookie overkill.
On the other hand, he apparently got it free. Guess they're teaching unimportant things first for Paladins, and skipping "what it's like to have a friend die in your arms when you can't do anything."
Tough course, admittedly. 50% pass rate at best. Between him and the mutants, I only trust half of this group to pull their own weight.
And I only trust one of us to get out alive.
Addendum:
I have no idea what happened today. None. 30 years in the field, and as much time with a medical textbook as anyone, and I can't explain it. Invisible people, and the sounds...
The Paladin said it was perfectly normal, and shrugged it off. Fran just shivered.
"I know how to hide. This wasn't hiding. I don't know what it was, but..."
And the mutants seemed to dumb to notice just how wrong it all was. Sniper? She was just mad there was nothing to shoot.
Well, won't be dealing with them all for long, right? We're reaching Great Bend tomorrow. Do or die.
Guessing the Paladin will die. But things do happen. Should be worth finding out.
chiasaur11Never doubt a raccoon.Do you think it's trademarked?Registered Userregular
In Which everything goes straight to hell.
From the Journal of John Milo
Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!
...collect yourself, Milo. Language like Wolcott's won't solve anything. Of course, the situation could be better, for example, just off the top of my head, I could have a single fellow survivor in sight, or the robots could have left.
But look on the bright side. The robots are playing perfectly agreeable music while going about their business. Call me sentimental, but God Bless America stirs the heartstrings, even when interrupted by gunfire and screaming.
I should record how it all started. For posterity.
We arrived a few hours before dawn. No resistance on entry. No cheers for the heroes of the brotherhood. No screams for "You Bastards" to go home. Brief street sweeping didn't find anything.
Then Bierce found a survivor.
He said something in an incomprehensible hobo dialect about robots. Then, all hell broke loose, if I may be pardoned the cliche.
Cookie and Julia, no, Pump, I might as well give him the dignity of his chosen title, charged forward into the advancing army of robots. The robots for their part stood still, staring at them.
Then a voice out of a Vault PA system spoke.
"Mutation level: Severe. Priority 1."
They fought, I'll give them that. Somehow, Pump ripped one apart before it killed him.
But it didn't do much good.
John, Vector, and Fran began tearing into them, then. Rippers, the SAW, sniper rifles. Everything we'd scavenged bounced off. Then, the voice again.
"Mutation level: Significant. Identities: Not confirmed. Probable communist sympathizers. Lethal force authorized."
Fran died first. Not even a chance to fire once they closed distance.
I gave the order to withdraw as they torn into Vector, 7.62 and buckshot bouncing off the steel of the synthetic army.
Too late. Much too late.
And then they came for me.
The same stares. Then?
"Mutation levels: Minimal. Human baseline, confirmed. John Milo, Vault 58, citizen 1765. Have a pleasant day, and God Bless America."
And they headed back to their patrols. I was shocked. Frozen. And I still can't pop my head up to fight.
Oh, thinking it over has helped. Light joint damage from heavier weapons means solid slugs would tear the robots apart. Energy weapons and power armor should give me a fighting chance, if push comes to shove.
But I can't force myself out to do my duty, even if it means the death of everyone else. Simple cowardice, nothing more than that. It's wrong and hazardous to all the things I value in the long run, from the high ideals of the constitution down to the day to day muck of the syndicate, but I'm paralyzed.
Fortunately, I'm not the first to feel reluctant to fight. They had a solution during the Anchorage campaign. Psycho, the greatest of the pre-war combat stimulants. Admittedly, it has side effects, but for a single shot, I should be fine. Still, keeping records. Fine on Psycho doesn't mean fine when shot.
Entry 1: Light mental fogging. Pain response dulled. Increased rage response, which could be a problem if there are any other survivors. Still, provided energy to find, terminate multiple synthetic hostiles with sustained fire from rifled Pancor Jackhammer slugs.
Recognized one of the bodies from... January? A long time. She had supplies with my name written in them, mainly books. Took them, of course. Rare but wonderful when robbing from the dead can be honestly taken as a courtesy and a service.
Still, damn shame.
Entry 2: Found, disabled multiple synthetic hostiles with plasma fire. Bastards got off too easy. Increased Corticosteroid production according to the PIPboy.
Found a switch to cut off the barriers, and more corpses. Fucking robot bastards.
Let 'em get close. Blast them with slugs.
Chewed some afterburn, kept going.
PIPboy keeps beeping. Can't see why, I feel fine. Still, injected stimpaks to shut it up.
Multiple hostiles in factory. Seem to be building more.
Laser works. Good accuracy and range.
Opened lock to find supplies, the syndicate might find use.
Entry 3: Still able to form coherent thoughts. Fine. Barricades in my way. Stupid. Can't think why.
Pain response gone. Using automated systems in armor to handle medical needs. Can't tell on own.
Just notice the killing. Killing all the bastards. Psycho helps. Not raving yet, good sigh. Sign.
Found medical kits. Might try later.
Shot with M-60. Armor shrugs it off. No, psycho shrugs it off.
Entry 4:
Heard noise not robot. Went to find.
Attacked by load lifters. Stabbed in torso, legs. Kept going.
Killed.
Found survivor. Whining.
Wanted to kill. Psycho thinking, not me. Left quickly. I left quickly. Try to keep thinking. Need to keep thinking.
Robots. Fucking robots. More bodies. Killed. Kill kill kill.
Found another survivor. Friendly. Didn't hear much.
Managed to say "Brotherhood of Steel, here to help." Good job. Good job.
Posts
Whelp, it's been a good last couple of days, I reckon. Been working with the squad, seein' interesting people and the like. Milo took us to a couple stops on the way down to Delta Bunker.
We met with some merchants and the like, where I snagged us some of them fancy Pancor Jackhammers and slugs. I may have forgotten to pay for 'em, though. Just one of those things.
At any rate, when we got down to the new bunker an' started to talk with everyone, Milo goes off to meet and greet with the locals. Well, they called it a bunker, but it was just a bunch of old buildings. Squad leader went and told me he liked the old kind better, with all the underground fixins. More homey, the way he figgers it. Can't rightly say I understand it all the way, been sleeping under the stars enough to get to like it, but it takes all kinds.
So, we're all swapping stories and waiting for Stitch to come in with the medical to patch up any folks who were hurting when John comes back smiling.
"Good news!"
Farsight looked over at him.
"Graft is legal?"
"Ha! Jocular, but no. We're cementing an alliance of sorts. You may remember certain wild rumors about robots."
Rage said somethin' next
"Fucking rumors? I heard a rumor. It involves me cutting someone's fucking head off and pissing down the fucking stump if I don't get straight fucking answers!"
Rage is a mighty colorful character. Always a pleasure to be around, even if some folks don't think so.
"At any rate, a small town near here has... dealt with one. Effectively. We've been assigned the investigation, and to, if possible, convince them to accept the protection of the Brotherhood."
"No risk, plenty of fresh air for those of you who like that kind of thing, and we collect some impressive technology. What could be better? If your answer is a thriving market community with vibrant local color, including all the amenities of civilization, well, you're in luck again. Junction City is one of the best places to meet and mingle outside of the Brotherhood itself. It must seem too good to be true, but here we are."
"Whore houses?"
Ice spoke up then.
"No."
She and Rage are funny together, all I can say there.
It sounded a mite on the dull side, but when you've been around long enough, dull sounds as good as anything else. So, Shaav got behind the wheel and we all rode on out.
Mostly an uneventful ride. Except the bit where we ran into a bunch of mutants and weird fellas.
Everybody was yelling and shooting at everybody else so's that we only had to clean up after.
They were carrying some impressive stuff. Brotherhood gear, plasma guns, and all. I hadn't seen most of that stuff 'ceptin in old books and the like. I mean, it was fancy.
