Old Glory Once Again! (Modern US in Fallout)

[t99_2020]

Mojave Desert
Nevada, US
December, 202X

Throughout his long career, General Monroe had seen much. It came with the job, so to say. From his early days watching over Checkpoint Bravo, to overseeing the first strikes on Saddam's army, Monroe knew that tomorrow could spring open some new variable, with subsequent plans rendered obsolete.

In other words, bullshit ready to make his life harder than it was.

But if the report that he had received was true, all of what he had just experienced would pale in comparison to… whatever the fuck this was.

"General, we arrived."

"Good. Set us down." Monroe ordered the pilot, the helicopter setting down on the landing strip, the rotors silent within a minute. Not a comfortable ride, but it did its job.

Turning his attention to the rest of the base, Monroe narrowed his eyes. Even in the darkness of the early day, Nellis Air Force Base was on high alert. Flight crews moved to and fro, frantically getting the aircraft ready, ranging from fuel to missile pods. In the cockpits, pilots were already seated, immediate deployment imminent.

It wasn't only the birds that were getting ready. In the distance, he could see armed personnel present, already in squads. Under the lights, they stood ram-rod straight, awaiting orders. Most notably, S10 NBC respirators adorned the faces of those present.

From an outside perspective, it would seem that Nellis was readying for war. Unusual circumstances, to say the least.

Nellis, for all intents and purposes, was supposed to be a training facility for advanced cadets. While some movement was expected during major operations, Nellis was relatively quiet. After all, deep in the Southwest, Nellis wasn't like the bases in Korea, where one spark meant war. No hostile force would ever realistically be on American soil.

That was, until now.

It was the reason why he had been scrambled by the Chief of Staff. An unknown force had been engaged by troops nearby, and had raised the alarm. From the initial reports, none of the hostiles had even attempted to slow down, before engaging the patrolling soldiers. Thankfully, no casualties.

And now, here he was, trying to piece together this absolute clusterfuck.

Opening the cockpit door, Monroe was greeted by the post commander.

"General Monroe, we've been expecting you." Colonel Luchart said, a crisp salute following after.

"The same to you, Colonel." Monroe replied back with a salute of his own. "Now then… I've already seen the report, but to say that I'm in disbelief is…"

"Indeed." Luchart's mouth morphed into a grimace, as if he couldn't believe what he saw. Reaching into his pocket, he handed Monroe the folder. "Before the Geiger counters went off the scales, we managed to snap a few pictures for the autopsies."

Walking across the field, Monroe opened the folder, taking the picture out. For a solid ten seconds, he was silent, trying to process what the picture was conveying to him. If it weren't for the serious face that Luchart was displaying, he would have thought it an early April Fool's joke.

Except, it wasn't.

"Jesus… that's one ugly son of a bitch." Monroe uttered under his breath finally.

"Believe me, I didn't believe them before I actually saw…" Luchart paused, trying to find the best word. "Them."

"Zombie. You can call it a zombie."

And on first glance, it did look like one. From head to toe, what looked to be necrotizing flesh was present all over. Strips of skin seemed to be falling off, scarred with a sickly green color, red muscle decorating it. The head was even worse, with only clumps of hair decorating the head. Where there was once a nose, nothing remained, besides a hole. Finally, the eyes were a deep black color, with no sclera present whatsoever.

All in all, a zombie straight out of those horrid B-movies his grandson liked to watch.

But that wasn't what caught his attention. It was what they were wearing that was the most eye-catching.

Even if the elements had shredded the cloth, it was apparent that the zombie was wearing military wares. An olive green uniform, from the looks of it. Going through the photos, Monroe noticed the other zombies wore the same, no matter how damaged they appeared to be. One even was wearing an olive green helmet.

More questions emerged in Monroe's head. Questions that he would have the answers to soon enough. But first, the most vital aspect of this incursion…


"How tight is the quarantine?"

Luchart sighed. "As best as we could. Chemical Corps should be arriving soon, but a good number of personnel were exposed to them."

Monroe wasn't one to be spooked easily, but a chill went up his spine. "Any changes in them?"

"Not as far as we can tell. Doctor Lee has been keeping them under observation in the wing." A ghost of a smile appeared on Luchart's face. "Good news? A solid day has passed without them turning into one of those things."

"Keep them there." Monroe tersely ordered. "If anything happens, lock the base down. Nobody gets in, or out."

Luchart simply nodded, guiding Monroe to one of the hangars, now an impromptu quarantine site. At the entrance, two soldiers, clad in outdated CBRN outfits stood at alert, guarding the entrance.

'Note to self. Request an update on wares if things blow over. Not fucking ready by any standards.'

It didn't take long before both Luchart and Monroe were clad in the same outfits, being washed down heavily with God-knows-what. Probably some compound that hadn't seen the light of day in decades.

With a shudder, the hangar door opened slightly, allowing the two men to enter.

Helicopters and jets remained silent, for fear of the contamination that may have spread. As such, it took a solid minute for the two commanders to get to their destination. Still, it was easy to find where the quarantine site was.

More soldiers, garnered in CBRN uniforms, stood at attention, surrounding the body bags laid on the ground.

And in the center…

"Doesn't make any sense by any measure, but what the hell do I know…" A woman's voice emanated from the white radiation suited figure, carefully examining the teeth of one of the "zombies", carefully using sutures to remove the molars with a sickening crack. Laid on the ground next to the zombie, were an additional six body bags.

"Doctor Haville, I hope that I'm not interrupting anything?"

"Ah! Not at all Colonel." Haville dropped the molar into a container of some sort, before standing up to greet the two. "And I assume General Monroe?"

"Indeed. In better times, I would have done things by the book, but the Oval Office is demanding answers. So…" Monroe pointed to the half-opened body bag. "What the hell are those things, and more importantly, what's the risk assessment?"

Zipping up the bodybag, Haville let out a sigh.

"The good news is that whatever those things are, there's no risk for biological contamination. No viruses, bacteria, prion or anything of that nature."

"Why is that?"

Haville grabbed a yellow instrument to her right, motioning it over the bodybag. Immediately, the Geiger counter shrilled in alarm, as the rapid-fire clicking echoed throughout the hangar.

"Three thousands roentgens. There's enough ionizing radiation emanating from their bodies to neutralize any antigen. Frankly, I'm shocked that they didn't keel over from the rads themselves."

While he didn't see their faces, he could tell the soldiers on standby were very uncomfortable, judging by the way they fidgeted with their weapons. Evidently, Luchart must have felt the same way.

"Not to worry, General. We're doing shifts to minimize the radiation exposure. Next shift should be moving in the next five minutes. We advised Haville to move as well but…"

"Not to worry. The radiation suit is top of the line. I can afford to stay here for a while." Haville responded, rifling through the bag on the ground, next to the bodybag. "It's allowed me to go through them more carefully. And… I think there's a few items that may be of interest to you."

The first item, was for sure, something that was out of the ordinary. With practiced hands, Haville handed the oversized pistol to Luchart.

"I'm not a soldier, but I'm pretty sure they don't produce pieces like this. Like… at all."

"Right on that part. This ain't no pistol I'm familiar with. Let me have a look."

Luchart gave the pistol to Monroe, taking note of its condition. Weathered with age, but no significant wear or tear. Rather than a magazine, a revolver-like cylinder was used. He narrowed, his eye at the numbers and words stamped onto the barrel.

MODEL 6520

Still, every pistol followed the same principles. Careful to not point the barrel at anyone, Monroe clicked the safety on, before extracting one of the bullets from the chamber.

Luchart whistled in response at the size of the bullet. "Definitely not one of ours. One shot from that, and that'll put anyone down."

"Indeed… but it doesn't get to the bottom of this. Anything else?"

Haville simply nodded, before taking another item out of the bag, this time with gentle care.

"At first glance, I thought this was a cruel joke." Haville soberly spoke, giving the dog-tags to the general. "But, I'm not so sure now."

One look, and the General softly cursed.

SMITH
FARADAY
617369679963
O NEG
CATHOLIC

Monroe wasn't one to believe in coincidences. This wasn't just any dog-tag, it was a distinctively American one. Combined with the shredded uniforms, as well as the other dog tags, and the zombies became a variable that was familiar and unfamiliar simultaneously.

One that he wouldn't leave to chance.

"Dr. Haville, when you're done here, run the dog tags on our database. Find if there's a match."

"And if there isn't?"

"Then we can at least cross out one possibility." Monroe handed the pistol back to Haville. "At the very least, we won't have to send letters out."

Cold, by any measures. But as far as he was concerned, these creatures weren't American soldiers, not by any measures. Certainly not to the men who had been attacked by these… things.

It was at this point that the hangar doors shuddered open once again, making every soldier raise their weapons slightly. No other visitors were expected.

"Colonel Luchart!" The soldier yelled, running towards the group. "Urgent message from Patrol Gamma!"

"Slow down there, son." Luchart gestured, allowing the man to catch his breath in the CBRN gear he had on. "Name and rank?"

"Lieutenant Roths, sir!"

'What's the situation then, Lieutenant?"

Roths paused for a moment, looking at the bodybags. Thankfully, Haville had sealed the one she had been working on. "Patrol Gamma has encountered an unknown entity, and they're awaiting further instructions."

"Not hostile?"

"Affirmative. From what I was able to gather, it's… complicated." Roths let out the last words with skepticism.

"How complicated?"

---

'Should not have asked that question, Luchart.'

Zombies were one thing. Even ones that shouldn't even be living, keeling over from what should have been lethal amounts of radiation.

But the robot in front of him was an entirely different kettle of fish.

"And your name is?"

"AS STATED BEFORE, MY DESIGNATION IS T-5078 GUTSY MODEL C! MR. GUTSY, FOR SHORT!" The robot screamed out loud, giving Monroe the shivers. He swore he could hear the Sergeant calling him a maggot.

It wasn't like any of those new-fangled drones that had become prevalent over Afghanistan. For one, this robot seemed to be able to think for itself. Hovering above the air on a single jet, the olive-colored robot seemed to have no troubles with movement. Three optics attached to the main chassis, complemented the three arms that the "Mr. Gutsy" had. One of which seemed to glow, ominously.

No matter how rusted the metal was, Monroe was sure that this robot was years ahead of what the boys at DARPA could build.

"So, Mr. Gutsy…" Luchart continued, straightening his officer uniform. "Why did you decide to initiate contact with Patrol Gamma?"

"A DELIGHTFUL QUESTION!" The robot responded again, making the soldiers of Patrol Gamma jump slightly. "IN ACCORDANCE WITH COMBAT PROTOCOL CHARLIE ZULU 4, ALL UNAUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ARE TO BE NEUTRALIZED AS POTENTIAL COMMIE SYMPATHIZERS!"

Monroe gave a bewildered glance at Luchart. The technology on display was in sharp contrast to the almost McCarthy-like dialogue being spitted out.

"And why did you decide to talk things out?"

"BEFORE PROTOCOL CHARLIE ZULU 4 COULD BE INITIATED, ONE OF PATROL TEAM GAMMA STATED THAT THEY WERE AFFILIATED WITH THESE GOD-BLESSED US ARMED FORCES!" The robot's optics narrowed. "WHILE I HAD MY DOUBTS, YOUR APPEARANCE INDICATES THAT I AM INDEED IN THE PRESENCE OF US ARMY ONCE AGAIN!"

While he would have preferred the CBRN ware now, Monroe was counting his lucky stars that he had heeded the advice of Patrol Team Gamma. Who knows what would have happened if he hadn't worn his General outfit.

It was clear that he wouldn't be getting any answers about the zombies from this propaganda piece. But he still could find out where they were coming from.

"Can you at least tell us where you're operating from?"

"CERTAINLY, GENERAL MONROE!" Without hesitation, the robot turned its back to the men with an alarming speed. "FOLLOW ME!"

As General Monroe followed the robot, he could see that Luchart was motioning the soldiers, their weapons ready at a moment's notice. One nod, and the robot, advanced technology be damned, would be nothing but scraps.

It didn't take long before the group was entering into one of the caves surrounding the Nellis. A click, and the flashlights lit up the cave with no troubles. No further conversations occurred, for fear of pissing off the "Better Dead than Red" robot in front of them.

A few minutes passed, as the group entered deeper into the cave. With every step, Monroe couldn't help but feel that he was walking into a trap…

And then… he saw it.

"You've got to be shitting me." One of the soldiers let out, shock apparent in his tone. "Some kind of fucking Stargate project?!"

While he would have admonished the private at any other time, he would let it slide, for now.

Because even he couldn't help but feel the same way.

In front of him, defying all known laws of physics and gravity, was a portal, about the size of a warehouse entrance, buzzing with energy. But what caught his attention next was more eye-catching.

On the other end, attached to the metal wall, was a flag, one that had seen much, much better days. The white stars were in the wrong positions, with fewer of them in general. But even the damage couldn't hide what it was supposed to be.

"FORGIVE ME GENERAL! IF I HAD KNOWN THAT YOU WOULD BE ARRIVING ALL THESE YEARS LATER, I WOULD HAVE MADE SURE THE STARS AND STRIPES SHINED LIKE THEY WERE SUPPOSED TO BE!"

"WELCOME! TO THE FOUR STATES COMMONWEALTH DEFENSE COMMAND!"

---

QQ AN: Not normally my usual site I post, but with the unexpected success of this story on SB, I may as well introduce to more people.

Song of the Day:


View: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cUuT379liW0

 

[t99_2020]

1 WEEK LATER…
Mojave Desert

When his daughter was born, General Monroe had sworn off cigarettes. Bad for the baby, and a bad image overall.

It had been hard, going cold turkey, but he had managed. Better health was merely a bonus. Throughout all the years and stress of the battlefield, smoking had been a thing of the past. It would have to take a situation so massive, so unbelievably a clusterfuck, that the sweet relief of nicotine would be able to blunt it.

Well… life had finally won. It had decided to pull out of its ass something that he couldn't ignore.

Outside, in the chilling Mojave night, Monroe breathed out a smoke puff before snuffing out the cigarette.

"Didn't realize you smoked, General." Luchart said.

Monroe let out a small chuckle. "You would be correct. Supposed to have quit these damn cancer-sticks a while back." He glanced back at the cave system, an innocuous gateway to another reality.

Already, events were in motion. While the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff had expressed disbelief, a simple visit to Nellis had put to rest any doubts of what they had found. Especially with the fully-functioning robot that had greeted the man with a sort of gravitas, going so far as to lower its volume.

Now? The rudimentary foundations for the heart of what was to be Operation Prometheus were being laid out. Stealing figurative fire, of course.

And he was the poor son of a bitch meant to lead this operation.

"Apparently not, but I'm not one to judge." Luchart spoke, looking into the vast Mojave Desert. From this point of view, it would be easy to forget that civilization was even present. "Didn't think Ivan falling would be the first watershed moment, but here I am, eating my words. But hey!" Luchart exclaimed, having a shit-eating grin on his face. "It does make things interesting on the base."

General Monroe wasn't one to show many emotions, but he gave a deadpan stare at the Colonel.

"Interesting is a bit of an understatement, Colonel."

"Yeah, I suppose so." Luchart sheepishly replied. "Still… I still can't wrap my head around it."

"Well… you better wrap it soon, because they've arrived." Monroe said, listening to the radio chatter. "Let's get the last of them acquainted."

"Not going to lie…" Luchart tittered, as the black Blackhawk landed in the distance. "Don't know if I should be wary of them. Swear they give me the creeps."

Monroe simply sighed.

"They're spooks, that's their job."

---

Briefing Room, Nellis Air Force Base.

When the designers had made this room, they probably hadn't foreseen it being used by units other than the Air Force. At the very least, Monroe was thankful that they at least designed it for high capacity.

As he prepared for the brief, Monroe could see a variety of uniforms, from all different branches. Most wore the same OCP uniforms, but there were some differences. The group to the right of him had gas masks hanging from their sides, indicating the Chemical Corps. At the back, the men and women were part of the Air Force's drone program.

That left the group of Marines to his left. And finally, Black Ops in the middle. A few short glares from the others, but nothing too serious.

Breathing in a deep breath, Monroe couldn't help but think about his family. As far as he was concerned, Operation Prometheus was persona non grata. He wouldn't be able to visit his family for months, possibly even years.

Even if he was to return, none of what he would see or hear would ever reach the light of day. America's path for a New World lay mere miles from him, and he shuddered at the thought of the Chinese getting their hands on that sort of technology.

For better or for worse, the men and women in front of him would be his new "family".

"Now then. General Monroe will be briefing you on this mission." Luchart announced to the crowd.

'Showtime.'

Moving onto the stage, Monroe set himself in front of the podium.

"Greetings to all of you on this short notice. As stated before, the good Colonel has already introduced me, so I'll keep this brief."

Monroe's eyes scanned the entire room, without a hint of a smile. "What you're about to see and hear, are under the highest levels of secrecy. In fact, I would say that any attempts to disperse this information to the public, will be considered an offense close to treason. I don't need to tell you what the consequences are…"

The room, rather chatty beforehand, turned quiet as the grave. Good. These men and women needed to understand what they were getting into.

One of the Marines raised his hand.

"Sir… what operation are we exactly conducting here? Because this…" He gestured to the rest of the room. "This isn't a drill."

"Name and Rank?"

The marine seemed to shy away before responding. "Corporal Wilter, sir."

"You're correct on that part, Corporal. This operation is unlike any you have conducted previously. Now then… let's start."

With that, the lights dimmed, leaving the entire room in darkness.

Allowing for the old projector to start up.

"On December 4th, at 0300 hours, personnel at this base were attacked by an unknown hostile force. All attempts to dissuade and cease hostilities failed, with lethal force unfortunately being needed. What we didn't know at the time was that the hostile force looked like this."

With the last word, the projector switched to the next slide.

This time, the troops couldn't help themselves.

"What the fuck?!"

"THE HELL IS THA-"

"JESUS!"

Displayed to all, were the corpses of the zombies, lined up and taken with HD cameras. Clear to see the rabid snarls on their frozen faces. Clear to see the rotten flesh from head to toe.

Monroe stayed silent, allowing the troops to take in the picture. Best give them a foundation, before he pulled the carpet out from under them again. When they eventually quieted down, he continued.

"As you can see. These ain't no Ruskies. Rather, what we have here are human-turned monsters. And yes… that is part of your mission."

A voice was heard over the murmurs of the crowd.

"First Lieutenant Polodi here! What sort of biological weapons program is this?! And why the hell do we only have two hundred people for this?!"

"An excellent question, that our good friend here will demonstrate. Because as I told you, this is not a normal operation." Glancing to his side, Monroe nodded to Luchart. "Mr. Gutsy, you can come out now!"

Within seconds, the floating robot that had started this whole operation joined General Monroe on the stage. The questions ceased, as the soldiers boggled at what they were witnessing.

And then, the robot made its presence clear.

"IT APPEARS THAT GENERAL MONROE WAS NOT LYING! I SEE THE FINEST FORCE THAT HAS EVER BEEN ASSEMBLED IN UNCLE SAM'S NAME! HOORAH!"

Monroe had to admit, knowing that the men and women in front of him had the same stupefied expression he had all those days ago, made the whole thing almost worth the future headaches.

Almost.

---

THREE HOURS LATER…
CAVE SYSTEM LEADING TO OPERATION PROMETHEUS

"Gotta admit, they managed to recover pretty quickly."

"Of course they did. I made a request for the best of the best." Monroe replied to Luchart, moving through the cave system. "And that means being able to adapt to new situations."

"Still… having everything you know upended by a bad parody of Stargate ain't what most people think about. A crappy parody, come to think of it." Luchart muttered under his breath.

"True enough. But if we can reproduce even a fraction of what that robot had to offer…" Monroe didn't finish his sentence, letting the past memories do the work.

It had been simply a test as to what the "Mr Gutsy" was capable of. Three appendages, capable of doing three different tasks.

The first appendage, a manipulator pincer, had allowed the robot to handle normal tasks, while serving as a powerful bludgeon.

The second appendage, a flamethrower, allowed the robot a deadly close range weapon.

But it was the third appendage that had garnered the most attention. The eggheads had set up a dummy target, complete with gelatin organs, for the robot to deal with. An order that the robot was pleased to follow.

Rather than lead, a bright green projectile simply turned the human figure into green goop. A plasma projectile, if the Gutsy was correct.

Leave it to a floating piece of 50s propaganda to demonstrate practical energy weapons.

"Don't need to remind me. No IFAK is going to patch that up." Luchart shuddered.

As the two men moved further into the cave system, the work of the Army Corps of Engineers became prominent with every step. Where once there was uneven terrain, smooth asphalt made the walk easier. Portable generators hummed, powering the lights hanging on the concrete pillars, which in turn, gave additional support to the ceiling above.

Still... it had only been a week since they had discovered the portal. Not everything was up to standards.

For instance, the checkpoint guarding the portal.

"Halt! No entry without proper authorization!" A man shouted from behind the sandbag barricade, one M2 Browning on each side.

"Beta-Five-Two-Yota-Charlie-Seven-Six-Eight." Monroe recited out the day's passcode.

"One moment… alright, you can come through." The man indicated to the two men to move along.

With the checkpoint out of the way, it didn't take long before they reached their destination.

"Doctor Winsler, nice to see you!" Luchart exclaimed to the group of labcoats, studying the shimmering wall in reality.

Monroe still had doubts about letting civvies into this. More people in the know, meant more people who could potentially leak the entire operation. However, he couldn't deny that without getting a headstart on this portal, this operation would be at the mercy of portal's energy.

"Same to you, Colonel Luchart! Now, about that report…" The portly middle-aged man gestured to the clipboard on hand.

"Let's hear it. Are the energy levels stable enough? We can't afford to maroon our forces on a different Earth."

"They are… from the preliminary data we've been able to gather." Winsler sighed. "Energy levels have remained constant throughout the week, but frankly? We're in unknown territory."

Unknown was putting it mildly, for a physicist who had been forced to see numerous laws being given the middle finger, Monroe thought. Far as he was concerned, Winsler and his staff would have the harder job, trying to figure out the nature of the portal.

But that led to the conundrum that he was in right now.

If he had it his way, he would have taken his time, enabling the scientists to get a better feeling as to whether or not the portal was stable. Allow the troops to train up, and better coordinate with one another.

But as it stood, time wasn't on his side. It was only through sheer luck that the portal had opened up in an isolated spot. Next time, they wouldn't be so lucky.

With a brief goodbye, Luchart and Monroe left the scientists, and entered into the portal. Immediately, the damp and moldy smell gave way to the dry and clinical atmosphere of the compound itself. Still, there was a strange taste to the air, almost as if it was recycled.

The room itself was rather spartan, only having a bunch of scrap and junk lying about. No presence of wood, or even glass, just metal.

But as it stood, the room would be the staging point for taking control of the complex, thanks to the holographic table that so conveniently had a map of the place. Whatever it was used for originally, Monroe didn't know.

"So. How do you want to approach this?" Luchart twisted the knobs on the holographic table, allowing the display of the complex to be fully visible. "From what the robot said, we're currently on the bottom floor over here." Luchart pointed to a particular corner, marked in red. "It's been able to relay updated IFFs, so that we aren't considered hostiles, but apparently, there's dumber bots that won't be so friendly."

"Also doesn't take into account if we have to deal with more of those zombies." Monroe muttered, touching the hologram to move it around. "Close quarters combat, and it'll make Fallujah look like paradise."

As the men looked over the holographic map, the chances of success looked slim.

From an outside perspective, clearing the floor, much less the five floors above, would take too many casualties.

But Monroe wasn't going to let some B-movie zombies be the obstacle between the US and the technology it needed.

Slowly but surely, a plan of attack was formed.

"Right… I think I can make this work. Colonel?"

"Yes, General?" Luchart asked.

"Get back to Nellis, and tell the White House that we're going to need to requisition some materiel, on my command. First, additional flashbangs…"

---

AN: Next chapter will detail the assault on the Four States Commonwealth Defense Command. Expect a lot of drones to be used.

Song of the Day:


View: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=co03QqGA4Og

 

[t99_2020]

LEVEL 3

Over two hundred years ago, the Four States Commonwealth Defense Command should have been bustling with activity.

According to Uncle Sam, the dirty Reds would never be able to touch pure, American soil. With state of the art weaponry, as well as computing power that rivaled the defenses in Washington, Chairman Cheng would never lay a single finger on the peaceful communities in the Four States Commonwealth.

Of course, that was what they said.

The reality was vastly different.

Now, the underground complex that was the first line of defense, was as silent as the grave. The only sounds being that of the generators themselves, continuing to chug along all these centuries later.

All interrupted by the sounds of a jet nozzle. Belonging to a loyal soldier.

Unit T-6072, Mister Gutsy, couldn't believe it. Apparently, the base was full of spies! Pinko-card carrying COMMUNISTS, dressed in the uniforms of fallen American soldiers. Despicable!

Even worse? His fellow comrades, the ones who should have had his back? They had been compromised by Chinese spyware, waiting for their opportunity to stab Sweet Liberty in the back! He should have known. Weak-minded fools from Rob-Co, of all places.

Not like himself and his brothers. After all, General Atomics would never have let such seditious thoughts corrupt such patriotic units.

But all of that was going to change!

New orders had come in, and if he could smile, Mister Gutsy would be grinning in anticipation.

Moving along the corridors, his optics narrowed, as he spotted a group of Chinese infiltrators on the ground, growling their socialist propaganda in their sleep.

