The Way Home

by Vault Buster

The Drifter; a boy in a life where what was youthful innocence is gone, he strives to keep a final wish that belonged to a close friend alive by maintaining a fully-independent New Vegas. Fate has it out for him though as he is transported to a world where his legendary status no longer matters as everything returns to zero.

/Mojave Wasteland, Nevada/

"Heading is my 9 O'clock—over there along the defilade." Mancuso spoke as his binoculars encountered a view of an entire cohort of Legion being illuminated by moonlight. They're crossing a large dune that had the remains of a tourist trap town. The small dip in elevation provided cover from being discovered and would keep the Legionnaires relatively safe incase a stray fight does occur.

"Check'em. I got full view... Holy hell that's a ton of them!" Dallas whispered. His rifle was a service standard M16 with a scope attached. The sand simply slid off the rifle as he was ready to take a shot. Just one or two would do. Every seventy-two hours, pick off one of them and then retreat. They weren't going to stop them entirely but to start a little psyops was more than enough to keep them on edge every day.

The Legion after the Battle of Hoover Dam was over. Both NCR and the Legion were forced out of the region. NCR was left better off with only the mass graves and bitterness that they earned compared to the Legions complete destruction. Half of their forces were pushed west. Stuck in an in-between of a NCR and Independent Vegas bufferzone. Both parties agreed to keep this land as neutral grounds and hounded down the legion to where barely a contubernia was able to get out. Those last few soldiers were able to escape successfully to their easterly brothers. Unfortunately, they're now hounded by the Independent Vegas where constant skirmishes were inevitable if any deployment was sent. Be it a basic patrol or simple exercises. There was bound to be conflict. Today, they're husks of what was a major force in the Mojave as Vegas serves as a looming boogeyman with constant small attacks to force the enemy into ever defensive positions. Vegas knew that the Legion would be strapped. They thought they were to go all-in and risk an offensive, or they would collapse under their own weight. Vegas hoped for the latter to keep from dirtying their hands. But what happened was something that was extraordinary for something like the Legion to do.

The Legion attempted to modernize. This was new to both Vegas and the NCR, and as of now they were in a quasi-state of using relatively modern weapons for their standard issue and tossed away their Football gear with metal plates with loose ceramic from old tableware and tiling to act as its own composite armor. Vegas has ever so kept a watchful eye…

"I don't see a flag carrier no more." Mancuso cursed under his breath. "Did they have a doctrine change recently?"

"Maybe, probably this change just occurred within this week or so." Dallas had his scope trained on one of the soldiers marching in the standard stereotypical formation you would expect for a military based off of Roman Tactics. Their gear looked slightly different, but this was probably them just trying to emulate standard combat armor—but with their own twist, "We might as well include it in the report though. It might be only in date for a couple of days before they start messing around again."

"Damn, that sucks. Usually hitting the flag-carrier was essentially their moral support. Nothing better than to break their 'feel-good' man. Good to know they barely have any idea on what to do with formations yet." Mancuso spoke with a wry grin, "You ready to take the shot?"

"Affirmative." Dallas fired and within less of a second, the pointman had a bullet strike his neck. With an entry wound that cut clean through, and an exit wound that turned his nape into a visceral mess, "Gone." Dallas nonchalantly said. With that first shot the men down below instantly scattered into what resembled a messy modern formation and took whatever cover they could, completely frozen as some of the soldiers peeked their heads out to spot a target they never caught. Minutes passed as they deemed it to be clear but still took precaution. One young brave soldier rushed out and began dragging their pointmans body to cover, they realized that it was over as soon as the shot hit. He bled out within a minute. life had already left him.

/Big Mountain, Nevada/

"Losing the Courier was tough, but don't let that get to you. With all this responsibility on your shoulders and with you being so young. I feel you're trying to make up for it. I know he wanted you to be successful, but at your age, no one should hold that weight." Cass leaned against the cold metal table, a bottle of whiskey was her prime choice of relaxant, sleep inducer, pain reducer, disinfectant, you name it. She always claimed it had some health benefit short of curing cancer.

