A/N: Complete Rewrite Project: I'm going to rewrite five of my most popular stories, starting with the first I've ever written, then I'll let readers vote on what the other four should be. Important note is that I will not write anything else until I have finished a story arc and have received sufficient votes. I am going to publish only the rewrite's first chapter in the old version, but the rest will be its own story, so people can still read the original and cringe at it.
Red pills in the morning, blue pills in the evening, no coffee, no Stimpacks and no chems whatsoever. Easy enough, but the doc has me repeat it three times before stamping a bold red APPROVAL PENDING on my file. A week from now, he wants me to report back here so he can do some more tests.
This is a complicated case, apparently. I'm from a Vault, over in the mid-west, one that didn't have nearly enough light bulbs. We all got a real simple surgery once we reached eighteen, like cataract removal, except they actually put something in; a small mirror-like sheet in the back of our eyes, made it easier to see. Two hundred years of dim red lights laced with pure darkness has apparently atrophied the muscles responsible for contracting the iris, meaning I, along with all of the vault, suffer from photophobia and a severe vitamin deficiency.
They only found out yesterday, when a laser sight being shined in my face as a joke completely blinded me. That's disqualified me from sniper duties without a doubt, most special forces assignments will involve flashes and explosions, so that's a no-go as well, but I'm not epileptic, I can just wear sunglasses, and three of my instructors are pushing hard for me to get a combat assignment nonetheless. The Company's spent a small fortune on my training, it wouldn't have done so if I wasn't damn good at my job to begin with.
I've got a seven days permission in Rivet City, along with the rest of my class, we're going to graduate from sniper school, pass the final test, get our tabs and then, if the doc clears me, I'll be assigned as a "Special Duty Officer" to one of our frontline units. Not SpecOps, but close enough, and good enough as far as I care.
Before Talon took me in, I ate one meal per two days on average, had wood splinters lodged in my abdomen and back, causing chronic pains and seizures, had bloatflies larvae chewing at my back, just out of reach, and about a third of my teeth left. As soon as I signed the contract, they patched me up, fed me, gave me a warm bed in a secure location and introduced me to the only friends I've ever had. They could set me up with latrine duty for life that I would still be content; starving for three years in a row puts things in perspective.
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The smell of oil and powder, steel and wood. I love armories. Lockers line every wall, the dim light filtering through the lockers in places, revealing grips, muzzles, selectors and a few armors. Military gear has a soul of its own, very distinct from civilian items. Wood is thicker than iron, steel feels harder than diamond, everything is built for efficiency and durability. It feels honest, real, as if everything else, cars, furniture, clothes, are just toys, make believe. They are, in a way. Mundane items are meant to be as shit as possible while satisfying the user enough that they'll buy more to compensate, military hardware is meant to be as good as possible for the lowest price.
It's like the jeeps. Military and mainstream models perform exactly the same, except the military one is bulletproof and can run on dirty motor oil or vodka.
The Quartermaster is quite puzzled when I hand him my papers. "Your team's already on a convoy halfway into the Red Zone, where did you come from?"
"Medical, I was…" No use telling him my life story, "Look, I'll hitch a ride on the next patrol and hoof the rest of the way, just get me kitted out, alright."
The old man's lower lips disappear under his facial curtain of a mustache as he debates it, "No can do, son," he finally says, leaning over the counter looking contrite, "Everything here's already spoken for, just got done shipping out surplus."
He must see me glance at the rows of crappy .32 rifles on our right, looking especially ugly compared to all these well-oiled, freshly polished R91s and AKs at his back, because he snickers and pulls a pack of cigarettes from his breast pocket. Plucking one out with his mouth, he bends over and pulls an ammo box from under the counter. In it are an assortment of cheap or homemade holdout handguns of various calibres. I even spot a flintlock in there.
"Next patrol's in four hours, stops at Arlington, that gear won't even get you out of the outpost." I'm about to tell him that's my call, but he adds, "Not in its current shape anyway. They taught you about gun maintenance I'll assume?"
"The basics…" It's hard to gauge how much you know about something until you've had the opportunity to see how little you actually know.
"Good enough." He nods towards the gun shelf "We lifted these off some local militia, I was about to strip them for parts, same for these," he holds up the ammo box, "Get a decent boomstick together, pick a backup that isn't too shit, and I'll whip you up some ammo that'll do more than tickle the Muties."
And, with that, he's off to the reserve, locking the door behind him. Every other gun in the place is locked tight or I'd just nab one right there. Instead, I pick three hunting rifles that look like they've spent the previous centuries in relatively capable hands and get to work stripping them down.
The first must never have had a wealthy owner, its bolt, trigger and barrel are all bent and rusted, but whoever held it last knew how to handle a carving knife; the stock is brand new, cypress from the looks of it, most likely from point lookout or further south. The cheek rest, stock and grip are all quite smooth, but the foregrip received no such attention, ending in a sharp edged block to which I'm certain I'll be able to screw a makeshift bipod or flashlight, as the situation requires.
The second rifle didn't have a stock at all, nor anything resembling a barrel, some genius with access to more tools than he was qualified to handle apparently decided a sawed off rifle was a good idea. Still, he also managed to retrofit an actual magazine for the rifle, ten rounds, give or take, and replaced the old bolt with what seems to be a pneumatic hammer's chambering mechanism. It's still bolt action and the inside's obviously been widened with precision tools, but the polished steel feels very high quality and its action is so smooth I can work it without closing my fist, just nudge the bolt up with my palm, work it back with the edge of my index, then shove it forward and down with the crook of my thumb.