[ANALYZING… THREAT RECORDED]

When the time came, T-6072 would be proud to follow General Monroe's orders, allowing the Stars and Stripes to once again fly proudly over the base.

These poor Commies didn't realize that they were dead men walking.

---

As red lights cluttered up the holographic map by the minute, Monroe had mixed feelings.

On one hand, the intelligence that these… "Mr. Gutsies" were worth their weight in gold. With corroboration from the drones on hand, each one of those red dots was a threat that wouldn't surprise the strike force.

On the other hand, there was no way to confirm the nature of the threats. Zombies, more heavily armored robots? The possibilities were endless. That didn't even take into account the nature of the Mr. Gutsies themselves. He wasn't an expert, but Monroe would bet his right arm that the programmers had been snorting something good.

But if he wanted to take this base with minimal casualties, utilizing these strange robots was their best option.

"Status?"

"86.6%. Full scan will be complete in thirteen minutes." The army technician replied back, slowly turning the hologram slightly.

"Lot of uglies, if that's the case." Captain Graves of the 2nd Chemical Battalion spoke, observing the map with a critical eye. Behind him, the 1st Platoon of A Company readied their gear. The rest would be coming in soon. "Info will be outdated by several minutes. We'll have to move slowly."

"Take as much time as you need, Captain. Better that we be thorough, than sloppy." Monroe said. "Let the robots take the brunt of the attack. Afterwards, we can clean up."

Hart gave a slight confused look. "You sure about that? Thought ya wanted those bots to be intact, so them eggheads can study them."

"I could give less of a damn about what the scientists care about. This place is a deathtrap if we aren't careful enough. Besides…" Monroe looked at the corner of the map.

FLOOR FIVE: 33 Units Operational

"I think we have enough to spare."

---

Truth be told, the metallic taste of the iodine pills weren't pleasant at all.

But if what the Captain said was true, this place could be leaking rads like a sieve.

With that pleasant thought, Sergeant Pam continued to move forwards, the rest of the squad moving behind him. Thankfully, no noticeable ticks from the Geiger counter.

"Got to admit. When we got this transfer, an excursion into an alternate reality wasn't what I had in mind." A voice quietly spoke over comms. Private Miller, if he was correct.

"Bit of an understatement. Shit looks like it came straight out of Star Wars, especially that robot. Wonder what's making it float?"

Pam sighed, before activating his mic.

"Shut it. We can always talk about this during chowtime. Rest of the boys are depending on us to clear the way forward."

With a reminder of what they were here to do, the squad piped down, marching down the dimly lit corridor.

The first incident with this new world didn't take long, if one could call an impromptu grave an incident.

Slumped against the wall, the skeleton was unmistakably military, the aged olive green uniform still recognizable. Gripped in its hand, was a large pistol. Didn't take a genius to realize what the rusted crimson stain on the wall was supposed to be.

None of the soldiers made a noise. Pam had no doubts however, that every man was thinking the same thing. Making a mental note of where the skeleton was, Pam motioned his squad to continue moving. Nothing they could do for the poor bastard.

The second incident was much more lively.

Suddenly, Pam's radio activated.

"Echo Five Psi. Be advised, you're in the vicinity of one of the reported threats. Proceed with extreme caution."

"Acknowledged."

Deactivating the radio, Pam raised his hand in a fist, before pointing down. Without hesitation, the soldiers dropped to their stomachs, M4s and various other weapons at the ready.

Just in time too.

As the sound of tracks echoed throughout the hallway, Pam held his breath, waiting for the next robot to come around the corner. Maybe a Super Battle Droid. Maybe a Terminator.

What he didn't expect to see, was the abomination to God.

Trundling along at a leisure pace, the cylindrical green robot looked rather normal, relative to the "Mr. Gutsy" they had all seen at the brief.

And then, it hit him.

'That's a brain. That's a brain in a jar…'

"Patrol complete. Phew! No bad guys here!" The robot remarked in a happy tone.

'That's a human brain in a jar.'

As the brain cheerfully spouted out remarks about its day, the mood couldn't be any more different for the men on the ground, witnessing Frankenstein's monster; a work of science gone too far. They were so close to the damn thing, that they could see the faded out white letters and numbers on the chassis:

RB-3928

Only a few feet away, Pam's heart beat like a jackhammer. There was no reference to what this... thing could do. The two appendages it had sure looked sharp enough. Sharp enough to puncture through armor and flesh.

And then... it stopped.

'Lord. Guide me through these tumultuous times. Please Lord.'

For a split second, Pam feared that it would turn its head to them.

But as suddenly as it stopped, it resumed its journey, spouting out cheerful jargon.

Only thanks to strict discipline, and the memories of working in the Chemical Corps, that the brain in a jar was allowed to cheerfully pass by the soldiers. They didn't dare move, minutes after… it had left the sector.

Only one thought came to Pam's mind, as he continued the march towards their designated position:

'What Godforsaken world was this?'

---

AN: Bit of a short chapter today, but I kinda wasn't able to really sleep at all. I'll see if I can get a larger chapter for the battle.

As a note, this chapter is a bit of a subversion of what I said earlier. But here's the really nasty part about Mr. Gutsy: They're one of the few robots that have the capacity for remote link-up capability for updating orders in real time.

In other words, the US ain't doing this shit alone.

Song of the Day:


View: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ckKeQNCyPBU

 

[t99_2020]

"General, all squads are in position."

For the first time in a long week, Monroe smiled. "Good. We can proceed with the sweep then."

As far as plans went, the setup had gone smoothly, more or less. A couple of close encounters, but the few bots or zombies that saw the teams were dispatched quickly. No alarms raised. Perfect.

Still, all of this revolved around the unproven variable: These "Mr. Gutsys". They would be the ones attacking from the inside, ensuring that his men wouldn't have to face down hordes of zombies, or heavily armored robots.

Fancy space-aged weapons were great and all, but how would they perform against actual combatants? That was the million dollar question. Just in case, he had ordered the Captain to equip his men with double the ammunition, as well as armor piercing bullets.

Speaking of which…

"Mr. Gutsy, are your men ready?"

"AFFIRMATIVE! ALL LOYAL UNITS HAVE BEEN DEPLOYED FOR SURPRISE ATTACKS AGAINST COMMUNIST POSITIONS! Probability of Socialist victory? 0.0075%!"

Right… when they had the chance, he was getting to the bottom of this. While he was wary of the Reds himself, based on his early years in the Army, the level of jingoism that this alternate US had was fairly disturbing.

Trying hard so as to not show his true emotions, Monroe continued.

"Have your men changed their targeting parameters?"

"INDEED! HARDENED RED FORCES HAVE BEEN GIVEN PRIORITY FOR TERMINATION!"

Looking over the room, Monroe could see the numerous radio operators, all set to give valuable info to the squads. Even now, coordinates for enemy and allied positions were being conveyed. Flexible, yet controlled. All coordinated for one goal.

Whatever happened next, Monroe knew that the Rubicon was going to be crossed. No turning back from the new age that the US was about to enter into. The fall of the Soviets, the entry into Iraq? All paled in comparison to what was the most important discovery of the 21st century.

Breathing in deeply, Monroe let himself have this brief moment of peace, before turning to the Mr. Gutsy.

"You may proceed with the attack."

---

Sergeant Pam's radio activated.

"All forces are a go. Repeat! You are cleared for action!"

Almost immediately, the sounds of battle started. Gunfire echoed through the corridors, breaking the hums of the generators that had been ever so present.

"Move it! Move it!" Pam ordered his men forward. "We don't have much time!"

Pam's men stomped on the metal ground, stealth exchanged for speed. They had to move quick, lest the uglies and bots were given the time to hide or regroup. Starting with what appeared to be some intense fighting in one of the barracks.

From what he could hear, the mesh of screams and growls mixed in with the unfamiliar fwoosh of something being fired. One of them fancy lasers, most likely.

Pam nodded to Private Miller, who took the flashbang from his utility belt. With a slam on the control panel, the metal door opened, the primed flashbang thrown in subsequently.

The loud thud of the flashbang announced the presence of the soldiers, who flooded into the barracks.

Only to find that their job had already been done for them.

With a screech, the last zombie collapsed to the ground, a smoking green hole melted into its torso. Even with his gas mask on, the smell of burnt rotten flesh was noticeable, making Pam slightly gag.

All the while, the robot floated triumphantly over its defeated foe, the three optics narrowing in suspicion at the presence of the new figure.

"Scanning. ID confirmed." The robot spoke before shouting at full volume again.

"GREETINGS! MY DESIGNATION IS T-8092, MR. GUTSY! I AM PLEASED TO MEET LOYAL SOLDIERS OF THE UNITED STATES ONCE AGAIN!"

All the while, Pam could see that between the rusted barrack beds, more smoke emanated from the corpses it had made. Hell, if he was seeing it correctly, one limb was sprawled on one of the beds, torn directly off by laser fire.

Suddenly, the past memory of the robot spewing quotes straight out from his grandfather's mouth, wasn't so amusing now.

At least the brain in a jar hadn't demonstrated what it was capable of.

Gulping silently, Pam drove the fear down, reverting back to what his orders were. The rest of his men were counting on him to show no visible fear.

Activating comms, the sergeant ordered his troops.

"Miller, Smith? Make sure that those zombies are dead. Double tap them if necessary. Rest of you? With me."

As the gunshots rang out in the barracks, Pam approached the robot, trying to make himself as stoic as possible.

"Mr. Gusty, you're with us." Pam sternly ordered the robot. "You'll be at the front, dealing with enemy hostiles, while we support you from the back."

"AFFIRMATIVE! KILL THEM ALL AND LET GOD SORT EM' OUT!"

…

'It's official. Whoever made these bots were batshit crazy.'

With the gruesome task done, the Mr. Gutsy floated out of the charnel house, and moved through the hallway with a purpose, the squad following behind it.

With the sound of their boots, more enemies emerged. Trundling from behind a corner, one of those accursed brains in a jar pointed its appendages at the group.

"Terribly sorry, but I'm going to have to kill you!"

If he had blinked, Pam would have missed the red lasers hitting the chassis of the Mr. Gutsy, which put it in a frenzy.

"DO THAT AGAIN, AND I'LL PUT MY FOOT SO FAR UP YOUR ASS, YOU'LL COUGH UP BOOT POLISH!" The Gutsy shouted, before putting three shots into its former comrade.

The first shot melted the right track, tipping the brain on its side.

The second shot partially penetrated the chassis, allowing Pam to see some sparks from the circuitry.

The third shot did it in, the brain splattering the ground in a mess of fluids, glass, and brain matter. With it, the laser fire stopped.

Pam's men could only look warily at the bot.

Then, almost like a proud puppy, the Mr. Gutsy approached the Sergeant, its optics wide with excitement.

"ANOTHER VICTORY FOR UNCLE SAM!"

---

"Please remain cal-"

Before the stumpy two-legged robot could continue, multiple bullets smashed into the glass head, ripping apart the delicate electronics. A small death whine emitted, before the robot joined its brothers on the ground, lifeless and still.

"I think that's the last of them." Miller spoke, slapping a new mag into his M4.

"Don't say that just yet. These models seem to be built for numbers." Pam replied back, his rifle still pointed at the wrecks. "More of these fuckers than any of the others combined."

In the short time he was here, Pam had started to pick up on a few patterns that this alternate US liked to use.

For one, the turrets, machine gun or laser, tended to be tucked behind the corners of the hallways, allowing for ambushes on unsuspecting foes. An effective tactic, but one that could be easily adapted to.

Second, while the varieties of enemies ranged widely, from soccer-shaped floating bots, to the vaguely humanoid automatons they had just dispatched, all of them tended to use red lasers that appeared to not hit as hard as the Mr. Gutsy did.

"EXCELLENT WORK! THAT'S HOW WE DO THINGS IN THE US ARMY, HOORAH!"

"Certainly, Mr. Gusty. Now, move up! We got more commies to kill!" Pam said entertaining the notion that he truly believed the propaganda the floating tin can was spouting out. Leading to the third lesson:

The targeting programs for the bots seemed to prioritize the Mr. Gutsy, rather than the soldiers behind it, allowing for them to fire with impunity.

All of which culminated in battle damage on their figurative and literal shield. Dents in the metal chassis were visible, complemented by scorch marks as well. Harder for the RnD boys to study, but the General told them it was allowed. After all, fleshy humans were harder to repair.

As the Mr. Gutsy led the charge, spouting more jingoistic quotes, Private Martinez couldn't help but move up next to the Sergeant.

"Sir… should we really be encouraging the bot with that sort of language?" Martinez quietly asked, a wary look on his face. "I mean… what happens if it gets a look at something it finds communist? Rock and roll? Equal rights? We could have a shitstorm on our hands."

"That's something the eggheads will have to deal with." Pam gruffly replied back, resuming the advance. "Right now, I'm just gla-"

The radio in Pam's helmet screeched to life.

"This is Panther Five Bravo! Heavy resistance in Sector 8! Are there any assets that can provide support?! Over!"

Pam mentally checked the unit's location, before responding.

"This is Echo Five Psi! Moving to your location! Out!"

With that, Sergeant Pam and his men quickened their pace, running towards Sector 8.

At first, there wasn't any indication of the troubles that were being reported. Then, a loud noise echoed through the hallways, sounding as though as if someone was ripping cloth.

'Oh crap.'

As Pam's stomach dropped, he was praying fruitlessly that what he was hearing wasn't the sound of a machine gun. One with a high rate of fire.

As they passed by the corpses of fallen foes, flesh and metal, Pam's hope became ever so slimmer, the sound of ripping cloth interrupted by the sound of an explosion. A sound that was uncomfortably close.

"Please tell me that wasn't what I just heard…"

"You weren't hearing things. We got a dumbfuck using explosives…"

Finally approaching Sector 8, the roar of combat became audible, the overzealous bot eager to do battle. Without hesitation, it turned the corner.

"THIS WILL BE A PERSONAL FAVOR T-"

The explosion that followed interrupted whatever the Gutsy was about to say. As well as its life. Scrap metal flew through the air, hitting the wall in front of it.

"Status report: yellow. Primary systems have sustained significant damage. Reinforcement recommended."

A figure turned the corner, and Pam quickly swore.

It was big. Bigger than anything else that they had encountered. Barely fitting in the hallway, it seemed to have troubles navigating. But where it lacked mobility, it made up for in armor. From this distance, the partially melted chestpiece didn't seem to be hampering its operation.

Particularly, the bright orange minigun that was whirring to life in its arm.

His eyes widening behind the gas mask, Pam bellowed out to his squad.

"Take cover!"

Without hesitation, the men scrambled to get into the side corridors. Three men were a tad too late.

The minigun roared to life, bullets planting themselves into the men.

"AHHHHHHH!" Private Miller screamed out on the floor, writhing in agony. Shamus was deadly silent.

'SHIT!'

"Smith, get a smoke down, now!" Pam ordered the private before activating comms. "This is Echo Five Psi! Multiple casualties in Sector 8! Is there any unit that can provide support?!"

"Echo Five Psi, this is Lima Five Gamma. We're near your location! Sit tight!"

As the smoke filled the hallways, Pam could hear the accursed bot speak.

"Alert: Enemy hostiles have deployed smoke. Suppression Fire Protocol engaged."

As the bullets continued to puncture the smoke screen, Pam used the opportunity to pull Miller to cover. With swift hands, he tore off Miller's kevlar vest, as well as removing his shirt. But as soon as he saw the wounds, he wished he hadn't.

Amidst the screams, Pam could see that the bullets had pierced the kevlar with ease, turning Miller's stomach into a mess of blood and shredded guts. Pam glanced to see McNeil lying against the wall, their medic putting a tourniquet around the bloody leg. No IFAK was going to be able to patch this up.

"Hernandez! Morphine!"

As the Corporal administered the syrette to Miller, Pam resumed fire down range, already having switched to armor piercing bullets. Not like it would do anything, judging by the troubles the previous squad had.

If the screams were bad, the sobs were even worse. Miller, someone who was as cold as ice, was now crying out for someone, anyone to help him. Pam shared the grim look on Hernandez's face. Without immediate treatment, all they were doing was delaying the inevitable.

It would have to take a God-given miracle for Miller to survive.

"Over there! I can see them!" A voice cried out from across the hallway, followed by an enraged voice.

"THEY DARE HARM A US SOLDIER?! WORDS CANNOT DESCRIBE THE ANGER I FEEL RIGHT NOW!"

Pam looked up, relieved at the reinforcements that he requested. The Mr. Gutsy bellowed out messages of revenge, as it blindly shot through the smoke screen.

"Gretsky, good to see you."

"Could've been under better conditions, but shit…" Gretsky could only look at the mortally wounded Miller. "How bad?"

"Even with a doc, I don't know."

Gretsky stared at Miller for a moment, before a sigh emanated from his mask.

"God damnit… Moore, get over here!"

Pam recognized the small figure as Gretsky's field medic. What was different, was the giant syringe in his hands. A circular display was at the top, almost like a pressure gauge. It certainly wasn't anything from them, judging by the rust covering the syringe.

"Let's hope the tin can was right about this…" Moore muttered, before injecting the syringe into Miller's wounds. A pneumatic hiss could be heard, as the contents entered Miller's body.

For a moment, nothing happened.

And then, that miracle they needed happened in real time.

Pam could only look on in shock, as the guts seemed to grow back before their eyes. Second by second, Miller's wounds continued to grow smaller and smaller, until the bloody bullets clinked onto the ground, pushed out by the newly grown baby pink skin. The cries died out, as Miller slowly patted at his stomach with wonder.

…

"Thank fuck that tin can wasn't talking out of its ass." Moore said in relief, observing the used syringe with a new eye.

High on adrenaline, Pam couldn't help but feel a rollercoaster of emotions. The regret of losing a soldier was in stark contrast to the miracle he had just seen. As if to emphasize that disparity, the large bot's voice echoed out, distortions in its voice.

"Status report: red. Primary system failure immin-"

*BOOM*

If the explosion from before had been big, this one sent shockwaves through the hallways, staggering some of the men.

For a moment, there was silence.

And then… Pam's radio finally opened up. All to repeat a single message:

"To all squads… Floor Five has been cleared. I repeat… Floor Five has been cleared of all enemy hostiles!"

---

AN: Even with the help of the Gutsys as fire support and meat shields, it was inevitable that the US would suffer casualties. As it stands, these robots are some of the most dangerous you can ever face in the Wasteland, a skirmish being a suicidal action. Only thanks to the plasma weapons the Gutsys have, as well as the US army's organization, were they able to get through this with such low casualties.

Next chapter will be detailing the aftermath, as well as the implications of what Monroe sees in the computer terminals.

Song of the Day:


View: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AQ_Lzh_S-2c

 

[t99_2020]

8 HOURS LATER…

As the lights flickered in and out, the creature squeezed its way through the crack in the metal wall, landing on the ground without trouble. Utilizing its antennas, it skittered across the ground, the faint smell guiding it to sustenance. Salty and sweet, if one were to taste the two hundred year old can of meat.

Finally on top of the desk, the mandibles were about to finally shove the pieces of meat into its mouth, before a faint voice yelled out.

"A really big fucking hole, coming right up!"

With that, the metal blast door lit up brightly, as the metal oxide and powder reacted with the fuel. Eating into the steel itself, the two sparks proceeded down, before joining together at the bottom.

One swift kick and the room was exposed to the outer world for the first time in two centuries.

"Flash out!"

Which was immediately followed by a flashbang, forcing the mutated cockroach to scurry back where it came from.

Two soldiers simultaneously entered into the room, each moving to one of the two corners, scanning the room for hostiles. No movement whatsoever. The third and fourth soldiers moved in to support the first two. With no resistance, the rest of the squad flooded in, securing the initial positions. In short, nothing was in the room.

Well… except for the mummified corpse, slumped over in its chair, the computer terminal still humming with power.

"Clear!"

As the rest of the team moved in, the first two soldiers approached the corpse with caution, the zombies from earlier still present in their minds. A quick poke with the rifle, and all concerns were forgotten.

It was at this point that the soldiers noted the unique clothing the corpse was wearing. Rather than the olive green BDU that most of the zombies were wearing, this corpse had a thick overcoat. The glint of metal drew the corporal's attention. Narrowing his eyes, the corporal opened the pocket in the breast sleeve, before fishing out the metallic card.

A brief glance was all it took before the corporal activated his radio.

"Menace Three Romeo to TOC. We've found the base CO. May want a gas mask however." The corporal said, before noticing the space age weapon in the corpse's hand. "Get one of the collection teams in here as well."

---

It didn't take long before the collection teams started to move through the levels.

As far as the Federal Government was concerned, the robot had simply been the tip of the iceberg. Ranging from laser weapons, to advanced robotics, this base from an alternate reality was a goldmine in technology. One that would allow the US to maintain its status as a superpower, well into the 22nd Century.

And so… the orders were sent. Collection teams, clad in radiation suits, scoured the rooms for anything of value. Energy weapons, batteries, robot wrecks, medicine? All were gathered and collected into specialized containers, all to be transported back across the portal.

Unfortunately, that also meant collecting items of interest, so as to get a better understanding of this alternate reality.

Such as the remains of those melted by the energy weapons.

As the collection team carefully swept the glowing goo into the lead-lined container nearby, Monroe couldn't help but have the shivers. For as much as bullets could do terrible damage, there was always a certain familiarity to be found in them.

These new energy weapons… were unlike anything that the US had been able to develop. Not energy hogs that could only blind, but true weapons that were capable of melting an entire man down into goop. Monroe figured that sort of energy could cook off a BMP with a well-placed shot, not to mention the psychological effect the weapon would have.

One thing to see a man go down. Another thing to see that same man be reduced to ashes.

Exiting out of the field hospital, Monroe directed his attention away from the laser weapon subject. At the very least, only the good guys would have the beams of light. Alongside what was an unexpected development.

"And you're certain there haven't been any side effects? No tumors, nothing?"

"There are some concerns if the patient has a heart condition, but aside from that? Nothing! All the cells seem to be perfectly differentiated!" Dr. Haville answered excitedly. "We'll keep them in observation at Nellis for the next week or so, but overall, they seem to have fully recovered! I mean… stem cell growth isn't a foreign concept to us, but to have them react this quickly…"

"I'm just glad those boys are alright." Monroe spoke before letting out a resigned sigh. "Less letters to write."

The mention of the casualties put a damper on the mood, with Haville's face turning somber.

"True to that. We can't even send the bodies for burial."

The frown on Monroe's face deepend. Six Letters. Six deaths in unknown territory. If it weren't for this miracle medicine, and the help of those Mr. Gutsys, the casualties could have been even higher.

And that was the crux of the lies he had to make. Operation Prometheus couldn't be revealed at this time. Not a single hint given out, such as bullet wounds. Rather than being hailed as heroes that had made the ultimate sacrifice, they would simply be casualties in an accident. No bodies to recover.

General Monroe had many traits, but being a good liar wasn't one of them.

But that burden was for future Monroe. Right now, he had to ensure the rest of the men didn't suffer the same fate.

Thanking Haville for her team's efforts, Monroe continued down the hallway. Already, a strong presence had been established. Sentries patrolled the narrow hallways, in case of any unexpected hostiles that hadn't been cleared in the initial sweep. More noticable, were the numerous body bags being carried out by the collection teams.

Another problem that had made itself apparent after the dust settled. Monroe wasn't sure how the bodies would even be processed. Dog tags present, yet no records for any of the names. Ghost personnel, effectively.

With the amount of radiation emanating from some of the zombie corpses, Monroe had a solid hunch that the corpses would be unceremoniously dumped into lead-lined caskets, followed by concrete. An unfitting end for those who had served the United States, alternate reality be damned.

Turning the corner, Monroe found himself at the entrance of the initial staging point. Alongside the two guards, were two of the remaining Mr. Gutsys, who had suffered the brunt of the casualties.

"GREETINGS, GENERAL MONROE!" One of the Gutsys yelled out. Evidently, the guards had been at this for quite a while, as they barely flinched. "ANOTHER BEAUTIFUL DAY IN THE US ARMY!"

"Indeed it is." Monroe replied back. "Now, if you would kindly let me in?"

"AFFIRMATIVE!"

With surprising dexterity, one of the Gutsys used its appendage to open the gigantic blast door, the gears and cogs visibility shifting to let the two parts open up.

"FAREWELL, GENERAL! AND IF YOU NEED TO DEAL WITH ANY MORE COMMIE SCUM, YOU KNOW JUST WHERE TO FIND US!"

"Certainly." Monroe replied back.

'Damn things are going to have to be reprogrammed entirely if we're to start fielding them.'

As it stood, while the Gutsys would be vital for retaking the remaining floors, the vast majority would be heading back to Nellis to be shut down and researched. Let RnD use their knowhow to make inroads into how they worked. Hopefully, newer models would be built that didn't scream PR nightmare.

Heading in, Monroe saw that the room was bustling with activity. Forklifts moved to and fro from the portal, crates and packages being dropped off in the available space to the side. Radio operators in their makeshift camp relayed and received info from the squads.

And in the middle, Captain Graves and several analysts looked over the holographic map. Looking up from the map, Graves gestured Monroe over.

"General, good to see you. How are the men holding up?"

"Quite well, to be honest. Still kind of in awe that they're still alive, but I can feel some guilt coming from them. We lost some good men out there."

Graves sighed. "That's to be expected. I'll call them up and try to keep their heads on straight. It's not their fault that this base is filled with bullshit. We'll grieve when this entire facility is cleared."