"Cass, I'm not asking for your opini—"

"I'm not giving you an opinion, it's called life advice. You've not even reached your twenties, and yet you're trying to do a job that's usually held by people with decades of experience. You might need to have someone take up for you because you're going need to take a break sooner or later." Cass took a long 'sip' from her bottle as the Think Tank bustled with advances that fed their pride everytime one was actually accepted and shipped off to Vegas for trials.

"Cass," the Drifter turned his head towards her, "I'm gonna admit it. You're right—hurts my pride to admit it. But it's true, probably I am way over my head; but I'll do good. I tagged along with people for so long that it's time I start my own adventure. Well—somewhat—an office isn't exactly the most exciting start, but 'least it's interesting on the grander scale."

"That's my boy!" Cass smiled and wrapped an arm around the Drifter and pulled him close, and whispered into his ear thoughtfully "You're actually listening."

Compared to before the Battle of Hoover Dam, Cass was always the rough, tough drunk of the group, yet seeing the Drifter, practically a child participate in Hoover Dam was something that never settled right her stomach as if she drank bad whiskey. After the Courier's death, she saw she had a gap to fill in the Drifter's life. The Courier was a role model, he wasn't the best, but he did what he could for people and the Drifter—as would teens do—stuck to him as glue. Cass noticed and everyone in the party noticed. The idea of bringing a child along left a sour taste in the back of everyone's throat—unaware the Drifter had faced worst.

Cass smiled to the Drifter; loss of the Courier was still stuck to his skin and couldn't be easily washed away. "Ready to leave?" Cass smiled and looked towards the Drifter.

"Not yet Cass. I got more work to do." The Drifter turned to look at the bucket-of-brains work on their latest project. Cass' smile fell from her face.

"So you agree with me and then suddenly do a one-eighty and just shove yourself in that same old dingey closet of an 'office' and force yourself to work to the bone?" Cass' face completely contorted to utter disgust. Her hands clenched the neck of the bottle as she spread her feet as if ready for a standoff. "You listen here!" The Drifter's eyes widened. "I'm gonna assume you actually understand and listened to what I said. What you're doing is stupid. Actually enjoy your age while you have it! Chase some skirts, have a cute girlfriend, not work yourself to death! You were somehow able to make an entire country, yet look at you! Organizing your entire government and you not allowing yourself some kind of time for yourself!"

The Drifter allowed his hand to trace a figure-eight on the metal table, he had so much respect for Cass. Enough so that she could take advantage of him and he would fall for it. She was literally another mother for the Drifter and she knew it too. Hearing her scold him, and her getting this worked up over his state of being left a pain in his chest. He felt immature, he truly felt out of his element as if he was on a house of cards. He needed to think this through. Cass' gaze wouldn't lift off him either, adding onto the already heavy pressure on him. The Drifter kept avoiding her gaze feeling ashamed with himself.

Cass allowed a heavy sigh come through, "Listen, I'm worried about you. I know you don't act mopey—Thank God—but you always act as if you have a debt to pay. Just… Relax for once."

"Fine." The Drifter groaned. "I'll finish up the document I'm working on and actually go out for once. Happy?" The Drifter looked Cass in the eyes and pulled her into a hug.

"Now, now. I'll cover you." her hand rubbing the armored back of his duster. "I've been over your shoulder this entire time. I'm practically you now!" She smiled and pulled away from the hug. Maybe I really do need a break. The Drifter thought.

/Legion Cohort/

Being part of the test cohort was something that was filled with honor, they were the ones to be picked first for the most advanced Legionary developments, yet the idea of this invincibility came to a shattering halt. Primus Pilus Crispus was shot and killed, the night allowed them no actual ability to hunt down the perpetrators. Celsus clenched his fist, as they marched forward towards Rome, their new city. Anger welled inside for all men as they kept a continuous trek across the desert. A lot of these men here were either veterans or new recruits. The Veterans were the most so bitter, their glory days, their absolute strength was easily halved by two armies. This was something the younger, less experienced soldiers didn't understand. They were fighting for survival at this point. Their traditions that they have earned throughout the legion's history. Abandoned all for the sake of survival.

