Bounty Hunters and Bomb Collars
By Draco Ranger
Please note, I do not own any of the characters nor am I making money off of them.
A hint of gunpowder drifted across the Mojave, bring with it a deluge of memories. A man, left for dead in a ditch. A warrior, attacking the invaders of a peaceful people. A scientist, wielding a barking machine gun, attacking a giant robotic scorpion. Ghosts, appearing out of a Cloud wielding spears and knives. A peace accord, interrupted by a nuclear launch and a bonsai charge. A twinge in an arm recalled a giant blade, slashing right to bone, before a countering quick thrust and a yielding sensation. A dull need for mentats urged reflection on long hours spent strung out on the midnight oil, traveling from armed camp to armed camp, attempting to prevent destruction to one of the most valuable discoveries left from the War. A grim smile, one that had graced many before their death, brought forth the thoughts of many a plan left in shambles, but one of peace triumphing over the rest.
The Bear and the Bull joined together, with a giant roulette wheel elevating them to the heavens. A robot, pledged to everlasting service, and a city to rule. A bunker full of allies and a fort of friends. Mutants rejoicing at their cure and towns at their delivery. Even a prison saw smiles, as one side agreed to reduce sentences and improve conditions, abet under the watchful eye of a nuclear bomb and a sniper's scope.
Tribes were opened to the outside world, junkies were forcibly reformed. Mongols were evacuated, the Kings protected the town. Soldiers were trained, Ghouls painted the moon pink. Rollercosters opened, and the Rangers never lost a fight. The Enclave made a comeback, and 15 followers crushed armies. Throughout all, a never ending stream of shell casings and stim-packs, along with a deluge of incoming fire and charging maniacs.
A thought slowly rose to the forefront of a brain,
"F*ck, I'm suffering withdrawal, again..."
A little known fact, mentat addiction causes out of body experiences and significant mental slowing. An arm descends and reaches into a pack, searching for said drug. A hand raises a small red pill to a mouth. Slowly chewing, a man starts to be able to think of himself as himself.
He thinks, "Still third person, but at least I can function. D*mn mentats." He rises, grabbing a rifle from the opening of a blind. Crossing to the entrance of the sniper post, I looked down the scope, searching for any raiders or other enemies. Satisfied that there is nothing to be worried about, the sniper returns to the front of the blind, waiting for a target that logic and intel indicates will be passing by.
"Boone, have you seen anything?" I inquire towards my ally, a highly skilled sniper who I recruited after helping him avenge his wife. He is in his late 20s, about 5'10", and blunt to a fault. I expect a negative and receive the same. For the past three days, Boone's extensive training as a spotter has been paying off. He barely blinks and takes not only his shifts, but double checks me on mine. It is rather boring out here, overlooking a solitary trail along the bottom of the Grand Canyon, but I'm committed to getting my target.
With a multi-thousand cap on his head and one of the most deadly individuals in the South-West possessing a strong urge to remove him from existence, the target needs to flee the area if he wants to live. Since he has few allies anywhere and this location is the only pathway to even possible safety, the target is guaranteed to pass through here towards the Big Empty, an ancient pre-War think tank. There, he might be able to hide in one of the research facilities and find a new location from whence to launch another attack.
The value on his head has lead to the greatest manhunt in recent history. The entire desert is crawling with bounty hunters in all directions. The Big Empty is one of the few places that is shut off to the world at large that the target may be able to reach without dying. Already, we have been forced to destroy other ambushers who predicted the same outcome. Each time we needed to hide the bodies to prevent the target from being spooked and prematurely alerted, a thankless and dangerous task which halves our manpower. While I respect one man's desire to make money by killing a criminal as much as the next guy, the target would have easily fended off the lead pipe wielding masses that were camped out here.
One time, it was as easy as sniping a lone assailant crouched high on a cliff. His body fell into the water and was washed downstream. No mess and no issues with hiding bodies for days on end, for once. Others have been harder. The worst was when an incompetent Jackal dropped a set of mines inside a camp they set up. The explosion was loud enough to wake the dead and the traces needed an artificial landslide to cover up. Just more fun with a Fat Man...