"With any luck, we won't have any more casualties, if this new strategy works out." Monroe replied, gesturing towards the supply dump accumulating at record's pace.

"I've seen the contents. Barretts and SLAP rounds. Those should definitely make short work of those heavy fuckers. And I presume we let them come to us?"

"Correct." Monroe stated. "Originally, I was under the assumption that we would be fighting some intelligent enemies, not mindless zombies and robots trapped by programming."

Pointing to the upper floors, Monroe continued. "We let the bots lure the hostiles into set killzones. Anything that's trapped or stationary, we let them take care of it. UGVs should confirm the kills, allowing us to move up, sector by sector. That way, we don't lose men to the remaining security."

"Sounds good. Although…" Graves paused for a moment. "The brass are alright trashing these tin cans? My boys sure have a grudge now, and they won't hesitate."

"We already have those Mr. Gutsys. The rest are far too dangerous to subdue. And some are better off being forgotten…" Monroe trailed off, not needing to explain.

Even though he was only able to see the remains, it was a nasty shock to see Robocop becoming a reality. Alongside the rabid anti-communist rhetoric, Monroe was starting to get the idea that this US had gone down a very different path.

No matter what, using live human brains simply wasn't what the US Army was willing to do to achieve victory.

Graves shivered in disgust. "Amen to that. Putting them down was a mercy. Don't know what kinda shrooms they were smoking when they deployed those abominations."

"If we can find the base CO, we'll be able to get some answers. Although… that seems to be highly unlikely, considering the conditions here…"

It was at this point that fate would come into play.

"General!" One of the radio operators approached the table. "Urgent message from one of the squads in Sector 4!"

"Spit it out. What is it?"

…

"We've found the base CO."

---

"What the fuck happened here?"

"Not sure. Whatever was going on, the troops weren't pleased."

"Kind of an understatement. Looks like they wanted to bash his skull in." Monroe muttered through the gas mask, observing the scene before him.

Monroe was thankful that the collection team had left the bodies where they were, because the picture that was being depicted wasn't pretty.

The bones of a dozen or so soldiers lay at the entrance, all of them wielding a variety of weapons, ranging from laser pistols to assault rifles. All of whom had directed their weapons against the blast door.

Dents and burns were apparent, futile efforts to breach the entrance. And from what the initial team had said, more of those zombies had been concentrated here than any other section.

Carefully navigating through the remains, Monroe entered the opening that the breach team had made. Captain Graves and a small detachment followed through. Glancing to the side, Monroe grimaced at the mummified remains of the commander lying on the ground.

"Cause of death?"

"Suicide." Corporal Ramirez replied, gesturing at the space-age weapon besides the corpse. "Cooked his brains, from the looks of it. And he had this on him." Ramirez spoke, before handing Monroe a metal card. A card with arrows pointing to the etched words:

THIS SIDE HERE

Two and two were put together, with the conspicuous slot next to the bulky computer terminal.

Taking the card, Monroe stood before the computer terminal, not bothering to sit in a dead man's chair. In front of him, the computer looked like something out of his teenage years, a stark contrast to the technology that was on display..

Five green words were displayed on the screen:

INSERT ID CARD TO PROCEED

Slowly, Monroe inserted the metal card into the slot.

PROCESSING…

WELCOME, COLONEL BROOKS

Five sentences popped up, the top one being called the 'Purge Protocol'.

But that wasn't what Monroe was paying attention to, as a sharp intake of breath could be heard from behind his gasmask.

"Son of a bitch…"

Instead, it was the top of the screen that caught his eye.

ROBCO INDUSTRIES UNIFIED OPERATING SYSTEM

…

COPYRIGHT 2075-2077

---

Song of the Day:

View: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-rq0rol9Kyk

 

[t99_2020]

September 3, 2078

Those traitors! Those fucking traitors are plotting to fucking rise up against me. ME!

I'm the one that saved them, and this is how they repay me?!

I knew that limp-dicked Corporal was up to no good! Should have executed him when the dirty Reds dropped the bombs.

How should I have known that the fucking Chinese would be dumb enough to launch the nukes?! High Command told us that our boys would be moving up on their little rat caves in Beijing, waiting for the end! Dirty chinks shouldn't have had the balls to launch the nukes.

…

But what's past is past. Calm yourself, Brooks. Gotta make some hard decisions now.

Something got into the systems, and used the defenses to shoot down the nukes somewhere else. Don't know what it was, but right now, the rads up top can cook a man alive. Base's emergency lockdown can't be deactivated. Not until the rads are down to a safe degree.

The trouble is that we don't have much food left. Water is still plentiful, but we only have a month's food left. Two if we decide to cut the preexisting rations in half.

This fucking job was supposed to a dead-end job! A little bit of money didn't do anyone harm.

….

FUCK!

If we don't take drastic actions now, this base will become a tomb, either by famine or by that treasonous Johnson!

…

Wait a moment... I can deal with two birds with one stone...

I'm a fucking genius! The Purge Protocol will allow the bots to target those bastards while they're sleeping. Johnson doesn't know that I know that he's been plotting a mutiny.

Use the Purge Protocol, deal with Johnson, and the rest will have to obey my orders!

Bonus is that we'll have enough food to allow the radiation to fall to safe levels. Enough that we can use the bots to establish control of the surrounding areas. Allow Uncle Sam a base of operations to retake the US!

I'll wait for when they're asleep. Notify the men who are loyal to me to be prepared.

We'll have beat the Reds at their own fucking game.

Colonel Brooks out!

 

[t99_2020]

NELLIS AIR FORCE BASE

TWO DAYS LATER…

While Luchart's office wasn't the most secure location, it was good enough to inform the rest about the new information. One away from prying eyes and ears, with jammers in place. A location where the record logs and recordings of an alternative reality could be safely revealed.

As Monroe let the others listen to the recording, there was only one silver lining that made this absolute clusterfuck a bit more manageable. One that Captain Torres, the Air Force representative, pointed out.

"So we're not going to be erased out of existence, because we fucked with the timeline?"

A few chuckles of amusement were let out, as the Gutsy finally finished with its rant. Something about President McCarthy being a national hero.

"Quite so. Seems this portal leads to an alternate future, rather than ours. I don't think the Soviet Union would be so willing to unite again under any circumstances."

"Also pretty damn sure that McCarthy wouldn't have been able to pull the amount of shit here, if that was even possible." Luchart replied, observing a map of the United States. "Still… that leaves us in a bit of a conundrum."

"Full-on nuclear war." Captain Barlowe, the Marine representative, gruffly stated. "One with the Chinese, of all enemies."

"A war that has long to come to pass, if the chronometers from that tin can are correct." Graves spoke. "At least more than a century old, before the instruments died out. Whatever happened out there, both parties managed to nuke each other back into the Stone Age. The radiation levels in the last log were reported to cook a man alive."

"So any year beyond 2177. Not a good look if a military installation like this was abandoned all these years later." Barlowe pointed to Nevada. "If the portal is close to where we are, then the West Coast must have taken the full brunt of the attack. Barely any warnings whatsoever."

"Agreed. We won't know until we breach the surface. But suffice it to say, the prognosis doesn't look too good." Monroe said, bringing out a large folder, filled to the brim with paper. "I went through some old Cold War documents, as well as some of what the scientists are saying right now. It ain't pretty."

As Monroe detailed the implications of what could have happened, the mood of the room turned increasingly grim. And he couldn't blame them.

Nuclear War wasn't a foreign concept, not by a longshot. Each branch had their own protocols in the event of a nuclear war. But those protocols had never been tested, for obvious reasons.

Amidst the statistics, ranging from calories per person to radiation levels, the end message was painfully clear. From the shockwaves, to the rads, the Earth would simply be inhospitable to life during the initial weeks. And if that didn't do the survivors in, the subsequent nuclear winter would finish off the rest.

What was once theoretical, was now their only source as to what would be on the surface.

Well… not everything.

"On the bright side, radiation should have decayed to a safe level." Torres murmured, before realizing most of them were looking at her. "Isotopes from typical nuclear warheads aren't the same as the ones in Chernobyl or Fukushima. They tend to decay pretty quickly, around about a few weeks."

"Would be ill advised, but you could probably walk out there and not keel over any time soon." Luchart added on. "But even if conditions are survivable, it doesn't solve the major issue about what's going on the surface. For all we know, the US government is a defunct entity. Less rule of law, and more Mad Max."

"I wouldn't be so sure."

Monroe glanced at the figure to the far left of the table, who had decided to speak at last.

Agent 'Cross', on first look, was an unassuming person. A gaunt face, Cross wore a black suit with a white cotton dress shirt, the role of a businessman complete with a black tie. Overall, somebody who didn't belong in this room, filled with military personnel.

Then again, being invisible was part of the CIA's job.

"What makes you say that?" Barlowe asked. "As I've previously said, the US Government would be quick to reclaim such key facilities if they still existed."

"Not quite." Cross stated calmly. "You would think that such bases would be invaluable, with their ability to deal with incoming missiles…"

"Colonel Brooks can't be considered a reliable standard of such officers there." Graves argued back. "Hell! He would have been thrown out with the way he treats his subordinates!"

"Fair enough. But all the other pieces of information paint an accurate picture of this America's goals." Cross reached into his pocket, rolling out a miniature map of China.

"If there's one fact that I know about the Chinese, it's that they have never forgotten about the Century of Humiliation. It's what has guided their policies ever since. Any invasion of the mainland would be extremely difficult, if not impossible."

Monroe could see where Cross was going with this. "And because the US has managed to reach Beijing, this US may not even be prioritizing defending their skies. Less resources in maintaining such defenses, and more into the invasion."

"Besides, in their minds, they've already won." Cross chuckled darkly. "Why should they be afraid of an inferior enemy who's now on their last legs?"

Monroe, at this point, could only breathe in deeply, trying to contain the anger boiling over. "Fucking idiots too high on their own kool aid." He muttered under his own breath.

The Nazis had done the same thing for the Soviets, considering them "subhuman". Evidently, the US had devolved into the same rhetoric, forgetting that the Chinese were just as capable of a fighting force.

"And it doesn't take into account the main reason why they're still around: the portal." Cross coolly stated. "Something, or someone was capable of achieving a feat that was previously considered in the realms of science fiction. I'm going out on a limb here, but only the government would have the resources for this, especially in a wasteland."

"But that brings us to the million-dollar question…" Graves said, his eyes going East of the Rocky Mountains. "If the US government there is still active, do we even attempt communications? I mean... this is an America that's become a rabidly anti-communist state. They're so paranoid, that they have fucking protocols to purge entire bases, if they even have the whiff of a rebellion! They may simply shoot first, and ask questions later."

The mention of the "Purge Protocol" made the mood even colder than it previously was. Suffice it to say, the terminal that held that command had been locked down immediately, leaving only questions.

Questions about where this US had gone wrong, for example.

"Beliefs or not. They have no choice." Cross replied. "As Colonel Luchart said earlier, we'll be in an environment where the US has no monopoly on violence. Even if they have advanced technology, they won't have the infrastructure or industry necessary to rebuild America. They need us."

With that, the discussion turned to potential locations where the US remnants could be stationed at, accounting for a century's worth of attrition. Cheyenne, Raven Rock, even the decommissioned Greenbrier Bunker were all considered. All leading to the same exact issue with such locations.

"We'll simply have to deal with the logistics of each location, when we breach the surface." Monroe interrupted the argument brewing over.

"With access to the late Colonel's computer, clearing the facility will be easier, but it will still take time. We'll talk about this when definitive control has been established. Any questions?" Silence greeted Monroe. "Dismissed."

The head figures of each branch started to exit the office.

All except for one.

"General, if you don't mind?" Cross finally stood up, with only Luchart and Monroe still remaining.

"Certainly, Cross." Monroe warily stated. "What is it that you want to talk about?"

While part of the same team, Monroe wasn't comfortable dealing with the CIA. Maybe it was the clandestine operations they performed. Maybe it was the double faces and lies they had in spades. Whatever the case, the CIA wasn't like any of the other branches of Operation Prometheus.

"It's about our potential contact with this alternate US government. More specifically, our response to them."

Monroe looked at Luchart for a moment, before responding. "And what's the CIA's view?"

"While we are interested in establishing contact… it's not for the typical reasons." Cross looked left and right, as though there was the possibility of a leak. "Our analysts have been looking over the logs and recordings that you sent us. And while we may not say it, Captain Graves's view is in line with our conclusions."

"That is… this US government may be a hostile entity?"

"Kind of surprising, considering the anti-commie messaging." Luchart added.

"Communism was the enemy in the twentieth century. Our goals and adversaries have changed since." Cross defended his position. "Simply put, this US may as well be a different country entirely. One that will be extremely hostile to any state that even tolerates left-wing policies. Paranoid to a degree that is unprecedented, to say the least. And they have access to a powerful weapon."

"The portal, I presume?"

"Correct. This portal may be an automated response, judging by the robots. But we cannot predict if the portal will be shut down, or worse, appear in a public space."

Monroe could feel the chill down his spine, as he imagined that possibility. It was only dumb luck that it had appeared in a cave, of all places. Even with that condition, the zombies and robots had posed a significant threat to the base personnel.

What an intelligent enemy could do in a populated space, was a horrifying proposition.

Paranoia that bordered on insane levels, combined with access to a superweapon, was a potent combination.

"As such, the Director has told us to give you the option to enact Protocol Five-Eight, in the event we make first contact." Cross breathed in, preparing for what he was about to say.

"If this alternate US is a threat to the security of the United States, we are to liquidate all enemy personnel involved in the portal project."

…

'Holy shit.'

"That is… unprecedented." Luchart answered slowly, processing what Cross had said. "I mean… killing everyone? Seems a bit too far."

"Also means losing access to interdimensional travel." Monroe added, a deep frown evident on his face. "Not to mention, a breach in trust with those who have survived the worst. Does the President know?"

Backstabbing the people who had gained their trust? It simply wasn't right.

"Matter of fact, the President has given you authorization to enact Protocol Five-Eight." Cross reached into his pocket, before giving Monroe a sealed envelope, one with the Presidential Stamp.

"As I've said earlier. This is simply an option. We may not have to conduct Protocol Five-Eight, if they are willing to work with us." Cross stood up, ready to exit the room. "But in the case of hostile actions, you won't have to wait."

His message delivered, Agent Cross left the office, leaving the two men stewing in their thoughts.

---

Song of the Day:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lXNOz-HkoOM

 

[t99_2020]

FOUR WEEKS…

LEVEL 3

"Drop him!"

Without hesitation, the Barretts sang their symphony, each bullet traveling through the air at over twice the speed of sound. Paired with a Raufoss 211 round, complete with a tungsten penetrator core, there were few things that could hold up to such a round.

Fortunately, the bulky robot, the type that had caused the first casualties, wasn't one of those enemies.

"Warning! Enemy hostiles inbou-"

Whatever drivel the "Big Boy" was about to say was cut off, as the explosives in the bullets detonated, destroying whatever systems that allowed it to work. Silence was left in the firing squad's wake.

At the end of the hallway, the "Big Boy" joined his comrades, lifeless and still. From the bots that waddled like ducklings, to those zombies, the impromptu mass grave was piling up at a constant rate.

All thanks to the Mr. Gutsy, who was waving one of its appendages at the squad.

"Nicely done to you, Mr. Gutsy! Bring out the next one!" Sergeant Polansky yelled out.

"CERTAINLY! THESE COMMIE BASTARDS WON'T KNOW WHAT HIT THEM! COME ON YOU SONS OF BITCHES!"

The Gutsy floated off, ready to taunt the next robot into the firing squad's view.

Putting down his binoculars, Private Loyd squinted his eyes behind his gas mask.

"Gotta say. I didn't think these bots would be this dumb. I mean, they got to realize that something's happening to their buddies."

"I could not give less of a shit, Loyd." Corporal Tanner muttered, putting into place a fresh magazine. "The sooner we deal with these bots, the sooner we get some grub back at Nellis. That's gourmet food right there."

"Amen to that." Private First Class Holloway replied, doing the same with his rifle. "Besides, it's good target practice. Especially when you can hear the damn things coming a mile away."

"You can all talk later!" Polansky interrupted the discussion. "Right now, we still have more hostiles to clear out in this sector. Here's the next one. Get ready…"

The discussion quieted down, as the snipers aimed down the hallway, waiting for their next victim. A process that was being repeated throughout Level 3. If the Gutsys didn't miscount, this level would be entirely cleared of all the bad guys.

All in a day's work for the Chemical Corps.

---

THREE WEEKS…

LEVEL 4

Just his luck that he was on cleaning duty.

Private Howard grumbled under his breath, as he aimed the power washer at the dried blood and guts on the ground, ready to be swept up soon after.

He could have been part of the sweeping teams dealing with the zombies on level one. But no… he just had the shittiest luck to deal with the aftermath. For once, he was grateful for the gas mask, because the smell of rehydrated blood and guts wasn't one he was eager to smell.

Another bed frame here, that wall over there, Howard couldn't believe the amount of death that had occurred. From what the Brass said, the lunatic in charge had decided that the best way to deal with a food shortage was to kill off everyone in their sleep.

And most of the barracks were on Level 4.

Yippee ki-yay.

Still… it wasn't all bad.

"ALRIGHT YOU MAGGOTS! I WANT THIS ROOM SHINING LIKE LADY LIBERTY HERSELF!"

The Mr. Gutsy, unlike its counterparts, only had one of its appendages still attached. Not combat worthy by any measures.

And so, T-9023 had been assigned to Howard's squad, to take some of the burden off the cleaning squad, capable of holding the water tank easily. The over-the-top propaganda straight out of his granddad's mouth was a bonus.

"Sir yes sir!" Every member bellowed out, with varying degrees of enthusiasm.
"THAT'S WHAT I WANT TO HEAR! The robot said, seemingly ignoring the tone of several soldiers. "KEEP IT UP!"

As the Mr. Gutsy floated off to yell at some other poor sap, Howard let out a small smile. While he wasn't seeing action, that tin can reinforced the fact that this was his life now; a soldier in an alternate future reality, with robots from the Jetsons floating around and about.

A sudden clink shook Howard out of his thoughts. Turning off the stream, Howard looked under the bed frame.

'What the hell?'

Apparently, the collection teams weren't thorough, because lying on its side was a glass bottle of soda. Flushed with caramel liquid, it almost looked like one of those Mexican Cokes, down to the bright red label.

Except instead of Coca-Cola, a different name was printed on.

"Nuka-Cola…" Howard muttered, grabbing the bottle gently, turning it over to see the nutrition label. One that seemed to be rather empty. "120% of the daily sugar needed…"

"Which is just one of the reasons why you shouldn't be drinking any of that."

With a sheepish chuckle, Howard turned to see Corporal Reynard, who didn't look so pleased.

"Corporal! I was just about to hand this to you…"

"Uh-huh." Reynard didn't seem so convinced. "Just hand over the soda. Besides, I'm pretty sure you would keel over from drinking that century-old shit."

With a sigh, Howard handed the bottle to Reynard, before going back to washing underneath the bed frames.

Even in an alternate reality, cleaning duty sucked.

---

TWO WEEKS…

LEVEL 1

New Year's had come and gone without any fanfare. Letters to loved ones were carefully analyzed by the censors, with no indications of what was going on at Nellis. "Training exercise" that would be ongoing for a good while, was the excuse.

Most importantly, no presents, no gifts from loved ones. Just plain hard work, clearing out God knows how many zombies and tin cans. Not even a crappy fruit cake to share amongst the family.

But as far as gifts went, this came close.

"Gotta admit. Even if they were batshit insane, this US can definitely build stuff to last." Monroe said, looking at the gigantic blast door, leading to the outside world. Well… not exactly. According to the late Colonel's logs, an isolation chamber ensured another degree of separation, but that was simply semantics.

"Over a century old, and not a single bit of radiation detected anywhere. Probably wouldn't deal with a direct hit, but it's done its job well." Luchart commented, taking a good sip from the coffee mug in his hand.

After weeks of testing, it seemed that the base had been cleared of whatever that "Purge Protocol" had released decades ago, meaning that CBRN measures weren't required.

A welcome relief for the Army Corps of Engineers.

Surrounding the steel hallways, and around the blast door, work teams coordinated with one another, laboring to get the base back into a livable condition. Rusted guardrails were replaced, while sections of the metal hallways were welded back together. Section by section, piece by piece, the facility was slowly turning back the march of time.

Unfortunately there was one factor that couldn't be handled by the engineers.

"Those turrets are going to be a pain in the ass to disassemble." Luchart said, observing as the teams slowly took apart turrets. Exposed wires were unplugged from their sockets, while the inner electronic components were carefully removed, all to be packed up for study. "You're certain you want them removed?"

"Absolutely." Monroe stated. "They may be deactivated, but anyone technically competent could easily turn them on us."

"Fair enough. But we probably won't be seeing many of these types of defenses out there." Luchart gestured to the blast door. "We'll be dismantling the few working models, meaning less of a chance of getting these out soon."

"Makes sense, but I prefer to be safe than sorry." Monroe spoke. "The late Colonel was a stupid son of a bitch, but better him than us."

"Indeed it is." Luchart taking another sip. "Indeed it is."

---

ONE WEEK…

LEVEL 2

In the modified communications hub, Specialist Warren listened to the broadcast before informing his commanding officer. It didn't take long before the General was present.

"General?" The radio operator offered Monroe his headset. "You may want to hear this."

Monroe's eyebrows raised in suspicion. "We've picked up a signal? I thought all we were getting was static."

"That was the case. We're likely too far away from any broadcasts, so we decided to switch to Ultra-Low Frequency, and well…" Warren tapered off, trying to find the right words "It's not what we expected."

Warren now had Monroe's full attention. Most radios weren't equipped to even receive ULF. As a result, ULF had been used primarily for secure military communications. For a broadcast to still be working all these decades later, was noteworthy by itself.

Putting the headset on, Monroe anticipated having to listen to the last words of dead men, trying to coordinate the last orders they would ever make.

Instead, he heard a smooth and velvety voice.

"Has your life taken a turn?" The woman's voice asked, a stringed instrument playing in the background. "Do troubles beset you? Has fortune left you behind? If so, the Sierra Madre Casino, in all its glory, is inviting you to begin again…"

The woman continued, waxing on about this Sierra Madre Casino, as if it was a second chance for any person down on their luck. Monroe swore he had heard this same pitch from one of the casinos in Vegas. The really crappy casinos, to be more specific.

"So if life's worries have weighed you down, if you need an escape from your troubles, or if you just need an opportunity to begin again…" The woman paused for a moment, as if to let the listener digest what she was saying.

"Join us, let go, and leave the world behind at the Sierra Madre Grand Opening this October… We'll be waiting."

…

October had been when the bombs had dropped, according to the logs.

"Orders?" Warren asked, as Monroe put the headset off.

"Try to isolate the broadcast, and see if we can get a location." Monroe ordered. "Maybe it's a bunch of ruins, but the fact that there's a radio broadcast existing means that it wasn't hit by the nukes. Good work. See if we can find more of these types of broadcasts."

With that, the 479.14Hz ULF radio signal was recorded.

It would be the first of many.

---

D-DAY

LEVEL 1

After weeks of preparation. It was time.

Standing ramrod straight, the men of the 2nd Chemical Battalion stood alongside their comrades from the 2nd Marine Expeditionary Force. All covered head to toe in MOPP 4 gear, ready for anything that the outside wasteland could throw at them.

Behind them were the men and women of the 11th Attack Squadron. While they wouldn't be going in first, the drones they had would be of immense value to the boots on the ground, being their eyes and ears in the sky.

All of whom faced the giant blast door. All of whom now stared at General Monroe. The figure who would command them through the trials and tribulations of an excursion into unknown territory.

With a deep breath, Monroe began his speech.

"Men and women of the Prometheus Expeditionary Force…" Monroe started. "Today, we stand on the precipice of a New Dawn, one that is capable of catapulting the United States into the 22nd Century. But let us be clear…"

"... We are not on a Grand Crusade, as in previous times. We are venturing into a US that has seen the End Times, created by the folly of those who wished the world to burn. Some, by those who once adorned the uniforms you wear." Monroe paused, letting the significance of what he said sink in.

"Make no mistake, our mission will not be an easy one. You will see the low depths of what humanity is willing to do to survive. You will see a nightmarish world, one that was once confined to the theoretical."

"But let us not despair at a future created by madmen. Instead, let us ensure that we record and remember the mistakes of this alternate US, so that we do not suffer the same fate. Our actions… your actions will determine the course of history as we know it. Remember that we are the beacons of light, in a world that has gone dark."

"I have full confidence in every single one of you. Use your training and skills to protect your comrades in these uncertain times."

"Good Luck! And let us bring Peace to a World that has forgotten such a Concept!"

With the final sentence, General Monroe glanced at the soldier at the control panel and nodded.

Without any hesitation, the soldier pulled the switch.

---

AN:
This should be the final chapter of the Expeditionary Force getting accustomed to the base. By now, they have definitive control.

I will admit, I'm not good at making speeches, but I hope that this appropriate enough for the task at hand. If you have any suggestions for future speeches, you're welcome to make comments about it.

Now then... let's get this party started!

Song of the Day:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xnwNxAYAcNU

 

[t99_2020]

It was hot in the Mojave Desert. Hotter than the air-conditioned corridors of Helios One. In fact, it was kind of ridiculous that she still wore this hood.

So why the Hell did she feel so cold.