Celsus was only ever so lucky to be assigned to this cohort, something he took great pride in and something his father found to brag about. Of course this forever fed into his standoffish behavior and the idea of carrying a large Rockwell BigBazooka was something he even had more delight to brag about, even though use of it was a two man operation to facilitate faster reloads.

The march was supposed to be a simple exercise to practice cohesion among the cohort, sadly this didn't turn out as well as it did; with them following orders, any attack against this test cohort would force them to turn back, any casualties of course taken as well for a proper burial. They were simply too important to lose and each death was a major waste of resources.

Celsus was teamed up with a loader—Avilius—a nobody who's short of stature, yet a full beard black as coal was adorned on his face. Something very un-Romanlike. He was not very liked among those around him.

The eighty-four millimeter rocket launcher was slung lazily off of Celsus' back as the night was slowly turning to morning,that's when the unmistakable noise of a turboprop sounded through the air. The blades cut through the winds of the Mojave as the cohort scrambled into proper combat formation to prepare for a fight against a vertibird—a Vegas vertibird—Celsus smiled with vile glee as Avilius narrowed his eyes and scanned the horizon. Slinging the launcher to his shoulder, Avilius prepared the leather bag that carried four more rockets. The HE warhead inside Celsus' tube was ready as it finally came into view. It was a basic transport Vertibird based from it's silhouette. It was no hulking beast compared to it's combat ready brethren. It still would provide enough trouble with it's chin mounted fifty calibers with their own miniature astrodome to protect them. Unbeknownst to them, a ventral turret armed with twin fifties was modified to the aircraft.

The morning light still hadn't washed over, only the faint color of orange was on the horizon leaving them completely invisible to the unaware vertibird.

"Avilius, you see it too don't you?" Celsus whispered excitedly, "We can finally get revenge for what they did to our Primus Pilus!" There was no response from Avilius, Celsus was confused. Wasn't he actually happy that they could get revenge? Turning to look at the bearded man Celsus saw Avilius put a finger up to his lips as if to say "Be quiet!" Celsus clicked his tongue and turned forward, more silent than before.

The hum got louder and louder, full view of the Vertibird was here. Celsus grinned as he rose from a prone position to kneel. Avilius followed suit; standing beside Celsus away from the back blast.

"Clear." Celsus spoke as if he rehearsed it.

"Clear." Avilius echoed back.

He trained his eye through the sight, and aimed the launcher straight at the vertibird once he made acquisition he finally whispered, "Fire." and pulled the trigger.

Before the Vertibird could pass over, the eighty-four millimeter rocket shot off with a large flurry of pressure as the backblast shot out from behind leaving a very obvious vapor trail as the dumb-rocket flew straight towards the aircraft. The Vertibird instantly took notice of the missile and began to yaw hard to the left. There couldn't've been a better outcome. The rocket smashed and detonated into the right turboprop. A large plume of fire and a loud explosion encompassed the desert as the engine was torn to pieces, the side opening doors were unluckily left open leaving anybody shredded to pieces from the shrapnel and spall of the engine itself.

The cohort jumped and cheered. They have done it! They've downed it! It would've be a minor victory so long ago when the Legion was at its full strength—but now—this was like winning a battle! The element of surprise they had aided them in their victory and they were proud. Even the veterans felt utter pride at what they had just experienced. Looking at the flaming engine something felt off… The fire died. Little did they know, Vertibirds always came with automatic fire extinguishers, they usually needed to be refilled or the internal fire extinguishers needed to be replaced, most groups that had vertibirds usually fail to repair or replenish the fire extinguisher.