Rage seemed impressed, and went poking at it. Awful clever when he wants to be.
Folks didn't seem too happy when we got there. Thought it might be Shaav's breath at first, poor fella, but he brushed a week ago. Turned out half of it was because we were Brotherhood. Not everybody had as much of a reason to like us as the folks back in Quincy. Stories about stealing kids, sending everybody to work camps and the like. Just the same kind of thing people say about Ghouls I figgered, until Milo winced under his environmental armor.
"Some of it's true. Not much, but I will admit some of our past actions have been less than perfect. Rest assured, however, we are only here to help. Well, that and to visit... Juan's Market, I think. Even in Chicago the deals are legendary."
I guess you might call that defusing the situation a little. Anyway, people started walking away.
Farsight seemed a little puzzled anyway.
"Juan's?"
"Only place I could remember. Been a while since I made deals stretching to junction city, and it was a useful hub back then."
Well, we were walking around a little, and a fella came up to us all excited for some reason. Said he wanted to sell us a robot part.
Milo acted awful friendly. Then again, he's always acting awful friendly
"A shame to hear about your mother, and a pleasure to hear that you found one of the robot parts you need. Of course, you wouldn't be in this particular situation with proper insurance."
"Insur..."
"And, what do you know, we have introductory rates today. Once in a lifetime!"
"Well, I dunno... my momma ain't... I mean..."
"Ah, I see. Not as urgent, just a fiscal difficulty. Shame, we have a doctor in town. Perhaps I could interest you in personal insurance. Or, may I interest you in syndicate shares? Partial ownership, in the long term..."
And on like that, until he had the part and everything else the fella was carrying.
I looked over, and the part happened to be a sex toy on a toaster, which, pleasant as one of those can be when a lady happens to be all alone at night, ain't exactly worth the money the fellow was asking.
"Milo? That robot part isn't..."
"Oh, yes. Clearly. But I do like to help people out in their time of need."
Times like that, I start to think I'm not exactly the least honest person in the squad.
Well, we go in to the town hall to talk about the robot that they were dealing with, but it didn't go as well as it could.
Mayor's assistant and Farsight were at each other's throat from the start. I mean, I like Stills, she's a fine person and all, but she's like a lot of folks around here. A bit prickly. So when she gets into talking with a person who doesn't much like her, well, things get messier than a room full of angry polecats.
"Fits you want to talk to Casey. Shit sticks together."
"Say that again. Go on..."
Milo broke it up, though.
"Well, look at the time! Lovely to meet you, mayor waiting, talk more later, please don't kill anyone."
Getting the mission got Farsight and Rage over the whole assistant issue quick enough.
Nina just got to talking about the actual shooting.
"What are we up against?"
"Reavers."
"I meant what are they, and how many. Robotic combat units, gigantic mutated bison, supermutants...?"
"No. Never heard of half that. They're just people."
Rage stared a little.
"Just raider assholes? Shit, we dealt with worse on the way over."
Milo nodded.
"Like I said, we're professionals, and the situation is well in hand. Jackhammers loaded, let's visit Hank, see what he knows. Sounds like a charming fellow, if prone to... indiscretions but let he who is without sin..."
Farsight leaned over next to me as Milo went on talking.
"I really hate when people take that quote out of context. And it's one of the most questionably canonical passages in the whole book. ...sorry, just had to say it."
Well, not my problem, I suppose. Just glad I could help her there.
We walk on out, and head for Hank's when she finally stops talking about it. And I don't mean gradually windin' down like she usually does when a bee gets buzzing in her bonnet. Just... stops.
Then she starts again with "EAT DIRT!"
And suddenly we're all in a big old firefight again.
Farsight and Rage pinned all them Reavers down while Milo worked around with his Jackhammer.
A last one walks in front of Farsight and we're done.
Rage and Milo go ahead to see if the Hank fella's okay.
He weren't. We saw his wife then, and there was nothin' to say. Not really. Only thing that makes it hurt less fresh that I've seen is going through it time and again, and I wouldn't wish that on other folks. And your hurt doesn't usually make theirs less, not when hers is fresh and yours has a couple decades to cool.
Still, Milo nodded in all the right places, didn't bring up anything untoward. Just being a gentleman proper. We walk back out, paying our respects and promising to help with the funeral. Rage grabbed the Plasma rifle on the ground and hefted it a little. And Milo started drawing up plans once we were out.
"We have walls, right?"
"About 20 feet, good cover, clear LOS, snipers... We have a killing field, ladies and gents."
We got up on top, Ice guarded the door with an M2, and we went to work.
The Reavers were just standing there, waiting for an opening.
We never gave it to 'em. Milo did offer a chance for them to surrender, but they never took it, kept talking about Satansoft and such. Never heard of half the computery things they were mentioning. Guess that comes from being crazy folks.
Survivors ran back to try and regroup out of range, and normally, that'd be enough. But they were holding technology we were sent for and that meant more fussin' and hollerin'.
Farsight, Shaav, Rage, and Ice went on ahead to smoke them on out. Farsight picked up a couple of mines and found a couple more. Kept us from being sprayed with acid, which hurts even in environmental armor.
Then Rage went and found a new toy. Vindicator minigun, he said. I talked to Ice later, and apparently it was all kinds of impressive just before the war. German minigun built for anti-armor work, and stolen by our boys to work with power armor for the big war. Not normally the sort of thing you carry without a special rig, but Rage seemed happy to try it out, and I didn't want to leave the poor fella sadder than a rained out picnic.
We got some nicks and bruises going on ahead, but nothin' Shaav couldn't deal with.
And Farsight found a spot real nice for sniping. Said a couple of 'em took more to down than ordinary folks, and some of the bodies had weird bits and bobs, but compared to the mutants, this was a vacation. External guards went down to snipers.
First floor Ice had the Browning. Made a lot of a mess.
And most of the ones outside, well, Milo's finally figuring out the Pancor these days. It's a fine little gun, lots of power, not much kill, full auto. Not really the kind to prefer a gun when another solution does the job but when you've got to go with that kind of thing, it's works alright.
Besides, it conceals nicely for when you're working with civilized folks again, the kind who don't get too riled up if stuff goes a little on the missin' side.
The last Reaver outside, poor fella, stepped right in front of Shaav, crotch at claw level. It weren't any kind of pretty. At least Shaav didn't eat anything until after killin' this time. He's learning good habits from Farsight, seems like.
We all gathered up and went ahead.
Milo took out a mine when opening the door.
And we found ourselves a robot bit. Farsight said it matched up with something they saw earlier, and it wasn't good news.
All I knew was it looked ready to soak up a lot of firepower, and hardly seemed scratched. Heck, if'n I had the full set, I could patch it up with enough time. Farsight and Rage went upstairs.
Farsight found two bodies, one they made, one she did. Natural enough, once I heard that, I assumed it was one of them revenge things. She said she saw a hostile first. Reckon'd if she'd seen the body instead, might have succumbed to temptation, made it go a little slower.
Rage got the last couple with his fancy new gun, and we went to cleaning. Buried the bodies that weren't Reaver, took any technology we found, and went back to town. Half the job in the bag right off which looked alright.
Mayor seemed happier when we were all done, if a mite sarcastic.
Milo made sure to keep his ear while he got out an idea he'd been messing with.
"Now, obviously, you'd want to preserve an independent state of operation. Ideally, this would be a no fuss, no complication issue, but in the current climate, well..."
"We can take care of ourselves with the Reavers gone. We dealt with the robot well enough."
"And mutants? No need to answer, I can tell. What you would want, I guess, would be our protectorate package. No issues with anything beyond a slight tax, I know, hate them myself, and in exchange, the whole town can have basic protection whenever it wants. I can leave a pamphlet."
"Pamphlets."