As the beer burned through her throat, Veronica Santangelo, resident weirdo and secret Brotherhood of Steel member, slammed the glass bottle down on the table.

"Ok Ronnie…" Henry stared warily at Veronica, his eyes glancing at the power fist. "If you're going to act this way, I'm gonna have to ask you to leave. It's midday, and you're going to scare away the customers."

"Sorry Henry. It's just… young love, am I right?" Veronica let out a smile, that looked more like a pained grimace. "Just kinda… drinking away my sorrows, like you normally do after a breakup."

"Yeah. But I'm pretty sure a breakup doesn't leave behind broken body parts." Henry breathed in deeply, clapping his hands together. "Seriously, Ronnie. You're a good customer, but this ain't it today. Just walk it off."

While Veronica would have liked to have argued that she was only mildly buzzed, even she knew what would happen if she dived deep into the bottle. Especially if there was some jackass who didn't realize that no means no.

With a resigned sigh, Veronica stood up from her chair, paid for the beer, and started to wander the 188 Trading Post.

Officially, her job was to act as a scout and a "procurement specialist". Help with getting the food, as well as keeping an eye on any NCR movement.

Unofficially, Veronica couldn't help but feel that she was simply picking up the groceries, watching as day by day, NCR forces gathered in the West, having cracked open Brotherhood bunkers like Deathclaw eggs.

Sometimes, she wondered what would have happened if she had left with Christy, before she had decided to head East with Elijah.

Maybe if she had, Christy wouldn't have left, and been declared missing. Maybe…

And.. now she was sad again. Perfect.

Walking down the hill, Veronica navigated through a block of destitute travelers, all the while trying to have happy thoughts. Maybe by the time she came back, Elijah would have some new project that she could happily tinker on.

Veronica snorted. Yeah right. More likely, Mom and Dad would continue to pester her to find someone to "procreate" with.

Walking underneath the overpass, Veronica mindlessly tried to make the buzz go away, when she overheard a conversation.

"You know what. Screw it. Here's a hundred caps."

Veronica raised her eyebrows in surprise.

In front of her, a well-dressed man, probably going to Vegas, handed a pouch of caps to the Forecaster.

The Forecaster, to put it mildly, was a strange kid. Ever since she had first settled in the 188 Trading Post, he had always been there. Poor kid had lost his parents, but from what she could tell, he seemed to be doing alright.

Well… aside from scamming travelers to Vegas with his "thoughts".

"Sweet. Let me just take my headache medicine off." The Forecaster replied, putting the headpiece off. "Now what do you want to focus on?"

Silently, Veronica could only roll her eyes, waiting to hear what "thoughts" the Forecaster was about to make. All for a cool hundred caps.

"I guess Everywhere, then."

Closing his eyes, the Forecaster took a deep breath, before he started speaking.

"Old Glory Once Again. Bull and Bear once, a new Eagle ready to play."

For some reason, Veronica couldn't help but feel something wasn't right.

"Old World Glory, reborn like a Phoenix. Cousins, but different. Like Maxson's Winged Sword, but ready to flip the poker table."

'… Maxson?!'

Suddenly, the Forecaster had shot up her interest list. This kid, who had never left the 188, was referencing information that few outsiders knew. Suddenly, those "thoughts" she had derided were starting to take on significance. Veronica moved closer, so as to listen to the Forecaster better.

"Across the Old World, ready to pounce."

'Bull has to be Legion. Bear has to be NCR. Then what is the Eagle supposed to stand for? Wait… you gotta be kiddin-'

"Stars and Stripes, already on the move." The Forecaster spoke, turning his head towards the Old World Flag behind him, as if it was a confirmation. "But what of the ending? The dealer isn't certain. Forecast: A rain of fire for any who oppose."

As the Forecaster ended his "thought", Veronica walked down the broken asphalt, now cold stone sober.

Every member of the Brotherhood knew who the Enclave were. Hell, it was probably one of the few things that she actually agreed with.

The worst of the Old World, ready to commit genocide on every single man, woman, and child. It was drilled into her head that she probably wouldn't have existed, if they had succeeded. To call them monsters, was an understatement.

But she couldn't report this in. Not unless she wanted to be laughed out of the Brotherhood. Besides, she couldn't trust the words of a kid who slept out in the open. It could easily have been a fluke.

But on the chance it wasn't…

Veronica's mind was a maelstrom now, trying to figure out the best option forward.

"How do I even confirm this?! I mean… it's not as though anybody expected the boogeyman to just pop out again!" Veronica muttered to herself. "After all, I don't even know where they're coming from. It's not as if I can just ask…"

'Wait a minute…'

Veronica glanced back at the Forecaster, who had put on his "headache medicine" again.

"A hundred caps for each thought…" Veronica spoke quietly, mentally calculating how many caps for each day. It would get expensive, but as a "procurement specialist", she had some leeway.

If this kid was being legitimate, maybe she did have a way to find if this "Stars and Stripes" was real.

Walking briskly down the highway, Veronica broke into a sprint, ignoring the sweat that poured down her face. Right now, she had an Elder that needed to raise her cap stash. Secretly, of course.

Too early and too young to look like a crackpot.

 

[t99_2020]

As Private Reynolds watched the giant blast door blow steam from its components, he couldn't help but feel that the world was playing a twisted joke on him.

Before the Chemical Corps, before he even graduated high school, Wasteland Three had taken up a large portion of his teen years.

A nuclear hellscape, where the United States had been purged in nuclear fire, the few remnants of civilization scattered across the Wastes, from the tyrannical Patriarch to the North, to Sin City in the South.

One where he played as the Desert Rangers, the last remnants of the old US. A game that took its time showing how far humans could devolve, where each choice wasn't black and white, just gray.

Somedays, he would even pretend-play as being one of the Rangers, dispensing Wasteland Justice to the savages of the Wastes.

Funny how life had decided to make his childhood real, in all the worst ways possible.

With a shudder, the blast door moved against its frame, the friction creating a God-awful screech. And then, for the first time in over a century, the blast door rolled to the side, allowing in natural light. A few soldiers shielded their eyes.

"Let's move, people! Go! Go! Go!" Captain Graves bellowed out, as First Platoon of A Company sprinted out of the isolation chamber.

And into the Wasteland in front of them. Forming up in squads, First Platoon spread out, so as to not all get hit immediately. Though it became clear that wasn't necessary. Nothing came to greet the soldiers coming out.

No enemies. No zombies. Nothing.

Just… silence.

Even in the Mojave Desert, there was always noise, from the cars going down the streets, to the jets taking off from Nellis.

Here?

Not even a squeak. Just the howling winds, as if echoing a song from a long gone era. In front of them, not even a road to signify life. Instead, A Company was greeted by a desert, for miles on end, with only a few dead cactus littering the terrain.

For all intents and purposes, the bunker behind them was the only sign of civilization.

With no hostiles present, Reynolds slowly marched with his squad, organizing into patrol formation. Down the mountain they went, as the squads started to disappear from view. All that could be heard was the crunch of rocks mixed with the sound of his breathing; far too loud, all of a sudden.

Reynolds wasn't one to be spooked easily. After all, he had taken part in clearing out Levels Three and Four, the ones filled with the most zombies.

But the knowledge of what had happened, combined with the ever persistent silence, sent a chill down his spine.

This wasn't like the isolated parts of the Mojave Desert, where it was normal to not see a human for hours.

Instead, that silence represented the single largest mass grave in human history.

Reynolds and his fellow squadmates suddenly stopped, as Sergeant Grant held up a single hand. Holstering his newly issued M7, Grant swept the ground with the Geiger counter. No clicks.

"TOC, this is Oscar Five Golf. No rads detected in Sector Four B."

"Affirmative." The radio uttered. "Continue to clear Sector Four for radiation and hostiles, then retreat back to reinforce defensive positions at 1400 hours."

"Copy. Oscar Five Golf, out."

As they advanced forward, the most prominent feature that Reynolds noticed was the heat. A searing heat, not unlike the Mojave Desert back home. And a rude interruption from the air-conditioned facility that they had just exited from.

The second prominent sight was the remains that had popped up in front of them.

"Fucking Christ…"

"Jeez…"

"TOC, we found more bodies." Kneeling on one knee, Sergeant Grant carefully plucked the dog tag from the sand. "Appears to have been caught by the Nukes, judging by their condition."

"Copy that. Record the location for retrieval teams. Continue the sweep."

"Understood. Out."

Partially buried, the sun-bleached bones of long dead personnel were spread out across the ground, the elements having long ensured that no positive ID could ever be made. Scraps of olive cloth decorated the sand, a macabre piece of art, one that had been preserved for decades now.

Only the glint of metal, shining in the bright Sun, would ever give the fallen a name to be remembered by.

As the squad left the remains, Reynolds couldn't help but have a strange feeling.

A feeling that he wouldn't have been a Desert Ranger. Instead, a skeleton lying in the elements, like these poor bastards over a century ago.

---

"General, C squad just reported in another set of bodies."

Monroe sighed in resignation. "Keep it on record. We'll dig them out when we've established ourselves."

Monroe wasn't a stranger to death. Not by a longshot.

But each death chipped away at his soul.

Even if they had served a country that was led by madmen, these soldiers were still US soldiers. Men and women who had valiantly fought to defend their country from a foreign threat, sworn to defend their Republic.

Their fate? Simply another set of bodies, seared away by nuclear flames, visible and invisible.

Combined with the bodies they had already collected inside, and Monroe couldn't help but mourn these soldiers from another life.

But he could mourn them later. Right now, he had needed to ensure that his soldiers wouldn't be next.

Moving from the Army section of the communication hub, Monroe nodded to Captain Torres.

"Captain, are we live?"

"Drones are in the air." Torres stated, gesturing to her section, where several Air Force personnel sat with their laptops. One by one, the cameras came to life. "We'll only be able to reach out in a ten kilometer radius. Anything further, and we'll need heavier equipment.

"Ten kilometers will suffice for now. We just need to make sure that the perimeter teams aren't going to get ambushed."

---

With hefty throws, the dozen RQ-11 Ravens climbed into the air, each one soaring over the Wasteland at their maximum height of 150 meters. Remote control given to their operators, the Ravens separated from each other, each going in a different direction.

RQ-11-4, or known by its call name "Lucky", flew over the rocky hills and sand at a speed of 45 kilometers per hour. Better to conserve battery life than for evasion.

As Lucky traversed the terrain, its findings corroborated with what the perimeter teams had found. Half an hour passed, and no movement whatsoever. Just the odd cactus that had somehow survived. Nothing of significance. Nothing… until the asphalt came into view.

Lucky had managed to stumble upon some remnants of civilization! Sure, the asphalt had seen better days, with all the cracks in the road, but it was better than what the perimeter teams had found!

With a twist from its operator, Lucky started to travel down the road, seeing if it could find any signs of life. Maybe even a person!

Well… Lucky got its wish, as not long after, the camera displayed the first signs of life outside the bunker.

Unfortunately… the life it had found, wasn't what people would call "friendly".

---

"What the… fuck?" The operator stated out loud, as he continued to turn the drone around the scene that was being displayed.

Monroe excused the audible curse.

Because even he couldn't believe what he was seeing with his own eyes.

"Zombies, robots, and now this…" Monroe muttered under his breath, rubbing his eyes one more time. Just to make sure.

On the display, it seemed that a hunt was just ending.

Except… the parties involved weren't human, not by any standards.

The lizard being hunted wasn't normal by any means. Hunched on two legs, it was large, larger than any lizard Monroe knew. While he couldn't get an accurate measurement, he reckoned that the turquoise lizard was about the size of a small child.

But in comparison to what the hunters were, the lizard was downright normal.

As the lizard collapsed to the ground, its muscles twitching, the hunters flew around the lizard, as if celebrating their kill.

Bugs. Dog-sized bugs that continuously plunged their stingers into the lizard.

"I don't remember tarantula hawks being this large…" Torres watched with captivated eyes, before shaking her head to refocus.

"You know what these bugs are?!" Monroe asked incredulously.

"Yeah… you see them all over the Southwest. Ma always told me to never touch one of them. Their stings hurt like a bitch," Torres explained, before pointing at the wings of one of the hunters. "See? Those bright orange wings give it away."

"That explains their identification, but that doesn't explain why they're that large." Monroe forced himself to look at the bugs again, thankful that the camera wasn't looking at them in detail. "I'm pretty fucking sure that radiation isn't capable of making them like this."

"That's…" Torres paused, trying to think of an explanation. "I got no answers."

"General!" The operator interrupted the discussion. "You may want to see this."

Turning his attention back on the display, Monroe could feel his stomach drop at what was happening.

Its muscles still twitching, two enlarged tarantula hawks used their mandibles to latch onto the lizard, before starting to fly, carrying the lizard with it, the others following the pair.

Monroe wasn't big on insects, but even he knew that they needed more information on what these mutated bugs were.

"Keep a bead on those insects, Torres! I want to know where in God's name they're taking that lizard!" Monroe ordered, the operator scrambling to keep track of the hunting party.

"And get me a book on these bugs immediately!"

---

On further inspection, the book that had been brought to Monroe had inconsistent knowledge.

Oxygen levels may have brought large insects in the past, but the required levels weren't being recorded at all.

The exoskeletons of tarantula hawks weren't capable of supporting such a weight.

Most importantly, tarantula hawks were solitary creatures.

All of which meant jackshit, as the group of tarantula hawks disappeared into the cave opening, just a bit north of where the facility was.

An opening that the TALON unmanned ground vehicle was slowly approaching, the bumps in the ground shaking the camera view.

"Switch to night vision," Monroe ordered over the radio to the UGV operator. "Proceed with the utmost caution. Abandon the UGV if necessary."

"Affirmative, UGV entering hostile territory."

As Monroe watched, the world became black and green, as the UGV moved into the cave system.

His heart pounding, Monroe watched as the UGV twisted and turned around subsequent corners, the camera not showing any signs of the oversized wasps.

'Where the hell are they? They're the size of fucking dogs, they shouldn't be able to hide so effectively…'

And then… Monroe had his answer.

With the final turn, the UGV found itself in a massive cavern. Stalactites hung from the ceiling, looking sharp like daggers. No natural light was present. An average cavern.

Except for two variables.

One was the burrows attached to the sides and ground of the cavern, swarms of the mutated wasps buzzing around with activity. Monroe could even see smaller tarantula hawks flying around.

The other was the mass grave.

Bones. Bones littered the ground as though as if it was a slaughterhouse. Ribcages, femurs, skulls. All present. Some didn't look human. But others…

"That's a human skull, alright," Monroe said calmly, estimating the number of wasps. Others weren't as calm.

One operator turned to the side, and hurled his last meal, the stench of bile filling the room.

"Shit…get him to the medical center," Monroe ordered, as several personnel helped the poor man onto his feet. "And see if we can get the UGV out of the-"

The possibility of safe exfiltration was taken out of Monroe's hands, as the insects realized that an intruder was present. The buzzing of numerous wasps became loud, as the tarantula hawks dived onto the UGV.

The last thing the camera saw was the bulbous face of one of the wasps, its compound eyes staring directly into the lenses.

SIGNAL LOST

…

"Contact Captain Graves," Monroe ordered the radio operator, after telling the UGV team to retreat. "I need a sapper team immediately."

"And tell him that he's authorized to bring out the M2s and M19s."

---

AN: Song of the Day: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zyTZ2Pkb9cA

 

[t99_2020]

M2 Brownings.

Mark 19 and 47 grenade launchers.

M224 Mortars.

And tens of thousands of rounds of ammunition.

Just a small sample of the arsenal that the Expeditionary Force had access to.

Monroe had made sure that in the weeks leading up to D-Day, the former storage units in the facility had been filled to the brim. In the absence of heavier equipment, this arsenal was the next best thing.

In all, enough firepower to make sure that the next thing that came around the corner wasn't going to be a threat to his forces.

For instance, the mutated tarantula hawk nest that was going to be rendered neutralized.

"General, all forces are in position."

"No activity yet?" Monroe asked, observing the live feed from the drones patrolling the surrounding hills. For the past week or so, the drones had scoured the mountains for any other alternative entrance. A few caves, but too far to serve as alternative entrances. All they needed to do was close this opening off.

"None close to the nest. They've all gone back to the nest to sleep. We'll have free rein on the insects before they can respond."

"And the preparations?"

"Captain Graves and Barlowe just reported in. The last of the sapper teams have finished up, and they're returning back to the fire positions. All that's left is to give the order."

"Perfect, that's our flanks secure." Monroe replied, the final stages of the extermination completed. "Tell the captains that they can begin the attack. And one thing to add…"

"Yes, General?"

"No heroics and no doubts. They're to use everything that they packed onto that kill zone. I want nothing to be alive when we're finished."

"Yes, General!"

---

As he adjusted his M250 in the pale moonlight, Lance Corporal Henderson of the 3rd Company observed the designated kill zone below.

A good two miles away, the cave was surrounded by the high and jagged cliffs, leaving only one avenue of entrance and exit. Rocks and stone gave way to the sands of the desert, the ground leveling off the further away the cave entrance was.

Open ground, no cover, as well as layers of claymores ready to be activated? It was almost too easy.

But Henderson had heard about what the boys in 2nd Chemical had gone through. One wrong move, and this reality would tear your ass a new one. Especially after seeing what those mutated insects considered a meal…

"Alright! You've seen what these bugs are capable of." First Lieutenant Westley addressed his men. "I don't need to tell you what happens if they get close enough to these firing lines."

Glancing side to side, Henderson could see that the rest of the company was listening intently.

"So you know how we make sure that doesn't happen?"

"Kill them all, and let God sort em' out?" One brave soul volunteered. A few chuckles came from the men besides Henderson, himself included.

"Exactly!" Westley gestured to the other hills, all occupied by elements of both the 2nd Chemical and 2nd Marine. "We got enough ordinance to level half a city block, and the good General has authorized us to expend everything to make sure we don't become bug chow! But that doesn't mean we get to be willy-nilly…"

"These overgrown wasps are highly aggressive, so don't expect them to retreat. While they're too fat to truly fly, they're fast like greased lightning, so make your shots count! Concentrate fire on individual targets that make it across, and make sure that each of the flying bastards isn't moving by the time they even get to the claymores! Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes sir." The men quietly affirmed, making sure to keep their voices down..

"Good to hear! Now then… let's teach these bugs what lead tastes like!"

As the minutes counted down, Henderson could feel the adrenaline pumping through his veins. And he could bet his right arm that others felt the same.

If the zombie and robot remains weren't enough, these bugs solidified that they truly were in a nuclear wasteland. One that had been warped by the radiation of a war that had long since passed.

More importantly, a United States that had been warped by radiation. Where each of the major cities was targeted by countless Chinese warheads.

What was the fate of Houston, the place where he had grown up? Was it simply a crater in the ground, or was it a deserted city, haunted only by the ghosts of such a nuclear attack?

Henderson wasn't one to think much, but the mental image of his Ma and Pa being mere ashes, even if it was an unlikely scenario, kept him up some nights.

But right now, he couldn't worry about the what-ifs. Right now, he had to ensure that they got through the what-nows.

A few minutes later, the order to initiate the ambush was conveyed. Something to wake the insects up.

With a loud thump, followed by a subsequent roar, the Javelin missile quickly traveled the full length, quickly impacting against the mountain.

*BOOM*

The loud explosion cut through the silence of the night, the first indication of intelligent life in over a century.

Didn't take long before the bugs made a response.

"Yup… we certainly pissed them off. Get ready!" Westley exclaimed, putting down his field binoculars.

With his night vision goggles on, Henderson could see the horde of overgrown wasps flying out of the entrance, as if they were coming straight out of Hell. At an alarming speed, the wasps seemed to fly straight towards where the interloper had made its presence.

That was… until the air around them was replaced by shrapnel and flames.

With the wasps hitting the designated kill zone, the M2 Brownings were the first to sink their teeth, the .50 caliber bullets rendering flesh from exoskeleton with ease. The 40mm airburst grenades soon followed, detonating midair, amongst the space the wasps occupied. Henderson saw one group get shredded into viscera in a snap.

"Fire!"

With rhythmic thumps, the M224 mortars punted their 60mm warheads from behind Henderson's position, their detonations adding to the ordinance being concentrated on the designated kill zone.

But through sheer numbers, or by sheer luck, there were those that managed to get through the bombardment.

"Alright! Here come the remnants! Light em' up!"

With the Sergeant's order, Henderson and the rest of the squad eagerly obeyed, sending controlled but rapid bursts against the battered wasps that had managed to survive.

Only to realize there was a slight problem…

"Fuckers' are zig-zagging like crazy! Can't get a good bead on them!" Private Sadler exclaimed, hurriedly grabbing at a new magazine. And it wasn't just the Private. Henderson could see that these wasps were not only fast, but highly maneuverable, moving in irregular patterns to throw off the fire. The bullets that did hit, seemed to have little effect.

"Fuck it! Full auto! Put enough lead in the air that they can't dodge!"

With Westley's order, Henderson proceeded to squeeze the trigger down, sweeping the light machine gun back and forth, stopping only to hurriedly switch out the barrel for a cool one.

"GET SOME, MOTHERFUCKER!" One soldier yelled over the fire. "GET SOME!"

A little big cliche, but it perfectly represented what Henderson was feeling. Like clockwork, he slapped the case on the next belt of ammunition, and squeezed the trigger down with all of his might. Mere actions didn't feel real, as his focus narrowed down to the enemies in front of him.

One by one, the continuous fire culled the survivors, allowing for more focus fire on individual targets.

But with the sheer number of bugs that they had pissed, one group had nearly reached the center line, ready to enact vengeance on the creatures that had attacked the nest.

A significant problem… if it weren't for sapper teams just a few hours earlier.

Detonator in hand, Westley pushed down.

Almost like magic, the wasp group disappeared, replaced by a viscera of guts and flesh. Ripped apart by the thousands of steel balls going at 1200 meters per second.

A shame that they had let them get so close, but Henderson couldn't really care that much. After all, that was the most dangerous threat dealt with.

Replacing another overheated barrel, there was no signs that the company would revert back to controlled bursts. Not with how durable these bugs had proven to be.

From that point forward, the bugs didn't get anywhere close to the claymores, reduced to guts against the overwhelming firepower that had been brought to bear.

It would continue for another two hours.

---

"Three, two, one!"

The C4 that had been planted into the entrance of the cave detonated, soot and dirt pluming from the entrance. Simultaneously, with a shudder, gravity did its work, as the rocks and boulders smashed onto the cave ground, each one heavier than one man could lift.

As the dust settled, where there was once a threat, now had become a tomb. Just how Monroe liked it.

Turning away from the neutralized threat, Monroe looked over the field, now fully visible in the afternoon.

A massacre. That was the best way to describe it. A full-on massacre.

Everywhere he looked, dark blue corpses, complemented by orange wings, dotted the field, the rocks painted a sickly green color, from all the blood and guts. Some corpses weren't even intact, thoraxes and abdomens having been violently ripped apart.

Patrols navigated around the field, irregularly shooting rounds into the wasps. Better safe than sorry.

Overall, the estimates had been that the nest had housed eight hundred to nine hundred of these insects. A danger that would have hampered all further expeditions.

All neutralized. And without a single casualty.

Even if it was against insects, Monroe couldn't be any prouder of what the Prometheus Expedition had accomplished.

But… such success led to new problems.

"Three to five days. That's if we work in continuous shifts." Barlowe spoke gravely, the gas mask not muffling the worry in his tone. "Longer if we take secrecy into account. My men will be vulnerable to anyone who comes across us."

"I'll make sure that you have enough men. We need to clean up all these corpses and casings. Elsewise, our cover will be blown."

"Pardon… but isn't our cover blown already?" Graves asked, pointing to the field again. "I mean… we made enough noise to wake the dead up, so to say."

"True. But according to the drones, there's not a single human in a ten mile radius." Monroe replied, before pointing to one of the wasp corpses. "And I think our friends here are the reason why. With their lethality, nobody sane enough would ever try to explore these mountains. With any luck, anybody who did hear the noise will be too isolated to inform anyone else."

"But what if somebody did hear?"

That was the million dollar question, wasn't it.

Even with all efforts, it would take two months for the engineers to drill a path from the bunker to the surface. One that was large enough to start bringing in the heavier wares, such as Bradleys. In that time, the Expeditionary Force would be vulnerable to any hostile force.

No matter what, secrecy had to be maintained for that crucial period of time.

"Then we'll respond accordingly. Worse comes to worst, we'll simply have to detain them for a brief period."

"Not the most ideal situation, considering we don't have a detention center."

"I'll think of something. In the meantime, let's make sure that we leave no trace of this scene." Monroe said.

With that, the three men walked down the field, discussing future plans.

All in all, a job well done.

---

AN: For this chapter, I really hope that I conveyed just the hilarious power disparity between any Wasteland faction, and the US. A nest this large, would simply be impossible to take out with the limited resources most factions have, barring the NCR.

And here comes the US, with enough firepower to take on such a nest, and win without any casualties. All without any of the heavier equipment... yup.

GG!

As a reference, the M250 refers to the XM250, which is about to replace the M249:

XM250 - Wikipedia

Song of the Day:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HVQ3ourS8BI

 

[t99_2020]

Her Dad always told her that Rohead was supposed to be a small settlement, not like one of the bigger ones up North.

But to Sandra Connor, the activity of merchants selling their wares, alongside the bustle of town, was almost deafening, in comparison to the small farm that the Connor had always lived on. One where it was possible to never see another human for months.

Which made this meeting all the more intimidating.