This Vertibird was lucky. Shutting power off to the dying engine, it allowed the auto rotation to carry itself and use the leftover power to keep lift on the rotors and this time, The ventral turret was coming into play. Pulling a full one-eighty, the ventral turret kept a steady aim on the legion soldiers. Within a second of being able to have a proper aim on the first Legion century it could see, a hail of fifty caliber rounds sailed through the air, both of the guns firing at blistering speeds. Tracers sliced through the wind as they started their quick retaliation against the cohort.

Every soldier attempted to disperse to keep the vertibird from having a clear focus of fire yet rounds still did hit their targets. Celsus and Avilius both ran their best, keeping a now more loose formation with their cohort. Tracer fire bounced around them finding no place to be able to sit still as there was a wall of lead at every turn. Amidst the confusion, Avilius ankle slipped to the side and caused him to trip—he was left behind unknowingly by Celsus.

Celsus' breath deepened to a hoarse wheeze as he felt the constant excitement wear down on his body. He thought death was near, but never expected it to be so close. Not even able to see his attacker, the legionaries' life-span was shortened to mere seconds. Feeling a large thump to his side, Celsus collapsed to the ground in a crumpled mess. A red froth formed at the corners of his lips as he felt his energy rapidly sap away. The final image that was ingrained into his mind was Avilius' concerned face.

Avilius caught up and saw his mutilated team member with his innards gruesomely displayed into the open air. A moment of terror hit him as his eyes widened before taking his launcher and running off. Celsus' now limp body was now merely a fixture that marked a battle that has taken place. With Legion protocol, he would thankfully get his last rites before being buried among those who have died before him.

/The Vertibird/

First Lieutenant Mackey felt at home on a Vertibird in fact, just aircraft in general made him feel at home. He could fly anything and passed his flight exams at Camp McCarran with flying colors (pun intended). He'd already made a name for himself among those pilots, new and old; they all had respect for him. Either it be his demeanor or his pure skill, he always pleased someone. But as of now, he was shuttling his VIP—the leader of his entire country—out of the middle of the desert. How'd he get there? Hell if I know... the thought resounded.

"Hey! Mind if I open the side doors, y'know to get some fresh air Mackey?" The Drifter's armored head popped into the cabin as the Radar operator was trying to troubleshoot a malfunction.

"Go ahead sir! I wouldn't mind it myself either." Mackey laughed as the Drifter said a quick thanks and headed back into the passenger bay. Something was off though, he turned to his right and looked at the Radar Operator with an confused look that was hidden behind the visor of his helmet.

"Something wrong Carson?" He said, taking a small look at what Carson was doing.

With an irritated sigh, Carson groaned. "Uh… Yeah. There's an issue. The ground radar is being iffy. It's sometimes picking up things that aren't even there. Probably just ground clutter." Looking at the radar's display. He saw multiple targets that flashed back and forth in random clumps. Not having a proper radar working was already one of their defenses completely gone, and with how dark it was outside they didn't like being blind at night. This was not even including the fact that they had to take a detour through Legion territory as they only had thirty minutes of fuel and the trip to go around legion territory was forty minutes. Overall this situation was actually shit after being caught on such short notice.

Sadly, little they knew, the radome that covered the radar was improperly maintained. The weld had gave away as it was sandblasted over time by the Mojave's unforgiving desert storms and finally called it quits mid-flight. Now the delicate internal systems had to deal with sand and the wind itself causing distortions on his display.

Carson could only clench his teeth at this, never before had this happened. With his history as being a great radar man, even when the NCR was forced out of Hoover Dam. He was one of the first to volunteer himself to finally push the NCR out of Vegas' lawn. With great technician skills and equally placed skills working with EWSM (Electronic Warfare Support Measures) he was able to use the Militarized Vertibird's radars to great effect against the NCR's already scarce supply of Air-to-air missiles. Besides this current mission, he now served primarily as an instructor and was damn good at it.