Well, it wasn't the best I'd ever seen, but the printing was real nice, and the writing was good. Just needed a catchy slogan. The mayor kinda goggle eyed, and we stepped out.
"Right then. Jobs well done. Welcome to paid leave, everyone."
"Wait. What the fuck?"
Rage spoke for all of us about then, even if the language was on the rough side. Leave was all kinds of a surprise.
"I budgeted an extra few days for this mission on the logs, and there are few places better suited to a rousing vacation. Have fun."
And, well, we did, way I see it.
Don't know what everyone else was doing most of the time. I generally helped myself to some... less guarded things. Books, alcohol, ammo. Folks leave it lying around, things tend to go that way, I reckon. Better me than someone less honest and scrupulous. Even left a tab with Milo once we were leaving.
Rage and Ice were a bit miffed. Said something about these nasty critters in the sewer and a "piece of shit machine gun". Still, generally sounded all romantic.
Farsight said she was busy at the local chapel prayin' for the dead and pulling charity work. She seems to like it. Church bells ringing in the middle of a gunfight or something like that. Shaav was being all helpful in the charity, awful sweet of him.
And Milo was working on his vacation, seemed like. I saw him in a bar trying for some robot part.
Bartender didn't seem to like him much, no matter the angle.
"Ah, a Tragic fan. I can get you, oh, the power sixteen for the part? Only eight of each as far as I can tell."
"You play, fuckface?"
"Well, no, old rule, never sample your own wares, applies to psycho, applies to mentats, applies to Tragic. Keeps me impartial there."
"Fuck off."
"Well, we could play for it, but that seems unfair to start. Craps? Caravan?"
"Fuck. Off."
"Hmm. We do seem to be at an impasse."
"Does "impasse" mean you're getting out of here you Brotherhood piece of shit?"
"No, not really. It might mean I own the contract to your bar. It would be a shame if anything were to happen."
And then Milo made a hand gesture at me of some sort or other. It was a bit hard to guess. Still, I decided to look through what all I'd picked up.
Didn't have any of the guns with me, stashed them in the hummer to carry more of other people's stuff, which would be bad if it came down to a fuss.
Did have the papers from the town hall for the bar, which would be good if'n it didn't.
"Commander? Got the files you wanted."
"Ah! My associate, Miss Harris. She tends to handle certain matters of legal difficulty when my primary council is unavailable."
"Sounds more like a hot piece of ass on the side. Want to see what a real man is like, babe?"
"Classy as always, Rick. Classy as always. No, I assure you, she has many gifts beyond... that sort of thing, which I wouldn't know about at all. Your bar is now, in point of fact, my bar. Robot part or get out. Or, legally, we have the third option. I shoot you."
He seemed as angry with us for leaving as he did when I came in.
Milo bought me a drink after. Awful nice.
Next day, met up with Farsight and Shaav. Talked a little, seemed they were doing some housecalls. Most places don't got enough stims most of the time, and good doctors aren't common. Heard someone was sick, so they went to help.
Well, and there was a good mechanic living in the same house, which would be mighty helpful after losing so many when the Supermutants went around.
I was kind of the best talker there, which made it my job to explain the plan.
"There's a Deathclaw. Right there."
"Yessum. You see, we reckon your father has one of them nasty lumps in 'im, and someone oughta pull it out and patch him back up. Ain't much trouble, but we'll need your cooperation."
"Deathclaw."
"Yup. Ah, he's operatin' already. Sorry about that. You might want to look away for a minute."
Shaav was lickin' his fingers off after, and the fella's screaming sounded a lot healthier.
"Ah, good! He's lookin' right as rain there. Tell you what, you come on down in a couple days. Bunker's nice and roomy."
"He's not dead. Shouldn't... I mean a Deathclaw...."
Farsight looked up then.
"We get that a lot."
Last day came all too quick. Met up by Juan's Emporium. Milo walked in first. Told us all to browse the shelves, look like customers.
He was smiling for a bit. Milo walked up to him.
"Ah! Juan! How's civilian life treating you?"
And the smiling stopped.
"John Milo. Thought they'd have hanged you by now."
"Look, you're still alive, and a jammed firearm, well, I did offer the warranty."
Farsight stepped forward.
"Are we missing anything?"
"Ah, yes. This fine fellow is Brotherhood. Or was, until, well, Supermutants, rifle accident, leg injury. Long story, and there's no point in assigning fault."
Juan spoke then.
"Of course not."
Farsight just leaned back a little.
"Well, I wish I could be surprised. Well, bad news first. Hank's dead. Funeral soon. Good news. Johnny there's been a bit less of a shit lately. Or a lot less."
"Define less."
"Risking life and limb for the Brotherhood. Not selling miniguns to raiders. That kind of thing. He's not honest, but he'll get the part to the right people."
Juan looked at us all for a second, then just kinda sighed.
"They at least put him in the box, right?"
"And on suicide missions. If there were more good squad leaders, he'd be on a tree right now."
And the shopkeeper was smiling again.
"Well, it's a start. And any time the rest of you come by, well, Brotherhood's always welcome here. Even the Deathclaw."
Went pretty well, I thought.
And Farsight snapped a salute on the way out.
Went pretty well. And all the robot parts are nice, they're letting all us mechanically inclined folks take a crack when we got time. Figure it can't be too hard to get figgered. Smoothest mission in a long time.
We've been going good, though.
Asked Farsight why she thought it. Didn't have much of an answer.
"I guess God just likes Milo".
...On second thought, I can work with that.
Why I fear the ocean.
Does Rage remind anyone else of Jane from Firefly... with more swearing?
Paladin. Old title, dating back more than half a millennium. The twelve greatest warriors in the court of Charlemagne, they were fearless in battle. Generous in victory, defiant in the depths of defeat, and generally the models of military valor.
Also, almost entirely a publicity stunt, which makes the title very dear to my heart.
I was talking to the new mechanic when things started, making sure all the side channels were running properly when one of the squires came by with a message.
"John Milo?"
"Yes?"
"Wow, it is you! Heh, figured you be seven feet tall or... wow. Wait until I tell the guys!"
"Just another ordinary grunt. Why did..."
"General Dekker wants to see you, sir! And you aren't."
Well, I appreciate a compliment, and I'm sure most members of the brotherhood couldn't keep a good black market running for this long.
Magpie was already spreading out to their usual post mission activities, (Drinking, the range, and the like.) which meant taking company was out of the question. I prepared my excuses, general purpose for now, and went ahead.
"General Dekker, you wanted to see me, sir?"
"Yes. Sit down."
So much for a brief dressing down.
"You've been wondering, I suspect, why you aren't a Paladin yet."
"No sir."
The reasons were abundant to the point of absurdity. Only 20% of Paladins weren't Brotherhood born, to start. I was already going up the ranks unusually fast.
And, of course, I was constantly on the edge of disciplinary action.
"Of course you are! Talk of the whole bunker. John Milo, the way I hear it, is a miracle worker. Took rejects and problem soldiers, turned them into the best unit the Brotherhood has seen."
"I wouldn't say that sir."
"No, never. You're too humble."
And he spit.
"But the Elders don't see it the way you do. It's unanimous. Next Paladin is John fucking Milo. In fact, they're saying you've proven yourself well enough to skip the apprenticeship stage, straight to full Paladin. But that won't happen for a very simple reason."
He sucked in breath.
"What makes a Paladin a Paladin?"
Honor? No, cliche answer. And it wouldn't help me. Not training or skill, there are outsiders and knights who can match some of them. I went for the obvious.
"Power armor."
He looked me in the eye then. He didn't want me to know, but I was right already. I just had to stick the dismount.
"And why would that be?"
"Old brotherhood or us, sir? The reasons are different."
"Us."
"It means we're still alive, sir."
"Millions of people share the same distinction."
"No, sir. They just haven't died yet."