"And what exactly do you bring to the table?"

Beneath his white Stormchaser hat, Marcel Hoovers had a skeptical look in his eye, looking her over with a raised eyebrow. One that made Sandra Connor want to wilt slightly. With a grizzled face, Marcel's look was complemented by the rough and weathered leather armor he was wearing.

But she was made of sterner hide. No member of the Connor family would ever back down from a job that needed to be done.

Especially a job that paid this much. A stupid name, Devil's Deliveries, but that didn't matter. Thirty caps a day, half up front, half on return. Alongside the pay, a hefty bonus if they managed to reach their destination.

The money wasn't just money anymore. Not after the final raid killed the last of their brahmin. Without money, the Connor Family would die a slow death.

This job wasn't just her best hope.

It was her only hope.

Burying her grief, Sandra looked up to the caravan leader, with what her father called a "face of steel."

"This gun ain't for show." Sandra responded coldly, gesturing to her trusty hunting rifle on her back. "One shot, and they'll never even hear the bullet."

Marcel didn't seem to be too impressed, clucking his tongue.

"All good in all, but I've seen your type before." Gesturing to her clothes, Marcel continued. "Farm girl, right? You may have dealt with them small critters, but the sons of bitches out there ain't going to just let you aim down the sights."

The almost casual dismissal at her skills, clashed with the memories of the attack.

Of the laughter as the bullets punctured the walls, her baby brother screaming.

Of the bullet ridden bodies of their brahmin, their way of life extinguished.

Of the headless corpses she created.

"Trust me…" Sandra growled. "There will be no hesitation from me. The raiders rotting near Path 19 can attest to that."

Evidently, something in her tone must have revealed that she wasn't lying. Marcel's face morphed into a frown. "Shit… they're getting bolder by the day." He muttered under his breath, before turning back to Sandra. "How good are you with Brahmin?"

"Good enough, I suppose. I can wrangle them if needed."

For a brief moment, Marcel remained silent, the Connor Family's fate in his hands. Finally, Sandra got her answer.

"Fine. You're in." Marcel offered his hand. "But you carry your own ammo and food. If we're to survive intact, we'll need to make detours into the Wild Lands. That means more days traveling."

It was as if a Brahmin had been lifted off of Sandra's back. Trying hard to not show any tears, Sandra unsteadily shook his hand.

'Hang on Josiah. Your big sister is coming back with the brahmin steak.'

---

Being a caravaneer, as Sandra was finding out, was significantly different to taking care of the family farm.

With the farm, Sandra had learned from her Dad that the surroundings always had a familiar rhythm, one that was easily broken by the many dangers from the Wasteland. Brahmin becoming skittish? Radscorpions on the edge. Raiders nearby? The jury-rigged shotgun would blow away both them and their secrecy.

Here? Sandra couldn't help but feel lost. She was constantly on one's feet, on the lookout for any raiders. Already, they had been set upon by several groups, trying to add to their scalp collection.

On the bright side, Sandra figured she had more than enough .308 for the round journey now. A bit grimy, but bullets were bullets. That was all these raiders were good for: extra supplies.

Chewing on the iguana on a stick, Sandra couldn't help but observe the other caravaneers sitting in front of her around the campfire. While there were others, her group had the luck of being the first to eat.

There was Jose, a burly man from the South, judging by his accent. While he was quiet, he was a great shot, keeping the raiders off of Sandra while she lined them up. Also a great cook too, with these iguanas.

To Jose's right, was Marcel, the caravan leader. The skepticism that had once been on his face, had morphed into an uncertain trust. Not great, but considering he was her employer, uncertain trust was better than nothing.

Finally, there was Crunell. A former prospector out West, he was the most talkative, discussing his experiences scavenging in Pre-war ruins. They sounded more like tall-tales from a Jet junkie, but Sandra couldn't help but be curious. Curious about the world outside of the little farm the Connor family had.

"And that's how I managed to evade them zombies. Nearly lost my head there, but them critters didn't take ol' Nell's head off." Crunell chuckled, clearly pleased with his story. "Got myself some pretty caps from those fission batteries."

"And what did you get for your troubles?" Jose asked. "You don't seem that much richer from last time."

"Oh-hoh my good amigo. Contrary to what you see, I actually did get something nice." Finishing his statement, Crunell ruffled through his sack. "Something like this iron!"

At first glance, it didn't look like any gun that she was familiar with. No magazine, a short barrel, alongside a bunch of exposed wires.

Then, it suddenly hit her. It wasn't familiar, because she had only heard of these weapons before.

"Is.. is that what I think that is?" Connor slowly asked, observing the polished surface that shone in the campfire.

"Yup. That's definitely a laser pistol." Marcel took a closer look. "And not one that explodes after one shot. Looks really fucking new." He glanced up at Crunell. "Where the hell did you get this piece?"

"I got this from a trader up North. Fairly certain she was former NCR, and get this…" Crunell gleefully spoke. "... This thing of beauty came from Navarro, from them Enclave folks."

"Eesh… you may want to put that away, never know if Legion or Brotherhood is nearby."

"Yeah. Yeah. I know, especi-"

"What's the Enclave?"

In that instant, every head was turned her way in bafflement. Conscious of her attention, Sandra couldn't help feeling that she had stepped into some brahmin shit. "I mean… I've heard of NCR and Legion from my Pa, but he never told me about this Enclave…"

Marcel was the first to unfreeze. "Fair enough. Most people out here don't even know NCR exists. But it's best that you know who they are…" Marcel paused for a second. "Or were, to be more exact. Saves you a lot of trouble with people out West."

And so… Marcel told her a tale of a tribe, unlike anything she had ever heard before. The remnants of the Pre-war Government, hell-bent on killing off anybody who was a "mutie". So powerful that a laser pistol was a mere trinket to them. A group that should have been invincible. Who should have controlled the Wasteland.

But against all odds, they simply hadn't. Scattered to the four winds, the Siege of Navarro was the last straw that broke the brahmin's back. All that was left… was their toys, and the scars that they had inflicted, figurative and literal.

"And that's why most people are touchy in the West." Marcel concluded. "Lot of folk lost family during those years. Even a slight mention of the Enclave will send them into shivers. If you're lucky, you'll simply be decked in the face. And if you're not…"

"You don't have to tell us Marcel." Jose replied. "The precios on those Enclave heads… there's enough dinero in there to last you a lifetime!"

"What Jose said. Bounty hunters, the really scary ones, will jump you if you even have the slightest info on those bug-eyed bastards. My advice?" Marcel looked into Sandra's eyes with an intense stare.

"Don't talk about them to anyone out West. You'll live longer that way."

"But… what happens if I see one of these… Enclave?" Sandra slowly asked, trying to digest the meaning of this one word. A word that seemed to send shivers down these experienced caravaneers. "It sounds like they're still out there."

"Trust me… pray that you never see them."

"Si. By the time they're done with you, you'll be wishing you were dead sooner."

But despite all these warnings… Sandra couldn't help but wonder…

'What would it be like to have such power? More than enough power to make sure the raiders never came again?'

That night, her dreams were filled with beams of light, cutting down the raiders one by one.

---

AN:

For anyone on the West Coast, the Enclave are pretty much the fucking boogeyman. You thought you were safe? You fucking thought wrong.

Song of the Day:


View: https://youtu.be/VUjI8EsORdk?list=RDVUjI8EsORdk

 

[t99_2020]

Twenty people, ten brahmin, and enough supplies to last Two-Sun several months.

Overall, a large caravan by the region's standards. Which made it an appetizing target for the raiders lurking on Path 19. Even with the numerous guards that the caravan had, pushing any further up through was a death sentence. All the more important that they navigated through a different route.

Enter the Wild Lands.

The Wild Lands. A region that Sandra's father always spoke of with a cautious tone. Not much was known about the tribes that lived in the region, with only tall tales filling the gap.

Which made the canyon in front of the caravan all the more imposing.

"So these Wind Spirits..." Crunell tersely spoke, his laser pistol at the ready. "You sure they ain't going to cave our skulls in?"

"Relax. I've been doing business with them for the past few years, and they haven't steered me wrong." Marcel replied, motioning Crunell to drop the pistol. "They control one of the few routes into Two-Sun that haven't been blocked by raiders, and they know it."

"If you say so, mi amigo." Jose glanced left to right at the mountains on both sides. "Night is coming, and we can't afford to camp out in the open like the previous dias. Not if we want to get picked off…"

"Which we won't." Cupping his hands together, Marcel bellowed out to the people behind. "Alright, folks! I know your feet hurt, but we're going to have to move quickly if we want to reach shelter tonight! So let's get a move on people!

With that command, Sandra coaxed the lead brahmin into moving, all the while looking around at her surroundings. Her father's words continued to echo through her mind.

'Member', Wild Lands up North are a mixed bunch. Some will treat you right, and some will just put you six feet under. If you ever find yourself in that God-forsaken area, your eyes better be on a swivel. And whatever you do…'

Jagged and narrow, the canyon entrance was barely wide enough for the caravan to get through, forcing the brahmin to navigate the pathway with limited space. Add in the rocky walls that reached up to the skies, and it made the brahmin skittish.

"There, there. It's not that bad. We'll be out of here in no time." Sandra gently patted the Brahmin on its side, the poor thing laden down with crates and supplies. The rest of the caravan slowly moved behind her, the sounds of echoing Brahmin bells echoing throughout the canyon.

Traversing the canyon, the few yellowish-green bushes and vegetation gave way to brownish-red sand and rocks, the only sunlight coming from the canyon heads above.

Sandra didn't mind it though. The shade was a welcome change of pace; a stark contrast to the merciless heat that bore down upon the caravan for most of the trip.

But despite the comfort from the heat, she didn't let her guard down. Even if Marcel was correct, his last contact with this tribe had been a year ago; plenty of time for conditions to change on a dime.

'… Always find a way out, no matter what.'

---

Twisting and turning, the path forwards became a maze of sorts, as Marcel led the caravan deeper into unknown territory.

Several times, the caravan leader seemed to pause at the multiple directions the canyon seemed to offer, before directing the others to follow him on a certain path.

But whatever was behind Marcel's thinking, Jose's prediction had come to pass.

The canyon had fallen into complete darkness. No lights, for fear of giving away their position. Instead, the almost ethereal moonlight illuminated the path forward, revealing what Sandra already knew.

'Rocks and sand, and yet not a single soul in sight. Great.'

Not even the howl of coyotes was present. It was a silence that was menacing in itself, a place where time seemed to lose meaning.

If she didn't know any better, Sandra would have assumed that these lands had been untouched since the Great War.

But if Marcel was correct, they were well into Wind Spirit territory. Lands that the tribals had known for their entire lives. As such, they should have already been in contact with them long ago. Which brought about a single question:

Where the hell were the Wind Spirits?

"I don't like it…" A man by the name of Krusoe nervously spoke two Brahmins behind. "We've been walking for half a Sun now, and they haven't even shown their faces yet. Where the fuck are these Wind Spirits Marcel?!"

"We'll have a better time finding them if you stop broadcasting our location to everyone out there." Crunell coldly let out, glaring at Krusoe with as much spite he could muster. "Now shut your mouth, we'll be out of this rut soon enough."

But turning his head back, Sandra could overhear the hushed whispers.

"What's going on? You said they would have already greeted us?!"

"I know. There's supposed to be patrols on the outskirts. Should have normally encountered one of them." Marcel murmured. "Something's wrong, and I don't like it."

"What do we do?"

"As much as the Wind Spirits don't like people knowing where their home is, I managed to memorize the route. We should be getting close to the actual camp."

Marcel explained, gesturing to the path snaking to the right. "Worse comes to worse, we'll set up defensive positions inside, and continue during sunrise."

Sandra quietly gulped, gripping her brahmin's rope tightly. Looking behind her, none of the other caravaneers seemed to have overheard the conversation.

This was not the situation she wanted to be in. Not at all. Her imagination started to conjure up scenario after scenario, each worse than the last.

If there was one known fact about the tribals, it was that they were as tough as radscorpions. Savage or not, one had to be high on chems to think of attacking tribals in the Wild Lands.

For an entire tribe to have disappeared…

All of a sudden, the jingling of caps didn't feel like a reassurance that what she was doing here was right. Now, they rang the dinner bell for any of the critters lurking in the dark.

From yao guai, to cazadors…

To raiders…

With those thoughts in mind, Sandra didn't take notice of the arm shoving her back, catching her by surprise. The rope she held jerked back, forcing the Brahmin to grind to a halt. Soon, the entire caravan did the same, various caravaneers conveying some colorful curses.

"What the fuck!" Sandra glared at Marcel. "The hell was that fo-"

"Careful." Marcel hissed out, holding his hand out for the entire caravan to stop. Subsequently, he jerked his head to the ground. "Crunell, flashlight!"

Some fumbling later, and the prospector turned the flashlight on, illuminating the path forward.

As well as the numerous rusty bear traps littering the ground.

'Oh. That's why.'

Everywhere the light shone, bear traps littered the floor like pre-war landmines, their teeth ready to sink into flesh. While some looked like they hadn't been used since the Great War, others had a fresh coat of crimson red, dripping ever so slowly.

"Just as I thought. I was wondering what that glint was." Marcel muttered. He crouched down to observe the closest one. "If blood loss doesn't kill you, the infections will."

"So… what now?" Sandra nervously stammered out, considering just how close she had come to losing a limb. "I- I mean… we- we can't go this way. R-right?"

"Which is why we set those traps for a reason."

If the near miss with the bear traps had taken Sandra by surprise, the unfamiliar figure that had seemingly appeared out of nowhere sent her jumping, as the rest of the caravan hurriedly moved to aim their weapons at the man.

That was before Marcel intervened.

"Hold your fire! Hold your fire!" He yelled out loud, as Crunell directed the flashlight at the unknown person.

At first glance, the man didn't look like a tribal whatsoever. Rather than wearing animal skins and rags, the man wore a black pre-war vest, the words TPD on.

A bullet-proof vest, if she remembered correctly. One that would have cost her two months of wages back home. Weathered blue jeans, alongside black boots complimented the "civilized look".

In addition, no spear or bow was present. Instead, a bolt-action rifle was slung over his back. One with a polished scope, compared to the iron sights she had to use.

Back home, and he would have fit nicely in Rohead, possibly as a guard for one of them big-shots. However, it was clear that he wasn't from the South.

A feathered cap adorned the bald man's head, an assortment of white and brown, swaying in the wind. More prominently, was the paint etched onto the man's face.

Black and red lines ran from head to chin, a piece of art on the chiseled canvas. One that turned the man into a vengeful ghost from her younger years.

Overall, an intimidating figure. One who was squinting at the caravaneers with a disinterested look.

"Close, old friend." The tribal spoke directly to Marcel in an unknown . "But your memory is not as clear as you may think." A smirk emerged on the man's face. "Still, you are lucky that you only encountered the bear traps. Could have been crushed by boulders, for instance. Now then…"

Within a few seconds, the previously dead hills came alive, more indistinguishable figures spontaneously appearing out of the darkness, various bladed and ranged weapons in hand, wearing nothing but animal pelts.

More prominently, red dots emerged onto the brahmin, aimed straight at their heads.

"Let us lower our weapons, and we can discuss matters like civilized people, shall we?"

---

When the caravan arrived at the edge of dawn, Sandra couldn't but marvel at what she was seeing.

At the bottom of the valley, the Wind Spirits had made themselves a community. Numerous houses, made out of gecko and brahmin skin, dotted the center, some larger than the Connor family's house.

A river, flowing downhill from the mountains above, replenished the lake nearby. Crops, green and yellow against the rocky red background, grew tall and proud, promising a gorgeous bounty at harvest season. Potatoes, corn, squash, even those tato plants that produced a crop that tasted like puke.

There was even a small pen with brahmin, several babies following their mothers around.

A community that was almost dream-like, in comparison to the raider-infested highways that Sandra had recently encountered. Except… there was one tiny problem with that image:

The Wind Spirits were preparing for war.

The tribals made no attempts to hide the activities of what they were doing to Sandra and the others.

Young men and women alike, each in pairs, sparred with one another, spears and daggers in hand. Near the tents, the elderly carefully polished the metal blades, ensuring that they would not fail in battle. Even children meticulously fletched arrows, small piles being collected in reserve.

Then… there were the sharpshooters.

Three men, and four women. And yet they displayed a level of accuracy that put her to shame.

As the sharpshooters fired off another volley at the human-shaped targets down range, Thunder-That-Trails, the man who had established first contact, continued to talk to Marcel and Sandra, the only two who had followed him up the hill. The rest of the caravaneers remained in the Wind Spirit town, resting for the journey ahead.

"Magnificent, are they not?" Thunder asked, a bright smile on his face. "They are what you outsiders would call the best of the best. I have personally trained them since childhood, and they rarely miss their shots."

"You can say that again…" Sandra said, mesmerized by the skill on display. "Pa taught me how to shoot, and even he wasn't this good."

"I would not insult your creator's skill. Hotoru ensures that even the most hopeless cases are capable of rising to greater heights, young one."

"T-thanks, I guess?" Sandra replied, remembering the warning that Marcel had made about the Wind Spirits. About their religion.

While she wasn't religious herself, it was important in the Wasteland to know how to interact with religious people, ranging from those kooky New Caananites, to the shoot-on-sight policy for the Vipers.

Fortunately, the Wind Spirits tolerated outsiders well, so long as you didn't intentionally insult the Spirits of the Sky.

Glancing to her right, Sandra noticed the frown on Marcel's face, as he observed the sharpshooters reloading.

"Impressive work, but how much ammunition have you been going through?"

Immediately, the brahmin in the room came to pass. Thunder's friendly face morphed into a frown, before sighing deeply.

"I see that nothing gets by you, Marcel."

"Don't give me that crap, Thunder." Marcel tersely replied. "A year ago, there wasn't this level of mobilization. And I sure as shit would have remembered the bear traps. Raiders have been getting bolder, but this is more than just raiders…"

Marcel used his left hand to gesture to the other activities. "Who are you planning a fight with?"

Thunder briefly glanced at Sandra with some wariness. "Are you sure you want to talk about this in front of her?"

"Hey! I know when to keep my mouth shut!" Sandra responded, a brief glimpse of annoyance masking her uneasiness.

"Not to worry, I'm planning on informing the rest."

"Very well." Thunder gestured for the two to walk with him. "We have always had interlopers that seek to take what isn't theirs, our way of life since the Great Calamity. But they were few in number. Even the Hidebarks are not foolish enough to try and attack us."

"I'm sensing a but in here…"

"Indeed." Thunder stated. "For the past few months, the interlopers have become more numerous. Traps that would have deterred the most foolhardy, have not dissuaded them. In fact, it seems they are becoming more daring with every passing day. And the caravans? Well… you are the first we have seen in months."

"That's troubling, to say the least…"

"Indeed. While we are isolated from the savage world outside, we have heard…" Thunder went silent, looking over his shoulder, as if someone was out to get him. "Tales."

"What tales? You seem like you folk can take yourselves." Sandra said.

"But not if the tales are even close to the truth. A red plague of sorts."

'Red… plague…'

'Oh shit.'

All of a sudden, Sandra the uneasiness morphed into a chilly numbness.

"Legion." She stated, small chills through her body.

Ever since she was a small child, Pa always told her to never EVER, go beyond the Wild Lands. All because of Caesar's Legion. A fate worse than death, for any woman that dared to go into Legion Territory.

But they simply had been an afterthought in her mind. Too bogged down fighting inside their own territory against some folks called the Rangers. Too busy, and too incompetent.

Until now.

"Aye, young one." Thunder affirmed her guess. "The more they advance, the greater the number of interlopers that flee before them. Even I would not blame them, if the tales of this Legion are correct."

"Fuck! That explains why there's so many raiders. Marcel muttered under his breath, before turning his attention back to Thunder. "How bad is it up ahead?"

"We have cleared out the surrounding areas up ahead, but after that? Even Hotoru doesn't know. Which brings me to our ammunition reserves."

"Wouldn't say they're low, considering the amount of practice that your students are getting." The rifles let out mighty roars, illustrating Marcel's point.

"True. But I did not become war-chief by being foolish in the face of reality. They need all the practice that Hotoru can provide. And while our reserves have always been blessed by the Ancestors, Hotoru favors those who prepare for the unknown."

With that, Marcel and Thunder started to hash out an impromptu ammunition sale, utilizing some of the reserves meant for Two-Sun.

Sandra however, didn't really pay attention to the sale, focusing on the sharpshooters, who had ceased their firing drill.

Such a simple drill, yet it represented something so much more.

In the short time that Sandra had been in the Wind Spirit's camp, there was a thick aura of tension, threatening to break out from underneath the surface. The children were hurried by their mothers to sleep, their eyes glancing warily at them. And while Thunder hid it well, Sandra could tell there was another emotion in his eyes, other than projected calmness:

A hint of fear.

As the caravan started to move out of the valley, she could only hope that the rest of the trip went smoothly. After that, maybe she would find a less dangerous job, with the breathing space her family would have.

Maybe a courier. Less chance of being targeted by raiders. Maybe.

They were so close to Two-Sun, she could almost taste the shitty beer they offered.

---

Another twist of the telescope, and he couldn't help but smile.

The courier in Rohead had reported that a sizable caravan would be traveling to Two-Sun. Through the so-called "Wild Lands", where numerous tribes resided.

And here they were, exiting out of the canyon, thinking they had escaped the worst that the Wasteland could offer

A shame, really. Especially the women that were a part of the caravan. The barbarus in these parts were particularly nasty to the women they caught. A waste of a valuable commodity, and certainly not what Mars would want. A small comfort that these barbarus would know their place.

But for now, they served their purpose well enough.

Grabbing at his tunic, Hortensius activated the radio.

"Lupa. This is Frumentarius Hortensius. I have visual confirmation of the caravan coming from Rohead. Currently exiting out of the Wild Lands right now."

"Ten-four. Barbarus gangs nearby will be notified. Report if any other caravans come through. Over."

"Ten-four. Hortensius out. True to Caesar."

---

AN: If there's one part of the Legion that I would not want to deal with, it has to be the Frumentarii. From their disguises, to their sabotages, they are the one component that allows the Legion to be more than just an organized group of raiders.

Noticeably, what makes them more dangerous than the rest of the Legion, is the fact that they don't underestimate anyone. A Female Courier working as Legion will make them a bit confused, but they don't denigrate or deride the F! Courier compared to the other Legion members. They will utilize any tactic that will grant the Legion victory.

And that's what makes Frumentarii such a valuable tool to the Legion. Everybody expects the hammer that's being swung towards you.

Nobody expects the dagger in the back.

Thank you for listening to my TedTalk!

Also, song of the Day:
View: https://youtu.be/VEyDNTLlRgU

 

[t99_2020]

Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency

CAUTION
THIS DOCUMENT IS CLASSIFIED TOP SECRET

THE CIRCULATION OF THIS DOCUMENT SHALL BE LIMITED TO THOSE PERSONS WHO ARE AUTHORIZED TO HAVE THE INFORMATION IN THE PERFORMANCE OF THEIR DUTIES.

IF SUCH DOCUMENT IS AT RISK OF EXPOSURE OR FOREIGN ESPIONAGE, DISPOSE OF AS SOON AS POSSIBLE.

---

February 4 202X.

My name is Dr. Holmes. As of present, I'm the head researcher for the Hydra Project. Current studies into the "Panacea" Compound have yielded promising results.

In vitro preliminary analysis has yielded several theories about the nature of such a compound:

1. Pluripotent stem cells, combined with growth factors, allows Panacea to be able to repair cellular damage at a rapid rate. However, such a hypothesis takes into question what allows Panacea to distinguish what stem cells need to be formed into? Additionally, what signals allow for such cellular regeneration at such a rapid rate? Further research into this theory will need to be able to find such a cellular signal.
2. A benign tumor, capable of self-regulation when traumatic cellular damage is fixed, inducing apoptosis at completion. Further research into this theory will need to determine how such a tumor can induce apoptosis by itself, allowing for no malignant tumor to take hold near the entry site.

In addition, while pre-clinical trials have not been approved, injection of the Panacea Compound during a critical situation allowed for numerous personnel to be saved. Furthermore, in-vivo analysis of such personnel have indicated no severe side-effects. Personnel will be released after a period of twelve months, if no further health effects are recorded.

However, further insights into the Panacea Compound is limited by the samples of Panacea available. I request that all further samples of Panacea are to be sent to the Hydra Project.

With current conditions, we hope that the Panacea Compound will be available for deployment within the next five years.

---

AN:

Note, I am NOT a professional researcher. Just to let you know. If anyone wants to do an omake about the Gutsies, you're welcome to, because I don't have the slightest inkling of how to even speak in engineering terminology.

 

[t99_2020]

As Monroe proceeded to sit down in the air-conditioned room, he could feel the tension in the air, thick enough to slice with a knife in hand. While these men tried to hide it well, he could see the wariness in their facial expressions, almost as if they were anticipating a fight.

His security detail wasn't doing so hot either. While he knew that they wouldn't start such a fight, the near close calls in the previous days had made them cautious, to say the least.

Pistols only, but more than enough to spark a conflict. Luckily, Monroe was simply here to initiate talks.

Starting with the good General from this "New California Republic."

General Lee Oliver wore khaki pants and a button-up shirt, a dark green tie lining the middle of the shirt. Overall, a dress uniform that wouldn't have looked out of place back home.

But it was the cap on top of his head that ensured that he was dealing with an entity that was… foreign.