)()(
After hours of waiting, the sun finally sets, bringing with it relief from the desert heat. Boone officially takes over from me, remaining in the same position with the same level of concentration he has shown for the past hour. I lay back and get ready to sleep and relax.
Just as I am drifting off, Boone surprises me by beginning a conversation. "Why didn't you kill Caesar?" he quietly asks.
Surprised, I need a moment to come up with an acceptable answer. "He wasn't a threat and he is more useful administrating the South-Eastern States," I reply with bated breath. After Boone's wife was killed, he swore revenge against the Legion. We worked together to take them down on many an occasion, but I eventually convinced their leader to work as the governor of his lands under the NCR. I didn't realize that Boone still wants the man dead.
"That b*stard killed my wife, I want him dead," he replies, taking his eye away from the scope. I stand corrected.
While not technically true, I don't want to alienate one of the best marksmen I know. Carefully choosing my words, I reply "If we kill him, it will destroy any chance of his lands truly joining the NCR. I understand that you want his death, but nothing will damage the Legion more than his continued survival." Vaguely worried, I wait for his response.
Boone sighs and replies "Godd*mn it, I guess you're right," before turning back to his scope and stiffening. "I can see something out there!" he forcefully whispers, as I immediately drop into a prone position, and search for the tango. Moments later Boone speaks again. "265 degrees, along the path, about 350 meters," Boone calls out, fulfilling his duties as a spotter. I see an outline, dark against the water.
"Target identification?" I reply, attempting to see more than just an outline.
"Looks like an older man, he's wearing a robe, no visible weaponry," Boone rattles off.
I flick on the night vision on my scope, hoping for a better picture. Crackling into existence, I view the world through a green tinted lens. "He looks like the target. Right hair and stature." I reply.
"I have a bad feeling about this," Boone states. I second the feeling, For such a target to be out in the open is unusual. To be without any protection, in the form of armor, body guards, or doubles, is virtually impossible.
My subconscious agrees, momentarily making my throat itch.
"Let's wait and see what happens..." I reply, shifting from my bed to an over watch position to wait.
The possible target slowly walks forward, obviously terrified and jumpy. A few rocks fall, and he immediately turns and sprints off. I start to see a pulsing light through my scope. As it starts to pulse faster, the target slows, and begins to go the other way, obviously perturbed by the event.
Through my scope, I can't make out many features, but the target appears to be trembling. He raises a hand to his throat and the pulsing begins, before being momentarily cut off as he jerks his hand down.
Turning to Boone, I say "I think the guy's rigged with a bomb collar. He isn't the target."
Boone nods, and replies "Let's let him pass and see if a controller is bringing up the rear."
Minutes pass as the unfortunate with the bomb collar prepares to spring any ambushes, obviously praying that he lives through the night. Eventually he passes under us, and out of sight of his initial entry point.
Soon afterwards, Boone nudges me, and says, "Same place, guy in Power Armor with something sticking off of it."
Looking carefully, I confirm that the target is wearing Power Armor with what appear to be hologram projectors. "I think those are hologram projectors. if they are, we've got our man." I clarify. Only one person has the knowledge and resources to repurpose holograms for battle. Our target has shown up.
"How can we make sure he's the target?" Boone replies.
"Warning shot, and an armor piercing round as soon as those things turn on," I respond.
"Where?" Boone inquires.
"You aim for one of the mines those idiots left behind. I'll aim for a center of mass shot," I state.
"Got it," Boone says before flicking off the safety.
A moment passes, Boone fires. Almost instantly, an explosion occurs. Despite it being fairly far from the target, the hologram projectors light up, instantly searching for any enemies.
"Bingo..." I think, before squeezing the trigger.
The target jerks back and falls to the ground, clutching at his chest. At this range, we couldn't do anything for him, even if we wanted to. The target clutches at a stick or something, before falling slack, dead.
Looking at each other, we prepare to have a celebratory knuckle bump before being interrupted by a slow beeping sound from the canyon floor. Instead of reacting as any normal wastelander will to a sudden noise, priming an grenade and diving behind cover, we rapidly move towards the light source, close quarters weapons at the ready.