"There's a distinction, I assume."
Enough rope to hang myself. Or to climb out.
"Yessir. The old brotherhood, the cities, the raiders, and the vaults? They're all picking off the corpse of the old world. And when the ruins run dry, they fall over. We're building our own armor, our own weapons. It took me more effort than I'd like to find the specs for the old T-51Bs to compare them to the modern, and we're finally coming out ahead. I know the price, and the criticism. Same labor that builds a suit of power armor could build a hundred suits of combat gear for more strict military benefit, but that isn't the point. Paladins are a symbol, sir. They show that no matter what happens, Steel endures. And rebuilds."
He smiled a little. Not dead yet.
"Very good. But some people want the reward without the effort. Vultures. And if you want to earn that armor..."
He slapped some papers on the desk.
"A few days ago, a team of Paladins went to Quincy to relieve some of the Matriarch children on guard duty and protect against a raider attack. The locals were apparently grateful and a celebration seemed natural enough. Several locals used the occasion to poison the group, steal their weapons and armor, and slit their throats. Several guards were involved with the conspiracy, and they have been dealt with accordingly."
He sighed.
"The environmental armor, the weapons... they mean nothing. But..."
"Yessir. The power armor is sacred. I'll inform the troops."
Paladin! The possibilities... but there were more important things.
"Sir, Harris and Stills seemed to have friends in Quincy. How are... Warden Felix, the ghouls, and..."
He swept his hand
"Fine, as far as I can tell. Not that it matters. You are going to Coldwater. You are finding our armor. And you will not show mercy. Are we clear"
"Yessir! I'll grab the troops. "
Well, it's true what they say. Misfortune brings opportunity. You just have to survive long enough to take advantage.
Why I fear the ocean.
I don't know about you, but I'm not sure I'd let Shaav anywhere near my heart.
Snack and surgery go hand and... claw with Shaav. I'd rather he not get them mixed up.
FTFY.
Steam: Elvenshae // PSN: Elvenshae // WotC: Elvenshae
Wilds of Aladrion: [https://forums.penny-arcade.com/discussion/comment/43159014/#Comment_43159014]Ellandryn[/url]
Don't have long to write. There's some bigtime ceremonial Brotherhood crap going on, and I doubt they'd let me miss it even if I wanted to. Perils of finally standing out.
It doesn't feel good doing it on the graves of decent men and women, but either way, they're settled now, and I couldn't have known then. Or at least, that's what makes sleeping easier.
Turns out some of the Quincy hostages were ungrateful bastards, killed most of our replacement squad, seriously injured the rest, and broke a few bones for every member of the town watch too stupid or too honest to help them with the plan. At least they still had the half shred of conscience to avoid killing any of their own.
We were sent to, well, Milo said rescue the town they were oppressing preferably without lethal force, but that's obviously patented John Milo bullshit. We were there to get back the power armor and kill anyone in our way. The old tech-worshipping bastardry that crops up from time to time.
Insertion went smooth. Maybe it was Shaav's driving.
Or maybe it was the paladin with a plasma rifle and an awful attitude. I don't know how Milo dumped that job on me, but I had to talk to him for the briefing.
"Sir, Squire Stills, callsign Farsight. I'm with Magpie."
"Do I look like I give. a. FUCK? Every second you take to get our armor back is another FUCKING second the Brotherhood of Steel looks weak in front of the wasteland AND WE CANNOT AFFORD THAT! GET YOUR ASSES MOVING!"
I'd rather get a briefing from Rage.
By the time I caught up with Milo, he was already getting better intel from the locals.
"Four layers, easily defensible, thank you very much. I know how this looks, and the Brotherhood will do everything in its power to compensate you fine people for this, well, crime, no better word for it. We failed you, and you can be sure... Ah, one moment."
He turned to face me.
"This is my associate, Nina Stills, on loan from the Desert Rangers out west. Fine folks there, part of our good neighbor programs and such. What do you have for us from the quartermaster?"
"Swearing, and we both get enough of that from Rage. Nothing new."
"Pity. Well, must be off. And... ah. Yes. Harris, we're leaving now."
Babs had a Browning Automatic rifle in her backpack, and was whistling innocently. Which, for most people would be a tell, but Babs seems to always be elbow deep in someone else's pocket, whistling or not.
"Shucks, boss."
"It can wait, at least until we find Shaav. No telling what he's been up to. He's been reading 'Anatomy: Descriptive and Surgical' lately, and as fine a fellow as he is, it could lead to unfortunate impressions of the sort we are working very hard to dispel."
We found him in someone's house. I don't know why he was there. I don't want to know why he was there. And I don't know why the homeowner was stupid enough to be arguing with a Deathclaw.
"Fascist!"
"Shaav not Italian! Shaav 100% American!"
Well, at least some of the history lessons took.
Every second they kept talking was another second closer to the idiot in the house getting a well deserved death, but we would already have enough people shooting us without deserving it.
"Yes you are Shaav. And that means doing your job, so get your ass out of here before I lose my temper."
Unfortunately, the moron managed one more suicide attempt before we were out.
"HOW MANY RECRUIT KIDS YOU KILLED THIS YEAR?"
Shaav looked at his claws and flexed them for a second. I began looking for good cover. Veteran ranger armor is a lot better than most local equipment, but it wouldn't last long with a whole town shooting at us.
"One... Two... three! Shaav ate three kids and Broodmother Farsight say that's okay as long as Shaav very sorry and never do it again except if they shoot at Shaav or Shaav's friends. Goodbye!"
I was about to start breathing again when I noticed something. Call it combat radar, call it instinct, but if you've been around long enough, you start to sense when someone's aiming at you. I hit the dirt just as a round of 5.56mm flew over my head. Brotherhood ammunition. For general purposes, I'd heard a lot of knights swear by it.
Deathclaw hunting, though? There you'd want something more... fifty caliber. Shaav provided an object lesson.
They had Brotherhood guns and armor. But that didn't mean much without training and combat experience. When a Deathclaw comes calling, it separates the veterans from the rookies really, really quickly. Also the rookies from the rookies, in terms of individual limbs.
We were still sorting the salvageable armor bits from the organs when I saw the chapel. I know it's not a majority opinion here, but I've always thought there were things more sacred than tech. And if anyone was unarmed for confession instead of pillaging the place, well, it'd be an easier capture if they'd go quietly, and an easier kill if they wouldn't.
I shouldn't have worried about Guldo's people desecrating the place. Local priest was doing it well enough himself.
At least there was some gear in the back. Flamethrowers, armor, and SAWs from the bandits. I wish I could say that he was the sorriest excuse for a priest I'd ever met.
I also wished he'd drawn on us so I could have killed him and done the wasteland a favor. Well, ineffable plans.
Meanwhile, Milo found the local markets and was busy cornering them. It's kind of sad to watch. They think they're getting a bargain, smiling the whole time. Meanwhile, John is getting everything he wants without losing anything of value.
It's worse when they try to con him. It's worse than Raiders charging us with spears and machetes. At least that's over quickly.
We were running into the cockroach races when this greasy bastard started approaching us. I move my hand for my holster. Magnum isn't too useful for mutants or deathclaws, but it works fine on ordinary scum.
"I would like to speak to, how do you say, the man in charge."
I jabbed a thumb in Milo's direction with my left. Spring clip holster on the right. Just in case.
He gave some crap about mutual respect. Then got to the point.
He wanted us to ice someone for him. Rage was chomping at the bit for the work. I didn't like it. We're soldiers and, if you fall for the stuff they sell initiates, Knights. Not assassins. It's why I can sleep with a couple hundred dead on my conscience.
Milo nodded a little.
"You know, it's funny you should talk about being businessmen. I know exactly what you mean."
"Exactly. We're practical men. Our honor is a practical thing."