An emblem of a two-headed bear lined the officer's cap that he wore. A nation, so similar to the United States, yet so different.

The two stared at each other for a short period of time, before Oliver spoke.

"I'll admit… when I got word that people were screaming about the Enclave to the North, I thought they were hopped on Jet." Oliver chuckled softly, shaking his head. "It's not usual for the boogeyman of the West of decades past to appear so brazenly near our troops."

"Which is why we're not this Enclave." Monroe shot back coolly. "Certainly not the horror stories that I've been hearing."

"Quite. Bitter Springs has been relatively quiet, ever since the additional aid came in. We very much appreciate your help. And it certainly has advanced your case."

"Really?" Monroe asked with a raised eyebrow. "Not even going to take into account poison or anything of that nature?"

"Enclave tends to be a lot more overt with their plans. No need for poison, when plasma and lasers will do."

"Fair enough." Monroe narrowed his eyes. "But you didn't just invite us for tea and biscuits just so we can sing kumbaya with each other."

"Damn shame that we can't do that to smooth things over. And you're correct, I'm here because right now, you've put in a bit of a mess." Oliver rubbed his forehead in frustration, before taking a deep breath.

"People back West, to put it mildly, are shitting their pants. The Senate is demanding answers from President Kimball, and while he's been able to placate them for now, it won't last forever."

"In other words, we're in danger of being at war because we have to deal with the actions of this… military junta." Monroe disdainfully let out, recalling some of the facts that this Enclave had committed.

Including the matter of worldwide genocide. Frankly, Monroe was impressed at the amount of restraint Oliver was showing.

"Don't get me started on the senators from New Arroyo. They personally were the ones leading the War Coalition in the Senate. One in particular hates your guts with a passion, if Kimball is to be believed."

"So what then? You've seen the amount of force we're capable of unleashing, and while I don't know you that well, I'd reckon that you don't want to waste your men's lives." Monroe said, referring to the demonstration of firepower that the US had inflicted on those mutated lizards. Even now, clean-up crews from both NCR and the US were still being conducted.

A small smirk appeared on Oliver's face.

"A good judgment of character. I can see why you were made General. Personally, I'm not too keen to go into another war, when we have Caesar across from here." Oliver said, referring to the local warlord. Some tinpot dictator who thought himself a God. "However, orders are orders, and Kimball won't be able to delay them for much longer."

"So you need to verify that we aren't going to kill all of you, if I'm not mistaken…"

"Enough proof that it can shut the War Coalition down for good. Something to ensure that you are different from the Enclave of past decades. So? Do you have any evidence?"

"Well…"

---

FEW HOURS LATER…

As General Oliver stood speechlessly at the portal standing in front of them, Captain Graves could tell that his security detail, made up of gas-masked wearing soldiers, were also in a state of shock. With a smug grin, he turned to General Oliver.

"If that's not enough evidence, let's go through the portal, shall we?"

---

AN: An alternate scenario if the NCR was the main contact.

 

[t99_2020]

'Note to self: Black Coffee tastes like burnt shit.'

Sipping at the black liquid from her trusty tin can, Sandra couldn't help but grimace. Cleven, one of the caravaneers, had made the concoction from coyote tobacco leaves and some honey mesquite pods, and offered it to everyone.

A family recipe meant to mimic a popular pre-war drink. One that was able to keep them awake for the day's trip.

From the faces of her fellow caravaneers, they too thought the same of the "drink".

But it still did its job, regardless of the taste. Licking the inside for the last drops, Sandra placed the tin can in her sack, loaded onto the brahmin she guided. As the lead brahmin, it was her responsibility to be the earliest in position.

Overall, the caravan had developed a sort of morning routine that was both quick, yet thorough.

Campfires were extinguished, while caravaneers patiently waited to get their daily water ration from the water brahmin. Pack brahmin having already fed, brayed out loud, sensing that they would be trundling along for the day. A controlled chaos was the best description for it.

Soon enough, the caravan would be on the move again, getting ever so closer to Two Sun. A fact that Marcel was clearly excited about.

"Let's move it people! Let's get this show on the road! Caps ain't going to make themselves!" Marcel yelled out from the road, a hint of excitement in his commanding tone. "The sooner we get to Two Sun, the sooner we get our caps!"

A few grumbles emanated from the late risers, but no real complaints. Marcel, over the journey, had earned the trust of the caravaneers. Far as they were concerned, he hadn't steered them wrong.

Eventually, with the last water rations handed out, the caravan formed into a single file line, guards posted on both sides. Looking over her Brahmin, Sandra nodded at Jose, the Southern man doing the same.

"Showtime, señora!"

"Showtime it is." Sandra replied back, looking back all the while. The mountains of the Wild Lands were barely visible now. In the short time she had spent in the Wild Lands, the mountains had become a sort of refuge from the savage Wastes.

From here on out, they were on their own.

Stepping onto the sun-bleached road, Sandra allowed Jose to take the reins, as she brought out her hunting rifle, slapping the magazine into place, a satisfying click sounding out.

Far as she was concerned, the next raider hopped up on Jet was going to get a bullet between the eyes. Nothing was going to get between her and this payday.

Nothing.

---

"Aw shit! I see them! Let me at em' Let me at em'!" One raider whispered excitedly, licking his lips. It had been so long since Soshu had been with the group. A hot piece of ass who knew how to ride, until the stupid bitch had gotten her head blown clean off.

The women down there would play hard to get, but they would come around. They always did.

"Ol' Painless wants some of that fresh, fresh meat…" Another spoke, rubbing the barrel of his weapon with excitement. Around them, the rest of the raiders could only murmur excitedly, some relishing for the chance to bathe in the weaklings' blood.

That was, until a harsh whistle drowned out the chatter, silencing the raiders. Near the top of the hill, the leader simply narrowed his eyes.

"Quiet down, you fucking idiots." The lead raider growled out. "I know ya' want to have fun, but we can't stick too long for this one. Too many geckos strolling about, and I ain't becoming lizard food."

A few audible grumbles were heard, as some of the excitement turned to disappointment. A fast raid meant that they couldn't take their time. No pieces of ass ready for them back at the camp.

But even with that disappointment, the leader of these raiders couldn't help but feel giddy at the luck that his gang had .

An actual caravan! One with enough supplies to last them a good long while. And they got first pick…

Apparently, some new runt had notified the Big Boss that a caravan would be coming through the Wild Land pathways. And apparently? The runt had been right after all!

A shame… he probably could have made that cute thing scream all night long. Before he became a warning to the rest about what happened to liars.

But before the fun could begin, there was still one potential problem that he had to make sure was addressed.

"Now remember Gulch," The leader directed his attention to the raider with Ol' Painless, "You fire only when I say so. Fuck up, and I leave you for the critters. Understood?"

Gulch glared at him, before realizing the others were looking at their weapons. The caravan was so close, and none of them wanted the trigger happy moron ruining the loot.

Seeing that he was outnumbered, Gulch let out a deep sigh, and put down Ol' Painless, before grabbing his dinky 9 mm pistol.

"Guess Ol' Painless will have to wait after all."

"Now then…" The leader let out a feral grin, reveling in the spoils that he was going to be bringing back. "Get ready…"

---

It was official: Mother Nature could bite her ass.

As the caravan trundled up the steep road, the sweltering heat seemed to permeate the air Sandra was breathing in. Sweat flowed like a river, drenching her shirt. While she couldn't see behind her, Sandra knew that the others were feeling the same heat. Demonstrated audibly by Jose to her side.

"Shit. This calor is going to make me faint."

"You can say that again." Sandra replied back, the heat making her nauseous. As much as she knew just how precious her reserves were, she needed water. Taking out her water canteen, Sandra shook it twice to confirm the much water she had left. A bit over half, from the water sloshing inside.

'Damnit. Water ration won't be until tomorrow morning.'

Twisting the cap, Sandra carefully sipped at the water inside. And it wasn't the radioactive water that tasted like piss. Actual, purified water, courtesy of the Wind Spirits.

"You know, that's all the water you get for today." Jose said, a concerned frown on his face. "There's no water here for millas. Not unless you consider your sweat as being water."

Sandra, her mouth being full, simply gave Jose the middle finger, who simply sighed.

"Your grave, I guess."
"Well excuse me if I don't want to collapse onto the road here." Sandra said, her hunting rifle in hand again. "Won't be much use if I collapse onto the grou-"

"GOD DAMNIT!"

Marcel's outburst cut off what Sandra was about to say, with the entire caravan hearing his words. With her attention directed to what Marcel was observing, it didn't take long before she was also thinking the same.

"Fucking hell!" One of the caravanners in the back said out loud. "What's the hold up?!"

Marcel simply gestured to the scene in front of him.

"That." Marcel spit out with venom. "That's the hold up."

In the distance, Sandra could see the obstructions in their path.

Primarily, the rusted out metal hulks that stood in the middle of the road, stuck in place ever since the Great War.

Sandra had heard about these hulks before, even if this was her first time seeing them. Cars, they were called. Based on what Dad told her, these cars were how people got to and from places back before the War.

Faster than even one of those Deathclaw, you could travel to far away places, farther than even a brahmin could take you. All in a matter of less than a day.

From this distance, she could even see the thin colors that were still visible, even with the rust seemingly everywhere. A shade of blue, like the sky above, for one car. Bright red for another. There was even a car that was black and white, with some sort of ornament on top.

In short, a glimpse into what the Old World was like. One that in any other time, Sandra would have been interested in.

But this wasn't that time. Right now?

They blocked the way forward. Forward to her family's salvation. And that simply wouldn't do.

Meanwhile, Jose looked over the side, before glancing back at Marcel, a grimace on his face.

"No good. Brahmin will hurt themselves if we try going down the sides. With this amount of carga?" Jose pointed to the supplies. "Will break their legs at the very least."

"And if we decide to go back and find another route, we'll be dangerously low on water." Marcel added, taking a glance back down the long road back. "In this heat, it's a death sentence."
With the obstruction in view, hushed whispers turned to loud concerns.

"What the hell do we do now?!"

"If we camp out here, we'll be dead by tomorrow! There's no cover here at all!"

"Should we turn back?!"

"Why the hell did we pick this route?!"

Sandra looked on, feeling a sense of danger coming from the increasingly agitated caravanners. Things could get ugly, real quick, real fast.

Thankfully, Marcel seemed to understand the danger.

"Alright then!" Marcel shouted out, silencing the chatter. "No need to worry or panic. You'll all get your caps when we're done here."

"Then how do suggest we move forward, push the fucking wrecks over the sides?!"

"That's exactly what we're going to do."

…

Dead silence permeated the caravaneers, as they absorbed what Marcel had just said. Sandra herself needed a solid few seconds for Marcel's words to register in her mind.

'Wait… he wasn't joking.'

For a split second, Sandra couldn't help but wonder if the heat had scrambled Marcel's brain. Even she knew what could happen if they fucked around with the cars, based on her Dad's stories.

"You got a death wish?! Do you know what happens if yo-"

"Yes. I know what happens." Marcel cut off the dissenter with a controlled tone. "We're not going to be shooting the damn things. Their engines may be unstable, but pre-war cars were built to last. So long as we don't do anything to destabilize the cores, like putting bullets in them…" Marcel paused, emphasizing the ridiculousness of that course of action.

"We'll be able to safely dump the cars over the sides. And besides, if we go back, we run the risk of running out of water. This is the best plan right now. If anyone has a better idea, be my guest."

No one spoke, as the caravaneers considered their options. It didn't take long before reality set in. As much Sandra hated to admit, Marcel was right.

"Fair enough Marcel." Jose let out. "But how do you want to approach this?"

"I'll go in first. Check to see what we're dealing with. But I'm going to need a few people to watch my back." Marcel turned his head to Sandra. "You in?"

This was not what she signed up for.

"Wait… why me?" Sandra said, suddenly feeling the weight of attention. "Can't Jose or Crunell come with you?!"

There were plenty of more experienced caravaneers than her. Why her, of all people!

"I'm going to need someone to watch for anything creeping up on us, whether it be radscorpions or raiders. You're rather observant, with that hunting rifle of yours. Just need you on the lookout, while we check the cars out."

Oh… that made a bit more sense. Lookout was something she could definitely do.

"Ok, I guess."

"Perfect." Marcel happily stated. "And you're still right. Jose, you're with me! Crunell, tell the others to stick back!"

Soon enough, the trio started to walk up the road, the wrecks getting ever so closer. Other than the hills to the right of them, the desert seemed to stretch on for miles on end. An almost identical scene to the first few days of the caravan, navigating through the raider-infested roads.

Except… nothing seemed to emerge from the wilderness. Just the howling winds of the Desert. For a place that hadn't been cleared by the Wind Spirits, it was unnaturally quiet.

Maybe that was why she felt so nervous as the trio finally approached the rusted wrecks.

"You two. Keep watch while I go through the cars. Make sure I don't get jumped."

"You got it boss."

"Will do." Sandra replied back, positioning herself on the right side of the wrecks, with the hill in view.

Minutes passed, as Marcel inspected the cars, opening the front of the cars to inspect the insides. Sandra couldn't see it for herself, as she continued to focus on the surrounding fields. Just bushes swaying in the wind, tumbleweeds tumbling across the ground. And a glint of a flash in the hills.

Wait… flash?

Blinking her eyes rapidly, Sandra brought the hunting rifle to bear, waiting for the glint of light to appear again.

Was she seeing things? Was the heat getting to her? Furrowing her eyebrows, Sandra intently stared at the hills again.

No flash, whatsoever.

'Yup Sandra. You're seeing things. Not a real threat. Now keep your eyes close for raiders'

Raiders had always defaulted to attacking, stealth be damned. Their minds too addled from chems to be that smart.

With that fact in mind, Sandra directed her attention away from the hills. With any luck, the caravan would be on the move.

---

"Shit! The bitch with the rifle spotted me!"

"Calm your tits down. She just acting as a guard."

"I'm not going to fucking wait. I'm blowing it right now!"

"Wait! Do-"

Before her fellow spotter could react, the raider pushed the button down.

---

"Any problems?" Jose asked, as the trio grouped up at the back of the cars. "Is it possible we can get these autos off the side?

"Not too bad. With enough force, we can definitely get them off the road. Just matter of-"

*Beep* *Beep* *Beep*

An audible noise sounded from the cars, interrupting Marcel's answer. A noise that seemed to increase in frequency.

"Wha- what's that noise?" Sandra asked, until she realized that Marcel's eyes had widened in alarm.

"GET BACK!" He yelled out, grabbing Jose and Sandra's arms, dragging them away from the cars. Within moments, both were sprinting as well, Sandra not knowing what had caused the panic.

When suddenly, Sandra knew.

*BOOM*

A clap of thunder. Louder than anything she had ever heard, drowning out all noise. Followed by a heat that was hotter than every campfire she had lit. All of which was followed by a wave that seemed to lift her into the air.

And off the side of the road.

The panicked jumble of shock was the last thing she thought, before impact.

Before everything turned black.

---

The raiders whooped and hollered down the hill, firing their weapons at the caravan.

Sure, the explosion didn't kill them all, but it was always fun when they squealed like mole rats!

Nothing could help these poor weaklings!

Nothing!

---

In the air above, higher than anything the human eye could distinguish, the airspace was suddenly occupied not by a bird, but a man-made machine. Flying at 130 kilometers per hour, the RQ-7 Shadow was equipped with a liquid nitrogen-cooled electro-optical camera. A camera that could relay a live feed, straight back to the Ground Control System.

A live feed of the impromptu battleground confirming First Contact.

And from the installation of a long dead Nation, the United States made its move.

---

Song of the Day:


View: https://youtu.be/PV6sHBGW_n0

 

[t99_2020]

While I continue to write the next chapter, here's a small joke that inspired by the RL joke:

You see a bunch of figures down below, and you fire a few shots over the heads. How do you know who you're fighting?

You're fighting the Legion if they charge at you full stop.

You're fighting the NCR if you start getting picked off by sniper fire.

You're fighting the Brotherhood if lasers start to pepper the ground you're near.

You're fighting the Enclave if a vertibird drops PA troops.

But if you don't hear anything for 5 minutes, and then the hill you occupy spontaneously explodes?

You're fighting the Americans.

 

[t99_2020]

Thanks to @Ferrum Bellator Warsmith for checking over the first half of this chapter! Now... onto the chapter.

---

THREE WEEKS AFTER EXTERMINATION OF MUTATED WILDLIFE…

Standing in the repurposed office on Level 1, now the Air Force's Drone and Communications Hub, Lieutenant Colonel Lambert of the 11th Attack Squadron stared at the screen for a moment, before hastily grabbing at a specific two-way radio at her waist. All the while, the bandits started their attack.

"Chief Hills?"

"Colonel?" A gruff voice replied back.

"I need you and your men in the air right now! We've got a mass casualty event happening Southwest of the base. I need a platoon on the ground ASAP, alongside any medics we can spare. Brief them while they're in transit."

"Affirmative! Moving out right now!"

Furrowing her eyebrows, Lambert kept her eyes on the screen as she picked up the handset to the portable radio on the desk.

"General Monroe, we've established first contact. It's a bandit attack however. Forces are already en route. "

It didn't take long before the good General uttered a reply.

"I'm on my way to the Communications Hub. Brief me when I get there."

"Yes Sir!"

---

As the ground crews finished the final preparations, Chief Warrant Officer Hills of the 160th Operations Aviation Regiment slammed the fuselage door shut, getting himself seated for takeoff.

When he had been deployed to an alternative reality (and wasn't that a fucking doozy), Hills hadn't anticipated being in the air so quickly.

Especially when he first saw the state of the primary industrial cargo lift. Over a century old, the neglected and partially rusted lift could only lift fifteen tons, and wasn't wide enough to fit most helicopters. About the size of one of those pickle ball courts he used to play back in Philadelphia. Frankly, he was half sure that the thing would collapse on the first test lift.

But they needed air support right now, and well?

The Army Corps of Engineers had managed to make miracles with less. And the 160th needed no Apaches to deal with bandits.

It also helped that the elevator had seemingly had a shelf life of over two centuries, from the reports that he had gotten.

Opening up the throttle, Hills could feel the AH-6 come to life, the helicopter thrumming with vibrations from the rotors.

A constant pull on the collective, as well as steps on the anti-torque pedal, and it wasn't long before the AH-6 'Little Bird' lifted off the ground, away from the refurbished helipad. With a glance, Hills nodded to the air marshal, who gestured Hills to keep moving up.

"Displays are reading right." His copilot, Warrant Officer Bajwa muttered into the intercom. "Radio signal is clear. We're good to go."

"Perfect. Let's not fuck up the first flight here." Hills replied, both him and Bajwa chuckling in private amusement.

It had been fortuitous that several helipads had been constructed near the entrance of what was now dubbed "Fort Ridgway", partially hidden underneath a thin layer of sand. Granted, the elements hadn't been kind to them, with the white paint being barely legible. But they served their purpose well enough.

Glancing back down, Hills could start to see the entirety of the mountain where Fort Ridgway was situated. Across the slope of the mountain, lines of trenches ran through the rocks and sand, a line of barbed wire complementing the first trench.

Spread out across the trenches were several AFVs, from Humvees to LAVs, dug into hull down positions between the trenches. Only a single, narrow path to Fort Ridgway now remained, guarded on both sides at the front by another two AFVs.

A formidable defense, by any measures. And that didn't include the numerous artillery pieces situated on the peak of the mountain, ready to introduce any bad guys to 105 and 155mm shells.

However… that wasn't Hills's focus right now.

Climbing further into the sky, Hills brought the AH-6 to hover in formation with the other two Little Birds, as well as the Black Hawk in the back. Adjusting the knob, Bajwa switched radio frequencies.

"All craft, this is 2-1, check in." Hills spoke into his headset.

"2-2 standing by."

"2-3 standing by."

"This is 3-1. Standing by."

"Right then…" Hills stated. "We got multiple hostiles attacking a convoy. Sixty kilometers, south-southwest, coordinate square 19-20. Keep your eyes peeled for any SAMs or rockets. Just because we're in a nuclear wasteland, doesn't mean we get to be cocky." Hills informed the rest of the formation. "3-1, we'll be covering you when you're on the ground."

"Copy 2-1. Moving on your signal."

"If that's the case, let's move people!"

In a spearhead formation, the AH-6s led the charge, with the Black Hawk in the back. Reaching their maximum speed, the helicopters raced to the battle site, stealth be damned.

---

'Shit shit shit shit!'

Amidst the hail of bullets flying through the air, Crunell could only tuck himself even closer behind the lead brahmin corpse, gripping his laser pistol tightly, two other caravaneers to the right of him. In the distance, the cried pains of brahmin down the other side of the road were drowned out by the aforementioned gunfire.

Fuck this brahmin shit! Fuck the raiders that had decided to set an ambush here! And fuck Marcel for choosing this route! If they got out of this alive, he and Marcel were going to have words!

But right now, he had to save his own skin.

With a brief break in the amount of gunfire, Crunell took a glance over the brahmin, glancing down below before squeezing the trigger. The raider nearly up the hill didn't even have a chance to scream, before the wind blew away the ashes.

"YER GOING TO PAY FOR THAT!"

Subsequently, the meaty thunks emanating from the brahmin corpse increased in frequency, the smell of blood and guts mixing in with the scent of cordite to make an unpleasant odor.

It also didn't account for the eight caravaneers on the ground, either deadly silent, or screaming out to the world, fruitlessly trying to plug up the gaping holes. Crunell had already tuned them out, glancing left and right at the surviving caravaneers.

Wielding an assortment of shotguns, brush rifles, and pistols, they should have been overrun long ago, even with the steep hill the raiders had to climb. The chemmed up raiders hopped on on Jet and Psycho could easily take numerous bullets, while the rest would eventually climb over the top.

That would have been the case, if Marcel hadn't been such a sneaky bastard. Because when one of the Brahmins had collapsed, what came out of the packs was definitely NOT food or water..

With another long spray, another group of raiders, one of which was strong enough to carry a massive sledgehammer, were thrown back, the .308 rounds punching large holes.

"YOU WANNA PLAY, LET'S FUCKING PLAY, YOU PIECES OF SHIT!"

Two brahmins down, Crunell could hear the defiant cries of Krusoe, laying down fire with a machine gun. Some sort of pre-war antique that had been recently refurbished, judging by its state. Evidently, the supplies for Two Sun also included weapons and ammunition. One that Krusoe was using to great effect.

For all of his previous bitching, Krusoe was saving their asses for now.

But that type of fire couldn't last forever. Especially with how frequently Krusoe had to reload, the magazines being pitifully small for a machine gun. Alongside the fact that the damn fool didn't know how to fire in bursts, and that gun would be out of action in no time.

Something had to be done, or the raiders would soon wise up.

And Ol' Nell wasn't going to let some two-bit fiends be the end of his journey.

Firing a few more shots over the brahmin to keep the raiders at bay, Crunell turned to the other two caravaneers. Trent and Karlie were their names, if he remembered correctly. Good news? They were keeping their nerves, staying in cover while waiting for opportunities to shoot. Bad news?

"Ammo?" Crunell asked, a grimace on his weathered face.

"Not good." Trent replied, gesturing to their hand, a few shotgun shells in his hands. "Six shells left."

"Three mags over here."

"Fuck." Crunell cursed, looking through his sack. " A few energy cells over here, but not enough if they do a concentrated push."

"Krusoe there seems to be keeping them at bay." Trent said, taking a moment to take a pot to the right of the brahmin. "So long as they don't get close enough to target him specifically, we can try to see if there's any other weapons that Marcel didn't tell us about."

"That's if we- hold on…" Crunell stopped. "They aren't firing anymore."

Other than the dying moans of the casualties, the raiders having claimed another three lives, the gunfire from the raiders had ceased. No gunfire, no explosions, nothing. If Crunell was a fool, he would have thought that they had retreated back, the caravan having cost too many bodies.

But there was no way in Hell these raiders would back off. Not with the amount of resources they had invested.

So where did these shifty bastards scurry off to?

It was only through years of experience, as well as his good eyes, that Crunell distinguished the figures climbing near the still burning wrecks, ignoring the radiation spewing out.

"Shit! They're coming from the side!" Crunell yelled out. "Krusoe! See if you can get that machine gun pointed over here!"

"Come on, you sons of bitches!" Krusoe yelled out, adjusting his prone body to direct his fire at the raiders coming from where the burning cars were. "I'll show you what happens when you fuck with the Jasha Family!"

And then, before Krusoe could fire, an excited voice yelled out in front of them.

"OL' PAINLESS WANTS SOME FRESH MEAT!" That statement of glee was followed by a soft electrical whirr.

A prelude, giving way to a cacophony of carnage.

*BRRRRT*

In just a few short seconds, the brahmin that Krusoe had been hiding behind was perforated completely, shredding both the brahmin, and Krusoe alike.

Just like that, their one advantage had been completely negated.

As Crunell's body went on autopilot, trying to keep himself scarce from the hose of bullets that seemingly was without end, the panic that had been kept at bay, spilled out, as his shaking hands tried to reload his laser pistol. Out of the corner of his eyes, Trent's facade finally broke, trying to make a run for it, before more bullets bisected the man in two.

An ignominious end, for Ol' Nell, torn apart by raiders that seemed to wield pre-war military weapons. In many other scenarios, this would have been true.

That was… before he heard the buzzing sound coming from behind them.

---

"2-1 to TOC, we're coming up on the site." Hills spoke into the headset, seeing the plumes of black smoke emanating from the site, as the helicopters went over the last mountain.