Boone pauses at the edge of the hide and points down. I nod and mentally prepare to slide down the edge of the Grand Canyon. After a moment, we burst out, heading to the pulsing light source. Comprehension dawns thanks to the mentats. The bomb collar. Remembering how long to would take for my collar to detonate, I estimate that we have 8 seconds left to save the wastelander. Holstering my weapons, I turn a tactical advance into a flat out sprint, then hurdle the edge of the canyon.
"FFFFFFFFUUUUUUUUUUUUCCCCCCC-" I shout on the way down, landing in deep water. I think I am uninjured from the fall and impact. Boone stops at the top of the canyon and begins to carefully slide down. Smart $$.
Activating VATS, a reflex boosting system, I manage to become reoriented within milliseconds and reach the wastelander within seconds. An intimate knowledge of bomb collar workings, installed by long hours of attempted escapes and honed by an surplus of slavers, will aid my attempt to defuse the collar within... 3 seconds. Crap.
The wastelander is gibbering with fear by this point, alternately pulling at his collar and soiling himself. He looks like he is going to attempt to fight me, out of reflex, so I activate VATS again. Ensuring that I will hit him with a Paralyzing Palm attack within the next second, and will have the inner workings of the collar open within the same time, I engage my attack.
Leaping towards the wastelander, I pull my right hand into a striking position and prepare my left to break the bomb casing. This will cause an immediate start to the countdown, but it's not as if that matters.
The wastelander cringes, slightly spoiling my aim. I attempt to compensate, and hit him in the chest, an instantly incapacitating blow. My left hand, aided by a deathclaw gauntlet, shreds the outer casing of the collar, and accidently nicks the wastelander in the neck. Oops.
Now forced to deal with a bomb that will detonate within the next second, as well as a wastelander who is spraying blood pretty much everywhere, my VATS overloads. Partially blinded, reflexively slowed, and dealing with a very slippery bomb which may short out at any second, I realize that I am f*cked. Closing my eyes, I wait for death.
)()(
After a few seconds, I realize that the beeping noise has stopped and, more importantly, I have not died. Cool. Turning my attention from cringing at my imminent destruction to saving the waster's life, I start to apply pressure and prepare to suture his neck shut. Boone appears at my side within ten seconds, taking over applying pressure and allowing me to use two hands to perform delicate surgery. A definite plus when attempting to prevent arterial spray.
The waster is still gasping for breath after my strike to his solar plexus, causing minor movements, which normally would be fine while disarming a bomb, but is enough to be dangerous during emergency surgery. Pulling out a Med-X, a type of painkiller, and some buffout, a type of steroid, I inject both into the waster. The painkiller will dull the pain and allow me to perform the operation without him attempting to fight. The steroid will increase blood flow, aid in recovery, and reduce the amount of stress hormones which are transmitted. And I'm explaining this to myself because it is really disgusting to be elbow deep in blood.
I get over my mild desire not to do the operation and begin. Push through, pull. Push through, loop. Push through, pull, loop. I repeat the steps several times, finishing on the seventh stitch and cutting the suture with Boone's combat knife. The waster will need some antibiotics that I don't have and to be supervised until he recovers entirely, but he should live.
After being crouched next to the waster, I need to stretch and clean up a little. People have a tendency to attack me if I walk into a settlement with my clothes drenched in blood. Since the only other person that is of interest is visible and dead, I stand up and walk over to the Colorado River. Diving in, I instantly feel refreshed by the cool, clean water. I feel nostalgia tug at me, remembering Hopeville, a feeling of accomplishment after my delivery...
Shaking off what would have been a long recollection, I swim back to the waster, able to see the man for the first time unmarred by a bomb collar or several hands clutching at his throat. He is about 5'6", slightly shorter than most people, but about average for the malnourished wasters. He appears to be in his late 20's, with premature white hair from dyes or stress. His beard is unkempt and primarily to cover as much of his face as possible, as he really doesn't look like the target. After the emergency surgery and drug doses, he has fallen asleep, and I really don't want to wake him up.
Softly speaking to Boone, I ask "Can you get Veronica or someone down here and take this guy to the Followers? Tell them I'll pay for his treatment."
Boone, surprised by my offer to pay for something rather than call in favors or threaten, mumbles an affirmative and jogs off. I take advantage of my lack of companionship and search the waster far from disapproving eyes. He doesn't wake from his sleep as my hands follow practiced steps to make sure I don't anything as small and concealable as a paper note.