"Worked the Brotherhood supply lines for years. Never the, ahem, night trade, it was a little complicated for my tastes, but otherwise, well, men of business."
"So, you'll do me this favor?"
"No."
And our squad leader jammed a plasma pistol into the Don's eye."
"You see, one of the things I learned is never to take an offer when the other party isn't being honest and aboveboard with the facts as given. Oh, you can hold things back here and there, part of the game. But the idea is, well, to use your term, mutual respect. Trust. And fair pay for services supplied. None of those apply here. Which makes this less a business transaction, and more, let's be honest here, a crime."
The way I see things, there hasn't been much difference. But watching the bastard sweat made up for it.
He dropped some supplies as he ran. Stims, drugs, standard lowlife stuff. Probably our pay for the job, if we were dumb enough to take it. Which made this a best case scenario.
Rage didn't seem to be on the same page as I was.
"What the FUCK was that about?"
"Oh, he wanted us to kill a Paladin. Not in anyone's best interest, I think. Anything further would be above both our clearances, walls have ears, and so on."
Rage didn't stop muttering "What the Fuck" until Ice said to shut up.
Have I mentioned before that Oliver is a good person to have around? Of course, at this point, anyone who can shut Rage up is worth knowing.
She gestured towards the ground.
"Bodies."
Rage shrugged.
"Knife wounds. Ain't our fucking problem. I thought the assholes we were looking for had, oh, FUCKING GUNS."
Well, a couple of them didn't. A burst from the Pancor dealt with the problem before they could close the distance.
"Fucking dumbshits. HEY COCKSUCKERS! EVEN THE FUCKING DEATHCLAW KNOWS WHEN TO FUCKING USE GRENADES!"
Milo looked up.
"Lost them gambling, I expect. Anyone else feeling lucky?"
I was the first person to respond.
"Would I be here if I was?"
"Well, I reckon so. Lot more folks dead than walking after one of our little visits, and we're all still here."
Babs had a point, as much as I hate to admit it. I'm good, and I like to think that it isn't all coincidence we're still breathing. But...
We were heading to the tables when another idiot came running at us.
"YOU ASSHOLES! GIVE HER...oh. You're actual Brotherhood, aren't you?"
I stared at him for a second.
"Are you dead for calling us assholes?"
"No...?"
"Then we're the good guys. Problem?"
Apparently, Guldo's gang kidnapped his sister and were planning to rape her. Since they have power armor, he's shit out of luck unless we save the day.
At least it wasn't a long walk.
Babs picked the lock, and we all caught an eyeful of Raider cock.
And I mean full. We all respond differently to seeing one of God's marvels. I went with silent awe, Babs, a dirty joke under her breath. Milo shrugged.
Rage went with plasma.
I doubt there's a worse way to die.
Milo gave the standard "Our pleasure, goodness of our hearts" speech well enough that anyone outside the squad wouldn't guess how pissed he was that we got jack shit for the job, and the "power armor" in the room wasn't. Meaning we had four suits to retrieve still.
And that part of the mission? It went worse than I was expecting.
Why I fear the ocean.
Steel is strong. None live to tell us we're wrong.
Searching the wastes for so long. All of us knowing...
Steam: Elvenshae // PSN: Elvenshae // WotC: Elvenshae
Wilds of Aladrion: [https://forums.penny-arcade.com/discussion/comment/43159014/#Comment_43159014]Ellandryn[/url]
We headed into the casino after that, job well done, and Milo burned his frustrations at the tables. Apparently, he's banned from every casino he's ever entered.
This one was no exception. Five minutes at longest, and they're several thousand caps in the hole, doing everything they can to get John out the door.
Then I notice Shaav and Rage haven't been in sight for four of the five.
A minigun's whine and a couple explosions by the back entrance makes our exit less conspicuous, and get us the bodies of a couple more thieves. Rage may be a fucking psychopath, but things like this? They make me glad he's our psychopath.
A standard breach and clear found us another one of Guldo's gang in a back room, and everything was going about as smoothly as it could.
Until we found an M2 in one of the supply crates, along with an M60. Heavy weapons were bad enough in big open fields. Here, we'd run into them in close quarters, and anyone could use them if they had power armor.
Also, I spotted a sniper when we moved from building to building. Good position, good weapon. If the man holding it had been halfway competent, we'd have been bleeding and scared running in, maybe a man down. If I'd been up there, we'd all have been dead before anyone else noticed.
Amateurs, and it would cost them their lives.
For example, you don't walk right into LOS when the opposition has shotguns aimed at your head in burst fire mode. Even if you wing one of them, the rest will kill you in seconds.
Shaav patched up any injuries, and we went on. Then I saw it.
Rocket launcher. If we moved to close range, sure, the asshole would blow himself up. But he'd take us with him. I aimed for the eyes, and nearly got my eyebrows singed off when he hit a wall.
He was dead, though, and Rage dealt with the rest. Sniper fire to keep them down, minigun in position when they get back up. They covered it in basic. They also covered what to do when someone is trying it on you, but it didn't seem we'd need to worry about that any time soon.
We go up the stairs like there's nothing left that can threaten us.
And run smack dab into a suit of power armor with a flamethrower. If it was up to spec, we'd have been screwed, even with training. No maneuvering room, and switching the jackhammers to armor piercing slugs would take too long to do us any good.
But the bulletproof lenses were gone. Don't ask me why, probably difficulty with HUD integration or something. Aimed shots and a lot of luck meant we didn't get warm.
And the M2 kept him and his friends from getting up again.
Babs had the armor off the corpse before it cooled.
"Shoot. Reckon this ain't going to work for us. Busted. I could fix it, but it weren't an easy sort of job. Three, four days at best."
Milo shrugged.
"Also incredibly heavy. We can pick it up on the way back. Shame, but you can't expect it to be combat ready immediately after being hit with anti-tank weapons. It's "
Pick it up later. Oh, how we laughed at that before we were done. Bitter, cynical laughter.
The reason? The minefield from hell was outside. I don't know how it worked. I don't know how the chucklefuck morons we were dealing with set something so nasty up. But it was impossible to find the things until you, or someone else, stepped on them. Oh, and clearing an area? No guarantee there wouldn't be more mines deeper. Armor took most of the impact, which is why any of us are still alive.
Oh, and there was a sniper at the end of it, operating from a perfect position. That was really great. I barely managed to tag him when a shot ripped through my shoulder. No permanent damage, and I could still shoot, but it hurt like nothing else.
Which meant I was distracted when Milo tried to disarm a mine.
At least he took it well.
"Technically, it was a success. No serious injuries, no-one dead, and a little scarring is terribly useful in impressing townsfolk. Best possible outcome, I like to think."
We were all just past the minefield when an M2 started yelling at us. Another "If we weren't against fuckups, we'd be dead" moment.
But we were, and we managed to solve the problem.
Bandaged, bruised, and bleeding, I spotted another of the suits. Like the first one, someone was wearing it. Unlike the first one, it was in decent repair.
Also unlike the first, we were in ideal sniping range. It took a couple shots to break the visor, but the one that got in? It bounced. When we checked, the skull was basically chunks of shrapnel covered in a meaty paste.
Everyone else was too busy finding out power armor has limits to notice Rage coming in with the Vindicator.
We marked another bunch of heavy gear for later retrieval, and Milo cut the lights.
"Less obvious approach, more intimidation value. What Batman would do, I'm sure."
"Who?"
"Doesn't matter."
He was right, it made getting the drop on the last few snipers easy.
And it made it easier to ignore the civilians they'd massacred.
Even if the 50 cal bursting let you see the bodies for a second longer than you'd like. Not new, but it's a distraction when you don't need it.
Only one room left for Guldo to hide in. Two suits of armor would be nasty, but we could probably manage.