The Drifter could barely pick up the conversation, he wasn't even trying to listen. He just wanted some sleep. He was dead tired and sleeping on an aircraft was impossible and any rest to come would lead to back pain (even with a saturnite spine) yet with the props going he still took off his red-lensed helmet and set it beside him and cherished the wind blowing against his face. Even if the world was irradiated, he still felt the pleasure of actually leaving the smell of antiseptic and the constant bickering of the Think Tank to fully experience the world he known all his life again.

Something felt off. The crew completely hushed suddenly. The Drifter already felt unnerved by it, usually that meant something was wrong. Pulling his helmet back on his head, and pushing himself off his seat he asked, "Hey, is something wrong—oh shit!"

The Drifter and both crew members instantly noticed the glow of a rocket motor heading straight for them.

Instantaneously, Mackey slammed his yoke left and then back and caused the vertibird to almost snaproll, "Rolling left!" Mackey called out. Luck wasn't on their side though as they felt the full brunt of the force on their right turboprop. Shrapnel tore through the glass canopy and pelted the Drifter and Carson. A large chunk came through smashing Carson's helmet causing him to slump and his uniform slowly dyed to a shade of red. The Drifter—with nothing securing him to place—smashed into the entrance frame of the cockpit rattling his head, and was sucked back into the passenger bay to where he barely caught himself on the inner handle of the door as he hung daintily to the ground below.

Pulling himself back straight he was finally able to stand properly and closed both doors for fear of being sucked out and made his way to the cockpit. He instantly saw Carson's condition and cringed before unbuckling him from his seat and pushing his limp body into the passenger bay and took his seat.

"Carson's been hit pretty damn bad Mackey! I'm taking his spot!" The Drifter yelled over the sound of raging fire. The Drifter already had experience with a vertibird both pilot and Co-pilot seat. Mackey quickly, and efficiently set the right engine's throttle to zero, and pressed the automatic fire extinguishers. Moments later the fire was gone and the Drifter was ready to get to work.

"Take that remote control will you and use that turret." Mackey spoke concisely as he tried his best to stabilize the aircraft, Constantly adjusting trim in accordance to the amount of RPM loss he was getting from the dead engine.

"Alrighty—I guess this is what you're talkin' about." The Drifter said as he reached for what looked like a small TV panel that had an arm, that was stowed and could be freely moved around. On the small TV was a permanently attached remote and a camera for the ventral turret, beside the screen and on the frame was a switch that said 'LLTV'. Flipping it on he would have relative night vision. The camera was looking through a reflector sight for use by the gunner, and the small joystick was pushed to the right.

"Give'em hell!" Mackey growled as they retreated.

The Drifter offered no objections and rained a hail of fifty fire down range for all purpose to keep the Legion of making a second shot. He never realized how much of a good job he was doing when he actually scored a good amount of hits with the bursts he was providing. Even at that range he must've scored at least five to eight with all the men there.

Once he was sure he was out of range, only did the Drifter leave his station to go tend to Carson. Thankfully, the Vertibird didn't shake much after the initial excitement, but Carson still looked like hell. His suit was turning red and the impact that was left on his helmet didn't spell a good end for him.

The Drifter gingerly lifted the helmet as blood now began to flow more freely, Holy fuck. The Drifter cringed audibly. A large gash was present revealing part of his skull. Digging through his Pip-Boy, the Drifter dug through to find a Stimpak in an IV form and a bandage. Using the bandage, he wrapped it around the Radio Operator's head and began to have pressure applied to help stop the bleeding and then used the roll to tighten it around his head. Taking Carson's sleeve and pulling it up, the Drifter injected the small needle into his wrist and held the plastic bag above his head to allow the fluids to enter the injured man's body.

With a sigh of relief, he called out, "Mackey. I got him under some IV fluid. How's the Vertibird going."

Mackey already didn't like how this was going, the fire went out—thankfully—but they weren't making the rest of the ride back to Vegas. He could land just fine but he wasn't able to even leave Legion Territory, "To be honest, pretty shit." He internally clenched his teeth and watched as he could feel the Vertibird actually begin to tilt to the right, it was time to land and he had to do it—fast.