My intrusion of his personal space pays off, as I find a holodisc, a type of highly concentrated data storage. My Pip-Boy, a wrist-worn personal organizer, automatically downloads whatever was on the disc for future viewing. I also find an empty soda bottle, some smokes, and a few empty jet containers. Maybe he was a junkie?
I decide that there isn't much to be gleaned from a more invasive search and decide to confirm the target. From this distance, about 200 meters, he is laying on his back without any visible weapons or traps. Nonetheless, I am wary about approaching him, even when dead.
I check my weapons, a deathclaw gauntlet on my left hand, a customized Marksman carbine in my right, and a back up .50 caliber pistol in a shoulder hostler. All appear to be in working order, and I make sure my other surprises are where they're suppose to be.
"Hey ED-E!" I call out, summoning my robotic minion. ED-E is an Enclave Eyebot with an upgraded AI, among other features. An Eyebot is a flying ball robot with tentacle like antennas sticking out the back and a surprisingly powerful mini-laser in the front. It levitates about six feet off the ground and can easily keep up with a grown man sprinting.
ED-E rapidly comes out of its hiding place and hovers in front of me, awaiting orders. "Hey, can you cover me?" I ask. While he can understand rather complex commands, I am a little wary of giving him unusual orders after it misinterpreted "Go south, and swing around the river to attack that deathclaw from behind." It went south, but didn't put a limit on the distance. I later found it with a trading caravan from Baja California.
This command it knows well and has never messed up. ED-E hovers over the river, far from any possible traps, while I start to creep up on the target. Five minutes later, my caution is rewarded by the holograms turning on after I get within a 10 meters. The holograms that the target uses are rather unique. They are able to reflect light from an ambient source into a lethal laser, while remaining impervious to virtually any weapon. The only thing that can harm them is the destruction of their projector or the shutdown of their power source. Since the fusion engine on the power armor will take a few centuries to wind down, my hands are rather tied.
The biggest issue with the holograms, apart from the previous weaknesses, is the directional nature of their field of vision. Since they are just projections of light, one wouldn't expect them to only be able to see in one direction. But the only working design needs the holograms to redirect light into the projector for it to run its friend or foe software. As all three of the holograms are patrolling randomly, there is going to be a few seconds where they will present an opening for me to disable them.
Hiding behind a few rocks, I await the perfect moment. As holograms pass back and forth, I spot a pattern. Wait for it... Wait for it... NOW! I sprint out from behind the rocks, the holograms continue to patrol. The body is within reach, and I grab the first holo-projector.
This one is rather damaged, and the light focusing crystal is exposed. I grab the crystal and rotate it a few degrees. Instantly, the hologram shuts off. The window of opportunity has passed and one of the holograms has turned around. It turns yellow, signaling danger. I move to that projector. As I find a flaw to exploit, an exposed micro-binary switch, the hologram turns red. I stop the switch from flicking, and the hologram instantly goes haywire and dissipates. The last hologram has turned red and fired a laser blast by this point, and is ready to shoot at me again. Grimly smiling, I reach out with my hand and cover its projector. It doesn't shut off, but it doesn't have enough light to remain a viable weapon. Faced with a lack of input, the computer inside the projector engages a failsafe protocol, terminates the hologram, and shuts off.
Able to take a moment, I press the manual shut off on the power armor, ensuring that the holograms can't turn on by accident, and remove the helmet. Staring at me is the target.
The target looks just like he did when I last saw him. An old man, pure white hair, a large beard, Caucasian. Further aiding identification is his Pip-Boy, which has recordings of conversations that I have previously had with him. He is the right height, has the right technology, and is armed with his signature weapons, an unfortunate wearing a bomb collar and a holo-rifle. Funny, I thought I had the only one...
Removing his armor, I call over ED-E to document everything it can about him to make identification easier through the Brotherhood of Steel, a highly advanced paramilitary force. I know it's a little early, but I think I definitely got Father Elijah. One loose end down, four to go.
Thank you for reading, and please review. I hope you enjoyed it.
Sincerely,
Draco Ranger