Ice reloaded the M2, Rage readied the Vindicator...
Milo stood by the door and yelled.
"Guldo? It doesn't need to end this way!"
"You're not taking..."
"I know, you had reasons. They seemed good at the time, I'm sure. But now, there's no way to get out. There's plenty of bodies to pass off as you. Just hand over the armor, surrender quietly. We pass you off as a collaborator or similar. You get a lawyer..."
"Shaav lawyer!"
"Or, you know what, you can be your own attorney if you'd prefer. Everyone with you gets out alive. I can keep your family safe."
"And I just walk away?"
I looked at Milo then. Well, glared would be better.
"Well, no. You're guilty as sin. I can probably wrangle things so you don't die, if you let me, but labor camp seems like a best case scenario. You, well, you did kill Paladins."
I figured it couldn't be left there.
"He killed innocent people. That's more than enough."
"Well, yes. Of course. Either way, I like to think I'm offering the best deal you will hear for the remainder of your life. What do you say?"
"You're probably right on that last count, at least for my art. If a real Paladin was here, you wouldn't have gotten that last offer. Settle any last regrets. You die today."
It got messy, but in the end?
Not one of the bastards got out alive.
Their last words (Probably "Fuck you Brotherhood assholes" or "The pain") were drowned in gunfire. Minimal injuries for us, mission complete.
Then I noticed the problem. Well, the first one.
"Three armors. They said four."
"We checked everywhere. Crap. Well, I'll find a glitch in the inventory system or something. We did all we could at this point. Good work, everyone."
Then Rage went with the bigger issue.
"How the fuck are we going to carry all of this shit?"
Milo just froze.
"Well, we can't leave any ammunition, of course, local gangs might start it over again. And the armor is the assignment. And there's a minefield. Well."
We didn't come up with a solution. Just... walking over the mines, back and forth, carrying absurd amounts of supplies. It was bad enough the first time. Every round after was torture.
Finally, we got everything to the quartermaster, staggered in the humvee, and slumped until Shaav got us back home.
I figured we'd get medical, a shower, and enough alcohol to forget there was such a thing as land mines. Not this time.
Milo's getting a promotion to Paladin. Tonight.
Well, at least we'll get drinks.
Why I fear the ocean.
Also, I read every instance of Guldo's name as "guido." I feel bad, now.
Head still aching from yesterday, and I'm the most combat ready member of the squad. You hear stories of how drunk everyone gets after a Paladin, but it sounds like the standard bravado bullshit.
It wasn't. I've never seen so much alcohol in one place.
But that was the long, hazy end of the night. It started with a call to the Elders with everyone else in the squad. Except Milo.
They looked over a roster. A scribe stepped forward.
"Initiate Oliver"
"Present."
"Initiate Josephs"
"Here."
"Squire Wolcott"
"What the hell do you fucking want?"
"Squire Harris"
"Sure 'nuff!"
"Squire Stills"
"Present."
And then he looked again at the sheet. Twice, even, before he sucked in a lungful of air.
"Doctor Sir Shaav Gammorin Esquire MD PHD GCB OBE."
"Yes!"
He looked at Shaav for a second, mouthed "What the fuck" and shrugged.
"You have served with Knight Commander Milo. You have fought with him, shed blood with him, and seen him at his best and his worst. Does anyone here have reason to deny him the title of Paladin?"
There were words right behind my lips, then I thought for a second.
On one hand, yes. He was a shitty little bastard when we met. Black market deals, dead weight in a firefight. But he'd gotten better. Or stayed the same, but focused on helping the Brotherhood. He'd taken bullets for everyone else. And he managed things that no-one else could.
I stayed quiet. Everyone else did the same.
"I'll take that as a no. Ceremony's in an hour."
I made it in time, but Harris and Josephs had things come up urgently just before.
Apparently, it was a standard ceremony.
Milo swore the oath, which he'd apparently memorized back in January.
And he got the armor, Blue pauldrons and cape with a stylized magpie in white. Another fine entry in the game of "How the hell did he get one ready that fast."
Three cheers, and time for the afterparty.
We go back to the private barracks, and see Babs and Stitch with The Still.
In full working order for the first time in months.
"Ta-daa! Got it all workin' as a sort of an armor warmin' gift."
"You shouldn't have."
Truer words have seldom been spoken. We burned the old insignia as a last semi-official gesture, and then?
Alcohol induced haze.
I know my limits, more or less, and ended the night in a bed. Everyone else was in various puddles of vomit when I last saw them.
And Rage, well, I wouldn't want to be anywhere near him when he wakes up.
Good booze, good squad, and we're most of us still breathing. What more could anyone want in a party?
Why I fear the ocean.
Or did Milo have a hand in earning him that absurd title?
Welcome back, still.
Well, it has seen more men and women through the missions than anything or anyone else.
I propose another promotion. Paladin Still.
I don't remember last night very well at all, but I am sure I did my armor proud. Not for any past achievement. But there was no vomit on the cape or the inside of my helmet, which is a job well done, all things considered.
Farsight woke me to a remarkable headache. Again, the details of the last night were incredibly vague, but the pain roughly matched the alcohol consumption, making it a minor issue.
I smiled through it, of course. Showing weakness at the wrong time can ruin negotiations for weeks.
"General wants to see you, Paladin. And before you ask, you were drunk, and Shaav was wearing a tux and I don't know what the hell either."
About then I remembered through the haze that no-one could see if I was smiling through the helmet. Also, it was on backwards, which slaughtered what dignity I had.
"Thank you, Farsight."
Rotate helmet. Lock position. Try not to stumble.
I'd read a little about power armor operation when I was young. Old magazines about "Our Boys" giving the dirty ChiComs hell, an operation manual from somewhere which would, I suppose, have been classified, and more recently the Brotherhood instructional guide. It made adjusting a little easier, but fine motor movements would be more or less impossible for a while. This is, I am sad to say, my fifth attempt at logging this little round of thoughts in the PIP.
Still, I managed to stumble my way into the command center.
Dekker was was waiting for me, and I managed a salute while still upright. An excellent showing.
"Paladin Milo reporting for duty, sir."
"And, I expect, drunk off your ass?"
No point in lying.
"Yes, sir. If you want any..."
"I'll ask."
"Yes sir."
"I'm guessing a smart fellow like you already knows what a Paladin Lord is."
Independent operators. No reports except to the Head Elder and, occasionally, the ruling general.
Also, highly classified. Officially, the rank was left behind on the West Coast.
"I probably shouldn't, sir."
"But you do. Well, in light of pressing circumstances we can ignore that, and go through with the promotion ceremony."
He slapped an insignia on the table.
"Congratulations. You're fucking promoted. We have a list of personnel. You'll be briefed with your selections at 800 tomorrow, and I hope for your sake you'll be sober."
"Due respect, but I think I have my selections already. Squire Stills, Squire Harris, Squire Wolcott..."
"I wish it was that easy. The Elders want operational security on this one, and they think their choices will do better than yours. Or a majority do, at any rate, and we're not here to question orders. You'll have to leave Magpie squad to their own devices."
"Yes sir. I recommend leaving Harris in charge. Anyone else, they'll just tear each other apart. And this is an order?"
"I'm afraid so."
Salute. Grab list. Leave.
I rarely hate promotion. This is one of those times.
Cookie. Good news is, she's got great stats. Bad news, she's built for melee, when people have 50 cals and the like. In time, she could be useful, but...
John. Good news, he's a great doctor. Bad news, his traits cancel out, he's not able to carry the good big guns, and his name is redundant.
Vector. Same basic abilities as Farsight, but with less small guns, better sneak, and no outdoorsmanship.
Kaisa. No combat abilities. At all. Milo's bad enough.
Bob. Remember what I said about Cookie? That, but moreso.