"Affirmative, 2-1. Be advised that hostiles have access to a minigun. Currently engaged against the convoy, but proceed with extreme caution. Avoid any direct fire on the convoy, we need information."

Hills could only blink his eyes for a moment, processing what he just heard, before responding. "Copy that. 2-1 out."

A minigun, even if it was aged by nearly a century of disuse, was still a fucking minigun. The rockets would cause too much collateral damage, and hovering in the air would simply make them an easier target.

Leaving only one option.

Switching to local frequency, Hills sent his orders.

"2-1 to 2-3. Ensure that 3-1 is cleared for deployment. 2-2, with me!"

With 2-3 breaking off to assist 3-1, Hills and 2-2 maneuvered the helicopters to fly over the asphalt road, following the route the convoy had taken, the plumes in front. On his infrared display, Bajwa could see that many of the bandits had congregated near the wrecks.

"Once we're clear of the convoy, use the rockets against the bandits up ahead." Hills ordered, keeping the AH-6 at medium height.

Not too high, but not too close to the ground.

Perfect for a strafing run.

"Hostiles are reacting." Bajwa muttered, his hands on the trigger. "Weapons ready."

'900… 800… 700… 600 meters…'

"Fire!"

Bajwa squeezed on the trigger.

---

In the midst of the bullet hose that was shredding the caravan to pieces, Crunell wouldn't hear the buzzing sound, not until it was far too late.

One moment the raider was laughing maniacally, hosing down each individual brahmin with a barrage of bullets, any return fire plinking off the metal armor he wore.

The next moment?

Silenced in a heartbeat, as a thunderous roar echoed out, rendering the raider into viscera, blood and shredded guts splattering the already desecrated road.

'What the actual FU-'

A sudden whiplash of emotions ran through Crunell, as he could only gape in shock at the flying objects passing over his head, kicking up enough wind to blow his hat away.

Wordlessly, Crunell could only stare, as he saw the raiders near the wrecks being blown to pieces, their bodies disappearing in a storm of bullets and rockets. In the distance, shots rang out, as the raiders seemingly tried to take down the flying machines, who turned away from the incoming fire on a dime.

'Vertibird. That's what that is. That's what they're called.'

All of a sudden, Crunell felt a chill down his spine, as he recalled the tales that Marcel had told to Sandra. He connected those stories to what he was seeing right now.

These… vertibirds were only targeting the raiders, as he observed them strafing down the last remnants of the raiders, their guns bellowing out in anger, rockets saturating the very ground the raiders were on. Which meant only one thing…

The Enclave wanted them alive.

And he knew that they would not take kindly to a person who stole their "property". By the time they were done with him, he would wish he were dead. A strange feeling overtook his body, as if he couldn't feel the pain of battle anymore.

No… he would deny them their sadistic pleasure.

Before anybody could respond, Crunell placed the laser pistol underneath his mouth, and pulled the trigger.

---

AN: Let me tell you, researching the helicopters that could actually fit onto a fucking industrial lift was a bit of a bitch.

As for the suicide, I always felt that Wastelanders in general are much more prone to commit suicide, as there are MANY creatures and factions in the Wasteland that are more than willing to make you wish for death. Better a painless and quick one, rather than a torturous existence.

Let's see if I can crank out another chapter for the 4th of July!

As always, here's the Song of the Day:


View: https://youtu.be/KNXj4wyE44Y

 

[t99_2020]

First Contact Report
10, May, 202x

Situation:
At 1400 Hours, Lieutenant Colonel Lambert of the 11th Attack Squadron, identified and confirmed an ongoing attack on a civilian convoy by bandits. At time of confirmation, such an attack was deemed a Mass Casualty Event, requiring immediate response.

Responding:
A scrambled flight of the 160th Special Operations Aviations Regiment, alongside a QRF consisting of a single squad of the 75th Ranger Regiment, was initiated and authorized by Lieutenant Colonel Lambert of the 11th Attack Squadron, subsequently approved by General Monroe. Subsequent response was authorized to reinforce QRF, consisting of elements of Trojan Company of the 2nd Chemical Battalion.

Flight Roster:
Four Craft
Three AH-6s
One UH-60 Variant Carrying Quick Response Force

QRF Roster:

1. Staff Sergeant Barnes - Squad Leader
2. Sergeant Kingsley- Second in Command
3. Sergeant Coleman- JTAC
4. Specialist Flores- Grenadier Rifleman
5. Specialist Dyer - Automatic Rifleman
6. Specialist Reginald- Squad Medic
7. Specialist Yang- Attached Medic
8. Specialist Benard - Attached Medic
9. Private First Class Hahn - Rifleman
10. Private First Class Cutler- Rifleman
11. Private First Class Raslow- Rifleman

---

It was no Highway of Death, not by a long shot.

But by God was it a good attempt.

Peering through the binoculars, Staff Sergeant Barnes slightly winced, as their escorting Little Birds did another strafing run, explosions ringing out in the distance, followed by a sound more akin to ripped cloth, than machine gun fire.

His attention directed on the road, the few bandits that were still alive weren't even trying to fight anymore, scattering in all directions. Barnes couldn't blame them, seeing the amount of body parts and viscera coating the road in front of the stopped convoy. One group that was too slow to get off the road simply disappeared, rockets detonating in their midsts.

However, by sheer luck or tenacity, a trickle of survivors, coming individually or in small groups, ran back to the hill that they had originally come down from.

Poor bastards didn't even realize they were walking into a trap.

Scythed down at range, the chaos of war drowned out the fire his men put down on the exposed bandits. One by one, the bandits simply collapsed to the ground, some screaming out to the world, while others shuddered, choking on their own blood. Many were simply silent.

Overall, twelve enemies neutralized, joining their comrades that had been killed by the convoy, with no casualties.

"Cease fire! Cease fire!" Barnes put his binoculars down, the M7s and M250 falling silent. "Coleman! Get a count on inbound hostiles!"

"Yes Sergeant!"

Radio already set up on the ground, Coleman was soon in contact with their escorts, two of which had peeled off from the battleground to deal with any stragglers.

"Thunderclap, this is Yankee Five Charlie!" Coleman stated into the radio, observing the lone helicopter in view, patrolling the surroundings. "Any eyes on hostiles near our position?"

"Negative. No combatants detected in your sector."

"Copy that. Be ready to assist if things get hot."

"Roger, Yankee Five Charlie. Thunderclap Three, out!"

Barnes smiled behind the gas mask for a moment, before frowning at the smoke emanating from the slaughterhouse. The easy part had been completed, with the bandits being neutralized as a threat. What came after however? Well… he needed to make sure there were civvies to save.

With a slight nod, Coleman adjusted the frequency, before handing the radio to Barnes.

"Yankee Six Bravo to TOC, what's the status of the civvies?"

"Not good." Lambert's voice sounded out after a bit of interference. Evidently, even with the retranslator drones, the signal was weak at this distance. "Casualties are estimated to be over half the convoy."

"Damnit." Barnes spat out. Even with their rushed deployment, it had taken the QRF a good fifteen minutes to arrive on the site. Casualties were expected to be high, but it still stung to hear it be confirmed.

"What about the rest?"

"Holding position for now, but they're not daring to peek from behind cover. Whoever they are, you're going to have to calm them down if we're to extract them out. ETA for reinforcements: Twenty mikes."

"Roger, TOC. Keep an eye on them if they try anything."

"Will do, TOC out."

With that, Barnes handed the radio back to Coleman, before gesturing to the rest of the squad to pay attention.

"Well… civvies are going to be shitting their pants, considering this may be the first time they've seen a chopper in their entire lives. We won't be able to do much without getting shot at. Gotta keep them compliant as well before we extract them out. Any ideas, gentlemen?"

"Not sure." Specialist Dyer murmured to the far right, switching out mags for his M250. "They just saw an entire group turn to hamburger meat in the blink of an eye. Going to be mighty jumpy if we threaten them with the chopper."

"We could try to let them process what just happened, allow them time to breathe." Cutler suggested, glancing through the scope of his M7. "Let them cool their heads a bit before we move in."

"Not possible." Specialist Reginald, their medic, shot down that suggestion. Beside Reginald, were two other medics from other squads, embedded in for this mass casualty event. "Longer we wait, the more likely they do something rash, and the more fatalities we get on our hands."

Reginald was right, in that regard. These weren't trained soldiers, but scared post-apocalyptic traders. From their point of view, flying machines that spew death from above was out of the purview of regular survival.

"Fair enough, Doc, but we can't just walk up to them right now. Don't have many options…" Barnes trailed off, before something on the road catched his eyes. In particular, at one of the mutated beasts of burdens, and its cargo.

'Wait a minute…'

"You have an idea, Barnes?" Kingsley asked.

"An idea, Kingsley? No. Plan, yes. Dicey as hell, but a plan nonetheless." Barnes stated, turning to Private First Class Hahn, ordering him to get the megaphone stored on the Black Hawk. While he did that, he picked up the receiver again.

"Thunderclap, I'm going to need you to trust me on what I'm about to do."

"Copy that! Standing by for orders."

"Land somewhere safe. Keep quiet for now, and turn the engines off. "

Conveying the rest of the plan to both Thunderclap Three and Kingsley, Barnes could only hope that the survivors could be reasoned with. Certainly would have a bad impression on the rest of this nuclear hellscape if things went wrong.

For their sake, he sincerely hoped they would listen.

---

Pain.

That was the first thing that came to mind.

As Sandra slowly woke up, blinking her eyes, it felt like a spike had been directly drilled into her skull. Worse than when she had mistakenly drunk from Dad's flask once. Opening her eyes just made the pain even worse, as the world seemed to swirl around her, a mixture of red and orange, dunked in with the all too bright Sun. Finally, a persistent ringing in her ears, blocking out all noise.

'What happened? We were just on the final stretch of the trip…'

The first indication of brahmin shit was when she noticed she was lying on the hard rocks and sands.

In the middle of the scorching Day.

'...Crap.'

Scrambling to get onto her feet, the sudden vertigo didn't do so well with her stomach, as Sandra expelled her lunch out, the acidic aftertaste of dried jerky and water lingering in her throat. Wobbling to the left and right, her foot caught on the body lying next to her.

One whose neck was twisted in the wrong way.

If laying in the sweltering heat had tipped her off, Marcel's corpse was the figurative cazador that indicated things had gone horribly wrong.

'Where is it?! Where is it?!' Sandra thought to herself, hurriedly searching the sands for her hunting rifle, knowing full well that whatever had attacked them, was going to be on her soon. With shaky hands, the furnished wooden stock was a small comfort in the shitshow she was in now.

And as Sandra's vision and hearing cleared up, what she was greeted with wasn't the quiet desert that the caravan had been walking through. Dangerous in its own way, but quiet all the while.

Instead, that same quiet desert had been transformed into a scene out of an Old World place Dad called Hell.

Bodies, everywhere. Blearily looking left to right, it seemed the landscape was littered with the remains of corpses, the sands decorated with viscera and guts. Crimson red as well, as the buckets of blood seeped into the ground. And the smell…

Sandra could only dry heave, as the smell slammed into her, the metallic tang of rusted metal mixing in with the foul stench of shit and piss; remnants of numerous meals being laid out in the blistering Sun.

Sandra wasn't a stranger to death. Her hands had bled by the time she had buried Dad in the dirt, close to the well nearby. The raider corpses had been hefted to the nearby gecko nest, the bodies gone by the next day.

But never had she dealt with such a sheer scale and depravity of… death.

It took her a solid few minutes before she had finished dry heaving, consciously trying to breathe through her mouth. Wiping her mouth with a grimace, Sandra shook her head, directing her attention to the caravan down the hill.

'Right. Ok, Sandra. Get off the ground, and start moving. Salvage whatever we can, and get the fuck outta here.'

Crouching to the ground, Sandra tried to push the feelings of guilt down, as she patted down Marcel, taking care to ignore the wide eyes of dismay on his face. It took her a while but she managed to find a 10mm pistol, some ammunition, one stimpak, and most importantly, the worn-out key for the cap stash.

'He doesn't need it anymore. Would have done the same if it were me.'

Still… it felt like a disservice to the man who had possibly saved her from the explosion. One who had given her the chance to save her family.

Sandra took a moment to close his eyes, before standing up.

Step by step, she passed through the slaughterhouse, scanning the corpses for any movement. She didn't need Mentats to know these were raiders, judging by the crude armor some of them wore. Numerous weapons, ranging from rusty machetes to centuries-old firearms, littered the ground. She didn't dare take any of them. More likely, they would blow up in her face.

"Kill… me."

Pointing her rifle to the road, Sandra couldn't help but shudder.

He looked to be about her age, someone rather young. The only difference was that right now, he didn't have much time left. Especially since his lower part was a good distance away from him, a trail of guts marking the distance he had dragged himself from.

It was a waste of precious ammo. The raider was going to be dead in the next minute or so.

But the screams and moans…

Her hands shaking, she made her decision.

---

Approaching the caravan, the gunshot that sounded out forced her to the ground, the bullet impacting a few feet in front of her.

"Stay back! We're armed!"

While she wasn't close with the rest of the caravan, she did recognize that voice. "For fuck sake, Toledo! It's me, Sandra! Don't shoot!"

For a moment, the caravaneers paused, lowering their weapons slightly.

"Sandra? You're alive?!" Toledo voiced with dismay before shaking his head. "Nevermind that, get over here!"

Passing by the dead brahmin over the sides of the road, she couldn't help notice that the surviving caravaneers seemed to be hiding behind the Brahmin corpses for dear life. Payne silently screamed into a rag, as Mary tried to staunch the bleeding near the torso.

"You're one lucky bastard to have survived that explosion, where's Marcel?"

"Dead. Broke his neck, saving me." Sandra despondently replied, noting that there were only four people she could see still alive. "What about you?"

"Fuck! I was hoping you wouldn't say that." Toledo pursed his lips, before gesturing to the others. "There's only five of us left, six including you. Crunell took the easy way out." Toledo said, pointing to the headless corpse she had passed by. "Was hoping that Marcel would know what to do."

"So why are we hiding behind here? We need to get off the road immediately, see if we can get to Two Sun before any remaining raiders come back."

"We can't!" Vinmo exclaimed, shaking like a Jet junkie. "Not with the flying machines still in play!"

Apparently, Sandra had missed a whole lot while she was knocked out.

"Wait. Wait. Wait. What the fuck are you talking about, Vinmo?" Sandra asked, trying to piece together what was going on. "Toledo?"

"You didn't hear it?!" Toledo spoke with disbelief, as if she was blind. "Them flying machines?! Tore through the raiders like a Deathclaw! It's gone now, but we don't know if it's coming back! I'm not moving till that thing is gone for good!"

Flying machines? Tore through people "like a deathclaw"?

Sandra swore she had heard about this from Marcel, during the first few days of the trip. She wracked her brain for any clues, but her memories came up short. Maybe if she had a few hours for her head to not feel like crap, she could recall what Marcel said.

But before she could say anything else, a loud voice, louder than anything she had heard before, rang out.

"Greetings! My name is Staff Sergeant Barnes. We're here to help you!"

---

AN: Apologies for the long time for the chapter. Several things came up that required my attention, which delayed the chapter.

Thank you to @Ferrum Bellator Warsmith for betaing a lot of the initial chapter out, especially the military stuff!

Song of the Day:
View: https://youtu.be/EpBjgQlT_jA

 

[t99_2020]

As he spoke out into the megaphone, Barnes had a flashback to his younger years.

During high school, Barnes had been assigned to make a book report, focused on Science Fiction. While he didn't remember the details, the main gist was some sort of analysis on how contemporary authors of the past viewed the future. For that report, he had decided to choose The Time Machine, by H.G. Wells.

What stuck him most, reading the book, was how Wells had depicted humanity far into the future. Shaped by time and influences to such a degree that what came after, couldn't be considered the same species.

While not as severe as the novel, Barnes couldn't help but compare the novel with what he was doing right now.

"Greetings! My name is Staff Sergeant Barnes. We're here to help you!"

Silence seemingly greeted him.

"This is your great plan?" Hahn asked in disbelief, backing down with a glare from Kingsley. All the while, Barnes continued his soft-ball approach.

"We're not here to hurt you! We saw that you were in trouble, and dealt with the bandits to save you! Let me be clear here, our intentions are peaceful!"

"Just leave us alone! You can take anything from the caravan! We don't want trouble!" A voice yelled out in fear. A middle-aged man, with a bit of a Southern twang, if his ears weren't deceiving him.

Two thoughts came to Barnes' mind:

'A caravan. Caravans are for selling goods. There could be an economy here."

'Oh thank God they actually speak English.'

"Sir! We genuinely don't want anything from you!" Barnes' muffled voice emanating behind the gas mask. "As it stands, I'm pretty sure our flying machine is worth more money than every item in that caravan, combined."

The survivors were silent again.

"TOC, what are the survivors doing?"

"Appears that they're conversing with each other. Weapons in hand, but they're not appearing to make a last stand. Shellshock is the most likely factor. Of particular interest is that one of the survivors is bleeding heavily. Wound is being staunched, but further medical treatment will be required for prolonged survival."

There was his avenue of approach.

"Acknowledged. Keep the drones on them and the surrounding areas. Report if they're planning drastic measures. ."

"Will do, Yankee Six Bravo. TOC out."

Five minutes later, the survivors hadn't moved from behind cover, not even attempting to peak their heads over the mutated cows' corpses. Barnes was about to contact TOC again for an update, when the same man asked a question.

"You're not joking?! This isn't a trick?!"

"This is not a trick sir! We've withdrawn our flying machine from the area. That machine was deployed to kill the bandits that were attacking your caravan. We're not here to do any harm. In fact, we're willing to send down a few doctors on hand, to help with the wounded!"

"Y'ALL HAVE DOCTORS?!" A woman's voice exclaimed from behind the carcasses, disbelief and hope emanating. "YA GOTTA HURRY!"

"Don't worry ma'am. We have doctors and plenty of medical supplies on hand." Barnes confirmed, mentally preparing for what he was about to say. Because if there was one aspect of America that could survive the apocalypse, it was this aspect. Speaking slowly, so as to prevent any misunderstandings, he cringed at the sentence leaving his mouth.

"But in order for us to be able to safely administer such treatment, we need you to disarm yourselves. Guns, knives, explosives, anything that can be considered a weapon. If we cannot guarantee the safety of our men, we cannot in good faith move in to help you. "

This time, there were a few hushed, yet dismayed voices coming from his own men.

"This ain't going to work."

"Wouldn't be dumb enough to surrender their weapons in this environment…"

"Should we wait for backup?"

"Everybody, quiet down!" Barnes interrupted the discussions, daring anyone to start up again with a short glare. "No matter how improbable the possibility is, I'm sure as hell not leaving anybody here in a bodybag! We do this the right way, or we don't give them aid at all. Not until Doc and the rest ain't at risk of taking one to the head."

With the men quieted down, Barnes started to play the waiting game. At first, it did seem like Barnes' idea wasn't going to work.

"WE SURE AS SHIT AIN'T GOING TO-" The gruff and weathered man, in stark contrast to the fear from the first, seemed to cut out before he could finish his thoughts. Again, Barnes was left with nothing but the crackles from the fires still emanating up ahead of the road.

"You sure they're going to fold this easily?"

"Honestly Kingsley? Not sure." Barnes murmured back. "But alongside the wounded, I'm betting that most caravans need large amounts of water for the trip. Especially considering how hot it gets during the afternoons."

Barnes pointed to one of the beasts of burden that had gone off the road, visible to all. In contrast to the numerous boxes and goods strapped on the others, this mutated two-headed cow was the only one to carry a large cylindrical container on its back. One which was leaking water at an alarming rate, due to the numerous bullet holes that had been carved out.

"Judging by how wet that sand is now, that's their water supply gone. With their casualties, if the creepy crawlies don't kill them, the dehydration will."

"Gotta admit, it does make sense, even if it's a bit cold."

"It's the truth. Either they continue to lose more people and perish in the desert, or they take a chance that we truly are helping them."

But before Kingsley could respond, Dyer yelled out.

"Movement!"

In an instant, every gun was trained on the figure emerging from behind the carcasses. Swiftly putting up his binoculars, Barnes was able to get a first look at a post-nuclear survivor. And with one glance, all those preconceptions of what survivors would look like were permanently put to rest.

No mutated monstrosity emerged, having three eyes, or bulbous tumors growing from the face. Instead, it was a young woman who wouldn't have looked out of place in the Southwest.

Two braided ponytails flowed down the red, long-sleeved shirt, covered by a brown cowboy hat. Complimenting that, were the pair of weathered blue jeans and brown boots that she also wore. Physically, she didn't look bad either. A thin but tanned face, but nothing to suggest starvation. And while not overtly muscular, the girl had real strength.

Prominently highlighted by the various weapons she carried in her arms.

With slow and steady steps from behind cover, the girl winced and froze for a moment.

"We're not going to shoot. Place the weapons on the ground, and keep a good distance away from the weapons!"

With that encouragement, the girl sidestepped the various bandit corpses, arriving at the edge of the road. Crouching to the ground, she dropped the weapons gently, as well as putting a sack to the side. Opening it up, Barnes could see numerous knives and blades.

"You're doing great! As a precaution, are you certain that these are all the weapons on hand?"

"Yes! Everything is here!" She yelled out.

'Definitely late teens. Jesus.'

Sunshine and rainbows at the endgame. Now, it was a matter of whether or not the survivors were hiding anything else.

"TOC, are there any weapons being held by the survivors in cover?"

For a brief moment, Barnes was afraid to hear what Lambert was about to say. Until she confirmed that the girl was telling the truth.

"Negative. All survivors have relinquished weapons."

"Copy that. Moving in to assist with survivors. Yankee Six Bravo, out."

Hanging up the radio, Barnes addressed the squad.

"Listen up! We have the go-ahead to assist! This is a First Contact scenario. What happens here will dictate all future operations in the area. So be on your best fucking behavior. Hell, treat them like the Goddamn President, if that's what it takes. And remember…" Barnes stressed the last word.

"No mentions of affiliations to the United States. We are the Prometheus Force, nothing more, nothing less." Barnes stated, gesturing to the new patches placed onto the uniforms.

"Any questions?"

---

Sandra couldn't help but shiver.

Was it the explosion, or was it the decision that she had made, Sandra wasn't sure. Since she had been the tie-breaker for whether or not to listen to this Barnes, she had volunteered to honor the deal.

Far as Sandra could see it, if these people had been here to kill them, there was already no chance. The remains of the raiders were proof enough. And while she had heard of raiders trying to trick people into giving up, no raiders would have been so deceptive if they had this much firepower.

Still, it was a bit of relief not to get shot when she had emerged from behind the brahmin.

As the figures got closer and closer, it was apparent to Sandra that whoever these people were?

They were something completely different from raiders.

For one, what they wore seemed to blend in with the surrounding desert, a mixture of tan and brown, with a hint of green mixed in. By the time she realized her eyes weren't playing tricks, they were already halfway across the field.

Second, rather than a chaotic and messy sprint to the caravan, like what most raiders liked to do, these figures marched with purpose, spread out in a specific pattern that she couldn't put a finger on. Guns at the ready, they seemed to sweep the area with an almost machine-like precision, each person supported by the rest.

In fact, if she were to guess, they almost operated like-.

Sandra slapped her face with her palm. Of course they acted like soldiers, because they were soldiers.

But new answers brought forth new questions. Just who were these soldiers? Sandra hadn't heard of any military that was operating in this area. Caesar's Legion tended to wear red, while the rumored NCR was simply too far West to be here. And none of those armies seemed to have such access to the firepower that was unleashed on the raiders up ahead.

For once in her life, Sandra cursed her crappy memory. Marcel definitely had said something about this during the beginning of the trip. But as it was, those days were like a fog, seemingly vanishing from her memory.

But before she could wrack her memories futilely, the first of the soldiers appeared, climbing over the steep hill.

In the markets of Rohead, Sandra had seen a few items that seemed to date back before the Great War. One of the items for sale was something called a gas mask. According to the old lady, it was something that could protect against the elements, such as desert storms or radiation. It was a bit too expensive, about three hundred caps, so she had left it back in Rohead.

Evidently, whoever these soldiers were, such monetary concerns didn't apply to them.

Gas masks adorned the faces of each soldier, the whole of the head being sealed from the outside elements. Aside from height, each soldier couldn't be differentiated from one another, each carrying so many pouches and items on their front. And the weapons…

Sandra may have been a bit of a gun nut, but she couldn't help but feel that Toledo would be boggling at what they carried. Brown in color, there wasn't a hint of rust, or disrepair whatsoever. In fact, they looked brand new, as if they had been made before the Great War.

"Ma'am. Ma'am!"

It was then that Sandra realized that she had kind of dazed off, ogling at the sleek and smooth design of the rifles on hand.

"Yes?" Sandra stared into the eyes of the lead soldier, who was at least a head taller than she was. She noticed that the gas mask revealed the soldier's eyebrows, which were furrowed in concern.

"While I would love to do introductions, your group said there were some severe injuries?"

"Yeah, yeah." Sandra felt like the words were coming out wrong. "Mary was able to staunch the bleeding from Payne, but without further treatment, he's not going to make it to the night."

"Concerning, but I think we can deal with it. Would you mind taking us to them?"

"Su- sure."