The Drifter barely nodded, "Good to know." He turned his attention back to Carson. Bleeding has seemingly halted for now. Any jerk or jostle from the Vertibird could instantly ruin that though and cause the massive bleeding to flow again to finally finish off the poor radar operator.

"Alright… Get ready. I need to land; keep hold on Carson." Mackey spoke. He took a deep breath as he readied himself. He's dealt with these kinds of landings before, the issue is he's never drawn this kind of flight this far before, he had less time to work with and stability was become a rising concern, that's not also the other concern. He was reaching his stall speed for when he wasn't in VTOL. The Transport Vertibird (CVB-05) had substantially longer wings by ten feet compared to it's militarized brother, the ACVB-03.

Mackey was thankful for that fact, the CVB-05 was an easier to fly puppy while keeping a rather nice speed thanks to the slight fifteen degree sweep on it's wings. He looked down at the speedometer, the aircraft was slowing down No regrets me. Do or die. Mackey took a deep breath and finally began to pitch down, losing altitude at a steady rate he deployed the tricycle landing gear.

Flying low, Mackey searched for a somewhere stable he could land, finally spotting a drive-through theater, he took his chances and made his final descent. The aircraft pulled back to kill the excess forward momentum, he allowed the vertibird to finally gently tap the ground before settling back down on the cracked and sun-bleached asphalt of the theater.

Flipping switches of his engine off he turned to look back at the Drifter, "I landed, I'm gonna call for another vertibird, we might just have to just scuttle this one so the Bulls can't get it." He turned back to his deck and pressed the SOS signal switch. Another Vertibird would arrive in at least twenty minutes. At least he hoped so.

The Drifter's gaze never left Carson, "I can't complain. We'll figure everything out after we get Carson some help. But for now, I need you to look after him. That radar should've detected those guys down there."

"I know, Carson was having random signatures pop up in random formations and couldn't detect the battalion below. Defective piece maybe?" Mackey grunted as he unbuckled himself from his seat. He crawled his way over to the passenger bay, taking the IV bag from the Drifter and took his spot as the armored Vault Dweller opened the shredded side door.

Lowering himself down to his belly to look under the Vertibird already suspecting a Radar defect, he was greeted with a situation worse than he thought. The entire radome protecting the intricate innards was gone completely. The internals were exposed to high winds and whipping sands that tore the radar apart. Anything that wasn't broke was covered in sand. A faint line of the outline of the broken weld was all that was left to show a radome even existed in the first place.

Reaching for a handle that no longer existed, the Drifter's hand slipped. Damnit. He finally pulled himself back up to the entrance floor of the Vertibird, "Well. If you hadn't said before that the thing wasn't working, I would've thought the radar was ripped apart by the rocket." Taking a few steps back the Drifter wanted to survey just how much damage was done to it, and well… To say the Vertibird still looked pretty was an overstatement.

The Vertibird was lucky to not lose the side door windows. But the panels themselves had next to no luck. Holes littered the fuselage and surprisingly enough, the entire aileron was was basically whittled down from it's aluminum skin to it's skeletonized form. The cockpit was badly beaten and the amount of shrapnel that tore through the right side of it was absolutely astonishing. Some of the entry points were almost the size of a small apple. This was evidence on how lucky Carson was to just be hit once.

He turned his head to the rest of the theater, there was a sky blue kiosk, it's paint was chipped from the harsh desert conditions, asphalt blasted to a yellow tinge and cars whose paint that was of a fruity bunch of colors have all rusted away becoming metal husks of once was. The Drifter saw this as home: Deadly, destructive, unforgiving—and the place he knew best. Which reminds me… Turning his head, He scanned the direction they came from.

Legion would more or less find them and try to kill them. He didn't like the idea of that. A whole battalion coming after two men can easily be suicide. He could manage if he retreated and setup traps. Or just use Power Armor. That was an idea he could get behind.