Fran. Same principle, but she can sneak to get the drop on enemies, so that's something.
Pump. Yeah, I'm out of things to say on this kind of mutant.
Boomer. Good with explosives. Not so good with rifles and shotguns. Still, some uses.
Chuck. Not good at range thanks to lousy perception, but at least he can shoot.
Toni. Good with big guns. Very good, even. Bad AC, though.
And Harold. No, a different Harold with a tree growing out of his head. Easy mistake to make.
You've seen the options. Now make an informed decision. Hopefully, not one based entirely on making me suffer.
Why I fear the ocean.
Milo is obviously being punished for something. Personally I'd recommend Cookie, Bob, Kaisa, Fran, and Pump. Although I think that's maybe based on making you suffer.
Talk to the bigwigs, get them to invest in your company, then walk away with Magpie squadron at your side and the wigs convinced that it's exactly what they wanted.
Cause Shaav's gonna be pissed if you leave him at home.
Now, temp ideas:
Take Vector, because John probably can't sleep at night without someone at least Farsight-esque watching his back at this point.
Then take Kaisa because I believe she has the exact same face sprite as Farsight, and I want to see you justify that. Bonus points for long-lost sisterhood or something similarly cliche. This also feeds into the above.
Toni seems useful.
Chuck. Any PER bonus items you could strap onto him?
You've gotta take Boomer, for the character scenes.
And I think that's all you can take.
My reccommendation is you have have John (Milo) sit out the combat; have John (old doctor/samurai) solo the mission like a true Paladin Lord spec ops agent (chem resistant sucks, but he's the only one who can use heavy weapons and power armor); and have Pump/Cookie/Fran/Bob get fed to the robots like they deserve.
That's my initial thought, too.
Make sure Vector and Kaisa are part of the team. Kaisa for the face=Farsight issue, Vector so that you have someone actually competent at long-range combat. Bonus points for being an ex-stripper.
Take Pump because ... seriously? Pump?
Then take Toni for the energy weapons skill, give her something heavy with the plasmas, and let he go to town. Plus, Toni/Pump 'shipping.
Then whoever. I don't cae. They all suck.
Steam: Elvenshae // PSN: Elvenshae // WotC: Elvenshae
Wilds of Aladrion: [https://forums.penny-arcade.com/discussion/comment/43159014/#Comment_43159014]Ellandryn[/url]
I met with Stills and Harris before we left. Details would be a breach of trust, of course, but the raw basics seem an acceptable courtesy.
And it always helps to have another eye for the dossiers. Little details and the like.
"I'll be brief. Dekker assigned me long range patrol and troop evaluations. One power armor missing on the reports is more difficult to explain than I expected, you know how it is. I'll be working with five of these soldiers. Any advice?"
Babs had nothing to add of course, except the simple fact none of them knew how to secure a locker, but Farsight was more helpful.
"Asshole, bitch, asshole, asshole, brown nosing asshole... shit."
"Kaisa? So, you know her?"
"Second cousin or something. Mom's side of the family. You are not working with her."
"She's that intolerable?"
"No. She's fine. But she's even worse than you are at frontline work. I like her too much to let you get her killed."
She paused for a second.
"And vice versa."
"So, no-one you would recommend?"
She pulled out a sheet. Vector's by the look of it.
"I said she was a bitch. I didn't say she was a bad soldier. John's good from everything I've heard. Brotherhood longer than we've been alive. Maybe a couple mutants to soak bullets. And Fran's supposedly good enough to kill anything that breathes if you give her a ripper."
"Thank you. I had roughly the same plans already, but it's good to have them confirmed. Harris?"
"Yessir!"
"You're in charge until I get back."
"Will do."
I expected more of a reaction.
"Is there... anything else? It could be a while."
Babs blushed, if there's any way to tell with a ghoul.
"Could you, uh, sign somethin' for me? Remember you by until you come back and suchlike."
Well, I signed it. Just a sheet of paper, although I have a voice murmuring it won't be an ordinary sheet of paper by this time tomorrow. She's learned her lessons well on the subject of Brotherhood official procedure and useful gaps therein. I'm proud. And worried for the future. Mostly proud.
I managed to meet with the new squad at Dekker's office. No discussion with the group as a whole beyond "Special assignment". It's better to start things as "Professional Paladin Lord" rather than "John Milo, who just ten months ago tried to sell you the Field Museum."
Most of the time, at any rate. Personal talk would come later.
The briefing was fairly quick.
"So, you're all here. Good. You've heard about the menace from the west. Prewar synthetics "purifying" the wasteland. They're finally in range. Great Bend. "
General nodding, even from the supermutants. Still not time to talk.
"We found out in the worst way possible. Switchblade squad was KIA in the initial encounter. Paladin Lord Milo will be leading the mission. He is one of our finest, and you will respect his authority."
I'm amazed he managed to keep a straight face. Still, it set the right note.
"Get your equipment and get ready to move. Rescue any survivors, destroy any robots, secure any tech. Standard rules of engagement. Dismissed."
I headed for the jeep to wait and greet the troops as they came. A little one on one time tends to be a better place for chitchat than the alternatives so far.
John was first.
"So, you're the hot-shot Paladin. Not the first one I've worked with."
"I hope I can live up to their examples."
He snorted.
"It won't be hard. They're all dead."
"I hope to surpass them."
"Good luck, kid. You try and do that. Paladin Lords are the ones who get the job done. You're not usually the ones who come back alive after. I'll try to pick up the pieces."
He rummaged in the trunk. Most of the heavy weapons went to the old squad, but I'd kept a couple pieces when I knew a buyer or thought it would be needed.
"Flamethrower and a 249. Not bad. First time things went so wrong I wound up on the frontline, we had one of the SAWS. Didn't know how to fire it, I was a medic. But I held down the trigger and got lucky. A raider got chopped in two, the others ran at the sight. Wasn't enough of anyone else to patch, but I managed to hold out until reinforcement showed."
"I hope you've gotten better since."
"Better, yes. Luckier, not particularly."
And with that encouraging thought, into the hummer for him.
Next came Cookie and Pump. Together. Giggling.
I hate to spoil a special moment, so words were kept to a minimum. I told them the melee weapons were in the trunk, they each grabbed a super sledge, and climbed in. I was very glad to be in the driver's seat this time. The other positions looked... cramped.
Vector came after that.
"Ah, Vector. Farsight mentioned you were an excellent sniper. Pleasure to make your acquaintance."
"Heh. Bitch told you I was good. Did she say I was the best?"
"No."
I refrained from mentioning she kept the title to herself. It seemed contentious at best.
"Of course not. She couldn't take the damage to her ego. Well, now you'll see how a real sniper handles things. "
"I'll be glad to. Pleasure to work with you."
She grabbed a sniper rifle and one of the surplus Neosteads. All to the good.
As soon as she was gone, I had a ripper at my throat.
I'm not the most observant man in the world, but generally if someone is coming towards me with a chainsaw sword, I notice.
"Fran, I assume? Please say you aren't planning to move the device at my throat further. The armor might break it, and then we'll both be in the box."
"Right."
She stepped into view without a sound.
"Just testing your observation skills. I like knowing the strengths and weaknesses of anyone I'm working with, sir."
"I'm guessing I failed?"
"At least you noticed before I broke the skin."
I can't say it was my ideal squad, but they have potential. And without Farsight mapping a route, we'll probably have time to get to know each other in combat.
Farsight isn't mapping and I'm driving. There's no chance we'll avoid trouble.
Why I fear the ocean.
New hot-shot Paladin. I guess I hadn't been seeing enough people die lately, or I was all out of people I know. Either way, it's going to be a pain in the ass washing all the blood off my armor after this mission. And apparently one of the other poor suckers they roped in is an Elder's sister, or half sister, or something which will only be more fun when explaining everything.