It didn't take long for Sandra to guide the soldiers to where the survivors were held up, judging by the muffled screams that Payne was emitting. At the sound of the boots on the pavement, Toledo's head popped up, eye widening at the soldiers. Then, he directed his attention to Sandra.

"You know. I was half expecting Sandra to be dead. So the fact that she's still alive is encouraging. Though I will admit…" Toledo's eyebrows furrowed at the soldiers behind Sandra. "I'm not entirely happy to be meeting the ones who tore an entire raider group to pieces."

"I understand your concerns, but I feel that there are more pressing matters with Payne over there." The soldier pointed to the wounded man in question, whom Mary was holding his hand, looking at the soldiers with fragile hope.

Toledo sighed. "Not sure how you're going to go about this. Not unless you have a stimpa-" Toledo's words were caught in his mouth, as he stared at the syringe that one of the soldiers had pulled out.

"Huh. So that's what they're called." The soldier in question murmured.

"Doc. Get this Payne fellow back up on his feet. Do the usual afterwards."

"Affirmative."

With those orders, the soldier-doctor moved towards Payne, saying a few encouragements to Mary, before plunging the stimpak into the wounded area. Immediately, Payne stopped screaming, as he started to breathe easier.

Blinking rapidly, Toledo was helpful in conveying what Sandra felt.

"Just like that."

"Like what?" The first soldier asked.

"Those stimpaks cost like two hundred caps a pop. And you just used it up without a second thought. Who the hell are you?!"

Attaching his weapon to the front of his chest, Sandra could see the soldier straighten his back, as if he was about to deliver something important.

"I'm Staff Sergeant Barnes." Barnes slapped his shoulder, giving both Sandra and Toledo a look. The image was that of a torch, the three flames burning in unison.

"And we're part of the Prometheus Force."

---

AN: For reference, this is the image that Barnes is referring to, subtracting the blue and white colors for camouflage.

As always, thanks to @Ferrum Bellator Warsmith for looking over the first half!

Song of the Day:


View: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RQxuvdVg7ZY

 

[t99_2020]

For a moment, Sandra shook her head, wondering if what she was witnessing was just some weird Jet and Psycho trip.

After a shake, no it wasn't. This was actually real.

"There you go." The soldier-doctor, who had called himself Specialist Yang, handed Payne a canteen. "These stimpaks make my job easier, but I'd advise a bit of rest, as well as food and water for the next few days. Other than that, you'll be alright."

"Huh…" Payne smacked his lips. According to Yang, dehydration from stimpaks was a common side effect. "Gotta admit, I didn't really think I would still be alive. So thanks for the save, I owe you one."

"Just doing my job, that's all."

"Brahmin shit! If this is what you call a job…" Payne opened the canteen, before gulping down the fluids. Widening his eyes, Payne chugged down the canteens before gasping for air, staring at Yang. "Is this actually clean water!?"

While the doctor continued to answer the surprised caravanner, Sandra directed her attention to the rest of the soldiers. A few were still scanning the surroundings, with their beautiful crafts of art, as if daring any raider to come out and fight. Most were lifting the supplies from the brahmin, organizing them into a neat pile. Gunshots rang out, finally putting the surviving brahmin out of their misery.

But what was of interest to her, was the conversation that was taking place right next to her. Toledo, having taken charge as the most experienced caravanner, was asked the pressing issue at hand with Barnes.

"I'm sorry if this sounds a bit too early, but how would you like us to treat your fellow deceased?"

"Deceased?" Toledo asked, confused at the new word.

"Dead. We apologize for not getting here sooner. It's possible that we could have saved more lives."

"Bah." Toledo brushed the statement off. "You don't have to apologize for that. Most raider attacks don't leave many survivors. And let me tell you, you're better off dead than if you're taken alive."

Toledo shuddered for a moment in disgust. "That's a fate I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy. So the fact that we're still breathing and free, is something that we can never pay back. As for them?"

Toledo sighed, looking at the black bags laid out on the ground, as another body was stuffed into another bag by a pair of soldiers. "You're definitely new to these parts, cause out here? You're lucky if you get a dugged grave. We just see what stuff they have on them, and leave them for the critters. They would have done the same for us."

"I see." Barnes neutrally stated. "So what's your group's decision?"

Toledo glanced at Sandra and the others in earshot.

"Leave em'. Ain't that much space in those flying machines." Vinmo stated, shrugging his shoulders. "Unless you got some other fancy machines out there, we aren't moving anywhere."

"Makes sense, if a bit crude." Sandra tried to keep her emotions in check as she spoke. While Marcel was supposed to be her boss, she couldn't help but feel a pang of guilt. The man had allowed her to get settled into the caravan life. Strict but fair, it felt like a disservice for him to be struck down so unceremoniously.

Especially since he had potentially saved her life.

"And even if you did have more of those… helicopters," Payne pronounced the strange word slowly. "How are we even supposed to get to Two-Sun in this state? Over half the caravan's dead, and those goods are going to be impossible to carry."

"Well, you've heard them." Toledo said to Barnes. "If we want to get to Two-Sun, and salvage this caravan, we're going to have to leave the bodies."

"Actually… we may not have to."

"Wha- what do you mean?" Mary cautiously asked, seemingly connected to the waist with Payne. Evidently, a near-death experience had made the couple's bond even stronger.

"Well, we actually do have more vehicles in storage. In fact, there's a few… cars that are on their way here."

"Cars, you mean like the ones before the War?!" Vinmoe exclaimed, pointing to the dying flames emitting from the wrecks up ahead. "Actual working cars?!"

"That's the closest term that I can describe them. And yes, they do work."

In contrast to the wonder in Vinmoe's eyes, Toledo creased his eyebrows in concern. "And what do you plan to do with these… cars? Cause while we're glad for your help, let's just say that there are many raider groups out there that'll slit your throat when you're sleeping."

Barnes put up his hands, his eyes widening behind the gas mask. "Nothing like that Mr. Toledo-.

"Eh.. don't call me that. Makes me feel like one of them nasty bigwigs."

"As I've stated earlier, the Prometheus Force is not your enemy. The cars are there to give you options. In fact, these options will be helpful in completing this caravan contract you have."

For a moment, Toledo was silent.

"...Continue."

"There's two options that are open to us." Barnes put two of his fingers up, clad in black gloves that seemed to shine in the Sun. "One, when the cars get here, we load up all of the supplies and proceed down to Two-Sun. No harm, no fuss. You complete the contract, and we'll cover you all the way there."

"Seems reasonable. What's the second option?"

"When we load up, we can proceed back to our base. Now before you get worried…" Barnes stressed his words, stopping what Vinmoe and Mary were about to say.

"The base can act as a sort of rest stop. We'll provide you with food, water, shelter, medicine, and anything you need. Get you back on your feet, so to say. In about a week's time, the caravan can arrive in Two-Sun, just like option one."

"And what do you get out of this?" Toledo skeptically asked. "Sure ain't ever heard of a group that's willing to provide supplies for free. Not a single one."

"Well, there is one thing that we'd like to obtain."

Sandra couldn't help but hold her breath at that sentence. What did these soldiers want, when they had so much overall? They certainly didn't need weapons nor money, considering the carnage they had inflicted on the raiders.

Sandra was prepared to hear a dizzying amount of demands that these soldiers wanted.

What she wasn't expecting was a simple request.

"Information." Barnes stated casually. "Like you said, we are new to these parts, so the Prometheus Force is more than willing to pay for information. Locations, figures, advice? Good info will be rewarded. For instance…"

Barnes hefted his backpack to the ground, opening it up, before his hands grabbed onto an item, pulling it out.

Sandra wasn't sure what it was at first. Brown in color, the package wasn't made out of a material that Sandra was familiar with. Certainly not leather by how shiny it was. Luckily, she had been taught by her mother on how to read, as she could recognize the few words etched onto the front:

MRE
Meal, Ready-to-Eat, Individual

MENU 14
Mexican Style Rice and Bean Bowl

"This right here, is an MRE." Barnes pointed to the package. "You need a meal for when you're on the move? This will keep you full for the rest of the day. Beauty of these MREs is that they last for a while. I guarantee you that if you don't open the package up, they will stay good for the next few years. In this Wasteland, I don't need to tell you that these are going to fetch a hefty price."

Sandra didn't need to look to know that the remaining caravanners were suddenly now interested in what Barnes had to say, herself included.

"If you decide to choose option two, payment of crates of MREs is something that is on the table. So…"

"What's your choice?"

A brief huddle, and a brief conversation.

That was all it took before Sandra and the others made their decision. Caps were the way for the Connor family to survive. And well?

Sandra knew when there was an opportunity to make caps.

As well as sate that oh-so deadly curiosity she had about these soldiers.

---

It took a good few hours, but when the supporting convoy left, the ruined caravan had been picked over completely. Crates, bundles, anything of value had been carried over to the Black Hawk, ready for delivery back to base.

In short, the road that had been the site of carnage, was once again silent, the sun setting over the quiet desert.

That was, until the sound of engines filled the air.

The five JLTVs that emerged onto the road stopped, their occupants stepping out, weapons drawn. Overkill with the various weapons attached to the JLTVs, ranging from M2 Brownings, to M230 Chain Guns.

But as far as Agent Knight was concerned, one could never be too careful. Especially in such... foreign conditions.

"Remember, the eggheads want samples." Agent Knight said, ignoring the stuffy conditions of the CBRN gear he had on. "Blood samples, dental work, anything of that nature. Get them into the freezers quickly, because they've been rotting in the Sun for a while now. However, priority is to be given to relatively intact bodies. Place them in the ambulance."

"What about live ones?" One operator asked dispassionately, scanning the area for movement. "Could easily pull back to see if there's anything worth taking."

While the day's events had made time a concern, their veil of secrecy was the Prometheus Expedition's greatest weapon currently. Without access to the heavier equipment, Knight knew that Monroe's forces were in a vulnerable state.

And as it stood, interrogations wouldn't be happening in the near future. Not until Fort Ridgway was completely renovated up to modern standards.

So, Knight uttered two words.

"No witnesses."

---

AN: Trying to get a more stable upload schedule, so this is a bit shorter than I would like. Next chapter should be larger.

There's one thing to note, the MRE has been completely stripped of anything related to the US government. Those words, are the only words.

Song of the Day:


View: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CX45pYvxDiA&list=PLD3MboLuMLE1nFTc1bFj3Sz2g6FhBdVKB&index=63

 

[t99_2020]

"RISE AND SHINE!" An electronic voice yelled out amidst Reveille blaring out for all to hear. "GET UP! GET UP! GET UP! TURN THE LIGHTS ON! ANOTHER BEAUTIFUL DAY IN UNCLE SAM'S ARMY, AND I SURE AIN'T LETTING YOU SORRY MAGGOTS RUIN IT!"

Amidst the scrambling for uniforms and groans from the rapidly awake soldiers of Fifth Platoon, Private First Class Sullivan of the 2nd Chemical Battalion couldn't help but wonder:

Who the fuck thought it was a great idea to let the unstable robots have the job to act as if they were drill sergeants from Basic?

Of course, the brass said it was something about getting accustomed to the strange bullshit that was going to be here. Amidst the killer robots and zombies, it was clear that this "dimension" wasn't going to be filled with hajis or Russians. Instead, it was going to be stuff that came straight out of B-movies from the 1950s.

Better they got surprised by the friendly tin cans that didn't have weapons, rather than the hostile ones that did outside.

Still, the novelty of the robotic drill sergeant had gotten old real quick. And while the remaining bots had impressive hearing, it didn't stop the nicknames from spreading like the plague.

Quickly putting on his boots, Sullivan glanced at his watch, which was now adjusted to this world's time. The trundle of new arrivals into the barracks, beelining for their bunks, confirmed his suspicions.

'4 AM. Shift in two hours .'

---

Sullivan had to admit, if there was one upside to this whole secret operation, it had to be how the portal had been located near Nellis.

Which meant food that tasted like, well… food.

His plate loaded up with Texas Hash, Italian Roasted Vegetable Mix, Scrambled Eggs covered in hot sauce, and an apple, Sullivan navigated through the mess hall.

A dreary color scheme of black and silver steel, the mess hall couldn't really be distinguished from the other sections of the bunker, apart from the small opening in the wall on the far side of the mess hall, where food was being served. Aside from where sunshine shone, the only lighting available were the dim ceiling lights that barely illuminated the room.

There were once those 13-starred US Flags that had been draped across the four walls, but those had been taken down, for health and safety reasons. Leaving behind a hall that had no soul, no proud history of the soldiers who had once occupied this bunker. Just a cold interior that felt more akin to a prison.

Combined with the fact that he knew that the whole facility had once been a mass grave, Sullivan couldn't help feeling a sense of unease and dread when inside the bunker.

Still, that dread and unease had been balanced out by the lively commotion that now filled the air. It had taken a good week to get the equipment into place, and Sullivan had seen the almost constant flow of crates that had to be placed in the refurbished freezers, but the mess hall had been a welcome change of pace from the MREs that they had been forced to eat here.

For now, it was quite empty, only a third of the hall being occupied by Fifth Platoon. Which meant that it was relatively easy to find where his unit was.

"There you are!" Eli Reed exclaimed, gesturing Sullivan to the table. A stocky man from Kansas, Reed was somewhat of a wiseass, quips and sarcasm being the norm when around him. Still, he was the closest friend Sullivan had in the unit, and while he could rely on the entire fire team, Reed was the one he trusted the most to have his back.

"What took you so long hogging all that food?"

"Oh you know, just trying to make sure that I'm full when we're out in the middle of a nuclear wasteland." Sullivan replied, rolling his eyes. "Not sure how tasty radiation is."

"Fair enough, but you gotta try the gourmet bugs out there." Reed started to spin his unique type of bullshit. "Certainly has a spicy taste, if rumors are to be believed…"

"Ok Reed." Myers, the resident grenadier, interrupted, seeing where this conversation was going. "We get it. This shift is going to be boring as hell. Sure won't be like the first week."

"That's what you say. After all, it's not like we're going to be cooking in the Sun, waiting for the sweet release of death."

"Bit harsh to name Fort Ridgway like that." Clayton, a soft-spoken man from Virginia, said. "Especially when this is our only refuge from the outside world."

"Well, it's a crappy home, I'll tell you that."

As Reed and the others started to go off on a tangent, Sullivan just rolled his eyes, digging into the food in front of him. Even if it was annoying at times, the banter between Sullivan and the others was so much better than the subdued mood when the team had first eaten here.

While the fumigation teams had come before them, cleaning the rooms of their previous occupants, items slipped through the cracks, so to say.

Such as the heart-shaped locket wedged between one of the bed frames that Sullivan had discovered. The silver color had long been tarnished by age, but what remained inside still was pristine. A black and white picture of a beautiful woman, proudly smiling in her Sunday's best, Sophia written on the side. Her face, frozen in time, unaware of the horrors of nuclear devastation.

Even Reed was quiet when he had brought the locket up to Sergeant Ingram. A reminder that the undead feral zombies that had roamed these halls, were once proud members of the United States Army, ready to defend their country from threats, foreign and domestic.

It was no wonder why many of the men had found it disconcerting that they were occupying quarters of long dead men, whose blood and guts had recently been cleaned off.

So, Sullivan was glad that Reed was able to keep the fire team's spirit up. Enough for them to make peace with the gruesome discoveries this world had in store for them.

"Still… it's going to be a bitch and a half to keep ourselves sane for this duration." Reed said, biting into a bagel. "No Wi-Fi, no cell phones, no PCs, nothing. All because they don't want this leaking out to the civvies. I mean, even if you do leak it…" Reed gestured to the hall they were in. "Who the hell is going to believe you? May as well storm Area 51, for the sake of it."

"Fair. But rules are rules, and well, you never know." Falls, their automatic rifleman, said, eating a bit of his hash. "Weirder shit has already happened, and I think the brass aren't taking chances."

"But that still leaves us stir crazy. I sure ain't playing poker again, not after that BS streak." Reed stated, eyebrows furrowed at Clayton, who simply just shrugged his shoulders.

"Actually, speaking on the subject of entertainment, I think I got something from Lewis a few days back that may break the boredom." Myers stated, a stupid grin on his face as he pulled out a book from his pack. One depicting a great battle between Two Demigods, Guilliman clashing with Mortarion.

WARHAMMER 40,000

IN THE GRIM DARKNESS OF THE FAR FUTURE THERE IS ONLY WAR

CORE BOOK

"No fucking way…"

"Wha- how long has he had that?!"

"You've got to be kidding me." Clayton spoke in a deadpan tone. "Do we even have dice?"

"Not yet." Myers stated. "Which is why I'm tasking you jackasses to find any dice from the other squads. Lewis is expecting this back in two weeks, so get to it when we have the time."

It was then the loud whistle interrupted all conversation.

"Alright! Two minutes!" Lieutenant Pazosky sounded out, the soldiers starting to pack up, several shoving the last bits of food into their mouths. "Report to the main gate at 0600 hours. You all have an hour to shit or shave, cause we aren't coming back until the next shift arrives."

"Well, we can always talk about this later." Myers said, before turning his head to Clayton. "Sooner or later, I will teach you how to play."

"Thanks, but no thanks. I have a few books that I want to catch up on."

"One day, Clayton. One day…" Myers replied, hefting Clayton to his feet.

Stomachs full of food, Sullivan and the others left the mess hall, dropping the dishes at the entrance of the mess hall.

Now, it was time for a world of sweat and pain, standing guard in a Nuclear Wasteland.

What fun.

---

AN: Not sure how accurate this is, but the vibes I want to convey is that of established boredom.

Song of the Day:


View: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=It7MrzMzMQ8

 

[t99_2020]

"Ladies and Gentlemen, we are now in possession of a Pandora's Box that will either secure American Hegemony for the next century, or will plunge us into the Third World War. May God have mercy on our souls."

• The President, addressing the Inner Circle after brief presentation of potential of Fusion Cores

---

Standing in front of the massive cog-wheeled blast door, Sullivan had to admit no matter how shitty this US became?

The stuff they built was built to last.

"Good luck out there!" The gate operator exclaimed, before pulling the switch, drowning out any response, as the century old alarms started to blare out. Sullivan swore the little shit was doing it on purpose. Perhaps to stave off the boredom at the console.

The massive cog-shaped blast door, as always, screeched like a bat out of Hell, as it moved against its frame, sliding to the right. Thereby revealing the gray and silver chamber that led to the actual blast door. A two-layered solution, in case the primary blast door was compromised, according to the researchers.

Coincidentally, it served as the perfect decontamination site.

Stationed on both sides of the metal chamber were massive water tanks, filled to the brim with a water-boron mixture, each connected to the various tent showers set up. Next to the showers were vacuums, ready to clean up after every return excursion.

In addition to the various Chemical Corps teams, several eggheads, clad in white CBRN gear, roamed the hall, pens scribbling on the notepads they carried. Another fresh team had accompanied the platoon, carrying containers filled with replacement clothing and potassium iodide pills.

All in all, a slow and controlled process, ensuring that Sullivan and his squadmates weren't going to be puking their guts out from radiation poisoning. Even if there hadn't been any traces of radiation detected in the immediate surroundings.

Bit bullshit, but the brass weren't taking any chances, which Sullivan could appreciate the sentiment somewhat. Still didn't make guarding the sappers any easier, especially in a radioactive desert, either too hot or too cold, depending on the shift.

With the secondary door firmly closed, the main blast door opened up to the world outside, the rising sun drenching the world in a hue of red and orange. Several of the men covered their faces, their eyes not used to sudden sunlight.

"Alright then!" Pazosky addressed the platoon at the front. "You all know the drill by now. We'll be switching between guard duty and construction. Anything remote or strange, call it in. Water bladders will have to last for the entire shift. Long as none of you chucklefucks think Mountain Dew is water, we'll be back in time for chow. Now then…"

"Any last questions?"

---

"MOVE IT! MOVE IT!"

The empty silence, prominent in the desert beforehand, had given way to the sounds of construction.

Caterpillar excavators dug through the adobe rocks and dirt, while loaders carried the earth away, ready for disposal.

Nearby, where the locations had been fully prepared, teams of sappers, alongside elements of Fifth Platoon, scurried about like ants, working round the clock to build up the fortifications. Planks replaced the ground, while sandbags were positioned at the front, barbed wire stationed to disway would-be invaders.

All the while, Sullivan and the rest of the squad continued to look over the entire operation from one of the hills. Officially, guard duty was to ensure the work teams weren't ambushed by incoming hostiles, whether it be some mutated beast or some killer robot.

But in the two weeks Sullivan had been outside, there hadn't been a single incident. Well, besides the mutated wasps, Fifth Platoon not having the privilege of being in that battle.

All of which lead to a sense of, well…

Monotony.

All that initial excitement of being in a completely different dimension, in a top-secret mission that few knew about, had given way back to the experiences of just standing around, waiting for something to happen. Just like in Afghanistan, Iraq…

Or being stationed in the Middle East, in general.

Which meant that when Reed tapped his shoulder, Sullivan knew that it would break the boredom somewhat.

"So, would you rather have a sexbot, or a robot butler?"

…

Of course, this was Reed he was talking about.

"We've already had this conversation multiple times. I'm still not budging."

"Oh come on!" Reed exclaimed, his voice being drowned out by earth-moving vehicles. "Think of the possibilities!"

"Yeah, and I'd rather not have my dick snapped in half, because the bot decided to malfunction."

"Alright then, smartass. Make your case for the butler."

"Fine. I'll play along." Sullivan replied back, rolling his eyes. "You get a robot butler? Your schedule just got a whole lot easier. Cleaning the dishes, prepping meals, washing the car, mowing the lawn. You name it, it probably will be able to do it. Less time needed for chores, and more time to do what you want. And most importantly…"

"What? Spit it out, I don't got all day."

"No need to pay their salary. I mean, what does a robot need money for, repairs?" Sullivan snorted in amusement, the image of one of those Gutsies trying to fix itself coming to mind. "All the benefits of an actual butler, without any of the costs."

Reed remained silent, processing what Sullivan just said. While he couldn't see his face, Sullivan knew silence meant only one thing for Reed.

"Jesus Christ, you just realized that?!"

"... Fuck you."

"Ah, same to you as well." Sullivan said with a shiteating grin on his face, as he won this little game of theirs.

Whatever happened in this nuclear hellscape, he could alway count on Reed to make the hours go by.

---

In the shade of the parked bulldozer, on break, Sullivan sipped from his water bladder. Helping the sappers, in this weather, was exhausting, to say the least.

But looking down from atop the hill, the results were hard to deny.

In the eight hours since their shift began, a good four miles had been transformed into a network of trenches, more akin to something from the First World War. Front line trenches led back to numerous support and reserve trenches. Parapets, towering high with sandbags, protected the front, while parados shielded the back from artillery fire.

And of course, enough firepower to protect it all.

The concrete pillboxes would need some time to be set up, but the newly formed MG nests, firebays, and sniper posts were easy to distinguish, the number of sandbags prominent amongst those positions. By next week, this would be the most heavily fortified region on this Earth.

"So, where do you think we are?"

Sullivan turned towards Clayton, his musings interrupted.

"Well, we're in some prime real estate over here, if you ignore the radiation filled sk-"

"I'm being serious here, Reed. It's clear we're still in the US. Just not the right one."

"Well, if you want an actual answer," Falls started, putting his hand up to his chin. "I'd reckon we're somewhere in the Southwest. No ocean for miles on end, if the flyboys are right, and it's hot as Hell here."

"Sure is a long way from Virginia…" Clayton muttered out loud. Something that caught the attention of all the members of the squad.

"What, already homesick? We just started this tour."

"Not homesick. It's just…" Clayton paused for a moment, needing some time to form the words in his mind. "My family lives in Fredericksburg. Not that far from DC."

Just like that, the mood turned somber real quick. It didn't take a genius to where Clayton was going with this.

"It is a bit much to think about, isn't it." Reed said, no hint of the jokester present. "Maybe the blast wouldn't reach that far."

"No. It would reach that far, although I appreciate the sentiment." Clayton nodded to Reed. "If DC isn't saturated in nuclear isotopes, then it's not a nuclear war. Frankly, I'm not sure it would be better if my family actually survived. I mean…" Clayton gestured out into the distance. "Would you want them to survive day by day in this?"

And to his shock, Sullivan couldn't find himself denying that rhetorical question.

Maw and Paw, alongside his sister, Gianna. Who had such a cute little baby named Chloe, two years to be exact. It felt… unimaginable, to think of them having to scurry about, hoping that they could scrounge up enough food for the day. A breakdown of society, as neighbors and friends turned on one another, all in the name of survival.

The True End of the World, not created by the Lord Almighty, but by Man itself.

"Never thought about it like that." Myers said. "But it's not likely we'll be in the same situation. Certainly if we're not as batshit crazy as this US."

"But, it still happened in this world, didn't it?" Clayton asked somberly. "Could easily happen back home. Just takes one mistake, or one tinpot dictator, and that's that."

With that final sentence, the squad settled into an uneasy silence, before they were called back up for construction work.

Sullivan… he needed to send a letter to his family. Anything to tell them that he was alright, that he loved them so much.

It took him a solid two hours, before he finally went to sleep, uneasily.

---

AN: Let me say this up front: this last part was not easy for me to write. Fallout, for all of its goofiness, is all based on one of the most plausible end of the world scenarios we currently have.

I happen to live near the Capital, and I am not that naive to hope for survival. If I'm lucky, I won't feel a thing from the canned sunshine.

So on that morbid note, let the story continue!

Song of the Day:


View: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HsM_VmN6ytk