The Drifter pulled himself onto the totaled Vertibird, his boots clanging against the metal, "Is he doing good?"

Mackey didn't look up, "Yeah—guess so. He's not going to last like this. He'll need surgery before infection kicks in." Mackey spoke matter-of-factly with his leg crossed and foot bobbing. The IV was hung up on a small hook that stuck out that once served as coat hanger.

Mackey and the Drifter sat idly for minutes on end. Surely they should be here by now right? The Drifter looked outside. Fog had formed all around them. The orange sky now turned into a smoky haze. Even the ground was covered. The encroaching gas brushed against the Vertibird and whisked and swirled around the aircraft, the holes in the glass provided small entry points for the fog that expanded even more within the Vertibird.

"What the hell is this?" Mackey whispered as he saw the fog whisp around in front of his eyes. He looked to the Drifter as if expecting an answer and only got a shrug.

Acting as if he was scratching his chin, the Drifter gave the gas a quizzical glance, "I'm no meteorologist, but I'm pretty sure this ain't normal—at all."

"You aren't kidding." Mackey peered his head looking through the porthole window of the aircraft. Fog. Just fog. Literally nothing could be seen before a single bright ray of light shot through the thick mist.

The morning sky was no longer an amber color. A sharp light flushed the entire aircraft and area around them. The fog was gone and revealed that the Drive-in theater they were in was nowhere to be seen either.

The Drifter's hands fumbled with the latch and pulled the door to the side. Powdery sand covered the entire landscape. The asphalt from the drive-in theater completely disappeared without a trace. The large torn screen was nonexistent. Everything was gone. The Vertibird's wheels were already partially sunken into the sand as if it was like it had landed there.

Little they would know—extra company would come and greet them.

/Above Elven Country/

Luctiana felt absolute glee with her work and what should could find in her homeland! So many ancient savage artifacts were just littered all over the place. Large vessels with propellers on the front end, weird machines with two and sometimes four slots with a cord poking out and best of all. Her grandest discovery though, was a small device. It was a small black rectangle that after getting a bearing on how it worked she could operate it. Many new things she found: Music, images of environments she's never seen or knew existed. It was so wondrous! That was after digging though… She found some particularly racy images.

Flying through her usual route to the oasis she found something she would never expect to find—another flying vehicle. Though this one looked strange; instead of the usual long shape this one was rather… Fat—with five large rotary blades on each side.

This was the kicker for her though, it looked actually clean as if this was a new addition. New savages? The thought entered her excited head. A sharp mischievous smile formed on her lips as she pulled on the reigns of her dragon. She wanted that machine…

Landing was easy as was taking off for her dragon, reducing speed was simple and seemingly hovering in the air with grace was a sign of how well raised it was. It slowly lost altitude before it's feet settled in the baking sand.

She slid down the creature's back before her own boots landed on the ground and finally got her first good look at the mighty beast of a machine. Walking over, she allowed her hands to brush across the harsh surface. These holes—they were something she's never really ever seen before.

What happened here? Her mind wandered as she walked to the front. The glass was penetrated and sharp cracks were sprinkled everywhere, what caught her attention though was a seat to the left. Blood. Her mind instantly reasoned. Pushing her face closer to the glass, she heard two words behind her that she couldn't discern what they mean, but she could feel their venomous intent.

"Hands up…"

00-00

Been a long while since I last posted here. Actually, it's been almost a year or two since I last posted to my other story. Weird part is that that chapter was almost done too, but I kinda got into a rut. Now actually done with high school, I'll probably have less time to write chapters compared to when I was in high school.

This story here though I had for a fanfic for Familar of Zero I basically kept locked away for God knows how long. Either way, I dunno if you guys actually have an interest in something like this. I find it a bit wimpy, but at the least it's something. Hopefully I'll get more of The Long Road Ahead fixed up for that new chapter soon.