Shit, this is why I try to stay in the infirmary and avoid fieldwork. But no, Brotherhood needs grunts more than neurosurgeons.
First night out was pretty dull.
Some fancy bandits tried to hold us up, we killed 'em. Paladin said they were Reavers, but at my age you stop giving a fuck what fancy names they go for. Raiders is raiders, sea to shining irradiated sea.
Then we found some bodies other than the raiders. Well, not bodies, exactly. Robots or something. The paladin held his wrist up to 'em and looked back and forth for a bit. Then I looked a little closer.
Now, I don't know that much about the PIP-boys. Brotherhood hands 'em out to recruits nowadays and you try to ignore the beeping while you do your fucking job. Yes, I know you can link with other whatchumacallums to have them do something. You said it fifteen times.
But I'd seen enough to know the Paladin's didn't have a big Brotherhood label strapped on it like everyone else's.
I mean, I give it a couple weeks at best until it stops mattering, but the recruiters probably missed something. Or a lot of things.
He turned to us a second after that.
"Well, I have good news and bad. The good is we are definitely headed in the right direction! The bad news is the robots seem... slightly more durable than would be ideal."
The sniper, Vector or something, stared at him.
"Are they bulletproof?"
"No, not entirely, I mean, if you had sufficient time..."
"Then I can deal with them. Might want to tell the idiots with the knives and hammers to stay back."
Overconfidence. Never seen that before.
Next night, more raiders.
Fran was gone from the hummer by the time I had the SAW ready.
And there were a lot of bodies waiting outside even before the sniper and I were going. Paladin didn't manage much. He said he was busy driving. Ha. Busy being a coward is more likely, from all I hear. Oh, the surface stories are negotiator, thinker, tactician.
Most of the time, they're just cover for some overpromoted idiot with contacts who likes to hide while other people do his dying.
He stopped at a farm to buy one 50 caliber Depleted Uranium round. That doesn't scream combat experience. Sniper, she went for 7.62 and a shotgun. Nice and reasonable. The 50 Cals, less so. They'd be overkill on power armor. I've seen mutants, I've seen raiders, even killed a Deathclaw once. None of them needed that much raw firepower with armor piercing rounds. Rookie overkill.
On the other hand, he apparently got it free. Guess they're teaching unimportant things first for Paladins, and skipping "what it's like to have a friend die in your arms when you can't do anything."
Tough course, admittedly. 50% pass rate at best. Between him and the mutants, I only trust half of this group to pull their own weight.
And I only trust one of us to get out alive.
Addendum:
I have no idea what happened today. None. 30 years in the field, and as much time with a medical textbook as anyone, and I can't explain it. Invisible people, and the sounds...
The Paladin said it was perfectly normal, and shrugged it off. Fran just shivered.
"I know how to hide. This wasn't hiding. I don't know what it was, but..."
And the mutants seemed to dumb to notice just how wrong it all was. Sniper? She was just mad there was nothing to shoot.
Well, won't be dealing with them all for long, right? We're reaching Great Bend tomorrow. Do or die.
Guessing the Paladin will die. But things do happen. Should be worth finding out.
Why I fear the ocean.
Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!
...collect yourself, Milo. Language like Wolcott's won't solve anything. Of course, the situation could be better, for example, just off the top of my head, I could have a single fellow survivor in sight, or the robots could have left.
But look on the bright side. The robots are playing perfectly agreeable music while going about their business. Call me sentimental, but God Bless America stirs the heartstrings, even when interrupted by gunfire and screaming.
I should record how it all started. For posterity.
We arrived a few hours before dawn. No resistance on entry. No cheers for the heroes of the brotherhood. No screams for "You Bastards" to go home. Brief street sweeping didn't find anything.
Then Bierce found a survivor.
He said something in an incomprehensible hobo dialect about robots. Then, all hell broke loose, if I may be pardoned the cliche.
Cookie and Julia, no, Pump, I might as well give him the dignity of his chosen title, charged forward into the advancing army of robots. The robots for their part stood still, staring at them.
Then a voice out of a Vault PA system spoke.
"Mutation level: Severe. Priority 1."
They fought, I'll give them that. Somehow, Pump ripped one apart before it killed him.
But it didn't do much good.
John, Vector, and Fran began tearing into them, then. Rippers, the SAW, sniper rifles. Everything we'd scavenged bounced off. Then, the voice again.
"Mutation level: Significant. Identities: Not confirmed. Probable communist sympathizers. Lethal force authorized."
Fran died first. Not even a chance to fire once they closed distance.
I gave the order to withdraw as they torn into Vector, 7.62 and buckshot bouncing off the steel of the synthetic army.
Too late. Much too late.
And then they came for me.
The same stares. Then?
"Mutation levels: Minimal. Human baseline, confirmed. John Milo, Vault 58, citizen 1765. Have a pleasant day, and God Bless America."
And they headed back to their patrols. I was shocked. Frozen. And I still can't pop my head up to fight.
Oh, thinking it over has helped. Light joint damage from heavier weapons means solid slugs would tear the robots apart. Energy weapons and power armor should give me a fighting chance, if push comes to shove.
But I can't force myself out to do my duty, even if it means the death of everyone else. Simple cowardice, nothing more than that. It's wrong and hazardous to all the things I value in the long run, from the high ideals of the constitution down to the day to day muck of the syndicate, but I'm paralyzed.
Fortunately, I'm not the first to feel reluctant to fight. They had a solution during the Anchorage campaign. Psycho, the greatest of the pre-war combat stimulants. Admittedly, it has side effects, but for a single shot, I should be fine. Still, keeping records. Fine on Psycho doesn't mean fine when shot.
Entry 1: Light mental fogging. Pain response dulled. Increased rage response, which could be a problem if there are any other survivors. Still, provided energy to find, terminate multiple synthetic hostiles with sustained fire from rifled Pancor Jackhammer slugs.
Recognized one of the bodies from... January? A long time. She had supplies with my name written in them, mainly books. Took them, of course. Rare but wonderful when robbing from the dead can be honestly taken as a courtesy and a service.
Still, damn shame.
Entry 2: Found, disabled multiple synthetic hostiles with plasma fire. Bastards got off too easy. Increased Corticosteroid production according to the PIPboy.
Found a switch to cut off the barriers, and more corpses. Fucking robot bastards.
Let 'em get close. Blast them with slugs.
Chewed some afterburn, kept going.
PIPboy keeps beeping. Can't see why, I feel fine. Still, injected stimpaks to shut it up.
Multiple hostiles in factory. Seem to be building more.
Laser works. Good accuracy and range.
Opened lock to find supplies, the syndicate might find use.
Entry 3: Still able to form coherent thoughts. Fine. Barricades in my way. Stupid. Can't think why.
Pain response gone. Using automated systems in armor to handle medical needs. Can't tell on own.
Just notice the killing. Killing all the bastards. Psycho helps. Not raving yet, good sigh. Sign.
Found medical kits. Might try later.
Shot with M-60. Armor shrugs it off. No, psycho shrugs it off.
Entry 4:
Heard noise not robot. Went to find.
Attacked by load lifters. Stabbed in torso, legs. Kept going.
Killed.
Found survivor. Whining.
Wanted to kill. Psycho thinking, not me. Left quickly. I left quickly. Try to keep thinking. Need to keep thinking.
Robots. Fucking robots. More bodies. Killed. Kill kill kill.
Found another survivor. Friendly. Didn't hear much.
Managed to say "Brotherhood of Steel, here to help." Good job. Good job.
Going in more. Kill more.
[LOG INTERRUPTED]
Why I fear the ocean.
A) Milo is a vaultie.
C) He's in a lot of shit when he gets back to base.
And Milo when he's taking every drug known to man is terrifying.
Though, I'd still put good odds on him actually being from a vault.