Final gun is the best maintained of the three, with a wooden frame no older than a decade, albeit already rotting in places, as it was made of cheap press wood, the barrel is pre-war, but was always well maintained and gleams in the neon light. The loading mechanism is alright and I'm going to keep it for parts, just in case, but it's half a century old, made of junk parts smelted with a chemical welder and cheap mold. They even had a decent scope, a cheap knockoff of a World-War II optic, which you mostly find strapped to .44 magnums these days.
I don't think it's good enough that the Quartermaster will mind if I take that scope. Besides, whoever put this gun together welded it to the rear of the barrel, making it mine by the universal rule of go fuck yourself.
End result is… Pitiful, really. I've got a single high-cap magazine and four rusty old five shot models. The gun itself looks like someone jammed a pipe and a stapler onto a 2x4. I salvaged enough screws and bolts from all three guns that I don't need all that mess of tape and steel wire, but that just makes the gun look fake, too clean. Then again, it is chambered in .32, so it may as well be a toy.
I don't have any sort of combat webbing or sling to hang it on, so I just leave the gun propped against the counter and dig through the pile of low-grade junk the old man calls pistols.
Chinese, .32, 9mm… .22? Normally, I would not consider a .22 weapon for anything short of pest control, but that being the general attitude towards this caliber, it's safe to assume the armory can spare a few magazines of it, and this particular pistol, sleek black grip jammed into a shiny chromed tube, should be about as noisy as a slingshot.
I mean, it won't even kill Radroaches at point blank, but it'll let me plink at them all day long from a safe distance.
When the Quartermaster comes back, almost two hours after I'm done and an hour before my ride's departure, he's carrying a bucket full of .32 rifle rounds. They look pretty average to me, albeit a bit shinier than usual.
"Lengthened the rounds." Says the old man, handing me the bucket, "Increased the pressure too, so you don't lose muzzle velocity."
The first bullet I pick feels noticeably heavier than the training rounds I'm used to. The Quartermaster notices my hesitation and scoffs. "Didn't have time to press anything fancy, you'll be shooting iron wrapped in copper… Although it's more like bronze, if you wanna get technical. Didn't have enough copper for the whole batch. Might work wonders, might blow in your face, you let me know…" The pistol catches his eye and he chuckles again, "Well, that's not going to blow in anyone's face for sure. I'll get you some clips. No fancy bullets for this one I'm afraid, just factory hollow points… Try to aim for the soft tissues, might punch through a baby's skin, if you're close enough."
That babykiller joke's been around for so long it made it onto the Company flag.
Speaking of company policy, "Got any spare armors left?"
His smile is meaningful. I'm wearing the undersuit, black top, urban camo pants and Talon Company Sniper School's acronym, T.C.S.S. written on my back in blue decal. I may not be a scholar, but it seems to me fighting the hulk with nothing but a varmint rifle, a t-shirt and cargo pants is contrary to common wisdom.
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Trying to reach the square from above was a bad plan. Rooftops got me from the Capitol to this bombed office building and sewers are what got me from Arlington to the Capitol, but from here to the square, dominated by the remains of a highway exchange, is nothing but a maze of back alleys, dead ends and barricades. Figured I'd keep on navigating the rooftops, bypass the whole mess, but there are no rooftops for the most part, just tall concrete fangs jutting from the landscape as far as eyes can see.
The welding goggles are dirty, so eyes can't see shit right now, mind you. The building's stairs are intact, except for the four BoS Initiates slumped against the last flight, blood leaking from the seams in their suits.
I check each of them for weapons or ammo, but they've already been picked clean, all but the armors.
First door I come across has been thoroughly barricaded from this side, desks, chairs an a single Vault-Tec bobblehead stacking over it, but a massive hole was blasted two steps further and sunlight filters through. Somebody didn't have time for this bullshit.
The alley is wider that I expected, two delivery doors lead to the buildings on either side of it, belonging to two other structures, and I just came out the only ordinary entrance, unless that gaping hole was once a gate as well. The opposite end is blocked by a flatbed, fresh paint and inflated tires tell me it's one of ours. It lies on its side.
Fortunately, there is a way out on the left, an emergency staircase that's already rusted off its bolts and fallen to the ground. It used to lead to the building I was in just then, rising far above the blasted shell to the left and relatively intact store to the right, but now it's leading against the shell, giving me perfect access to whichever floor remains.
I pick the second floor, the idea being to stop climbing and get somewhere at street level where I can actually go places. Immediately the echoes of gunfire reach me, coming from somewhere ahead and on the left. Looks like I was one wall away from the action, back in that staircase.
"This is Private Griffin," I speak on the general frequency, "reporting in."
No response. Common sense says get out, training says get eyes on and assess the situation.
We hold the street ahead. Assault troopers, shooters, gunners, the whole nine yard are all crammed in the intersection between a backstreet and an alleyway. They are shooting at things I cannot see, down both sides of the street, and using the alley as a staging area. Eight men and women, roughly. I need to get to higher ground.
Easily done, considering half this place's rooms have no ceiling. I pick a creaky desk near the edge of the crater and use it to haul myself up one floor. There, I shove a filing cabinet onto its side and kick it roughly parallel to where I intend to lie down. With it covering my right flank and the left being theorically held by friendlies, I can focus on what the fuck's happening on the other side of that alleyway, because I just saw some dude's arm take a hike and that isn't normal unless the Brotherhood has invisible Deathclaws.
Paladin Ghost, the Lone Wanderer herself, with her electrified sword, ninja suit and incendiary Chinese pistol. I heard the stories, but watching that bitch move through my scope still freezes me long enough for her to behead a heavy gunner, put two rounds in a rifleman, vanish and then appear thirty steps down the alley, right in front of an assault trooper who had a bit too much confidence in his shotgun.
I squeeze out a shot and catch her right beneath the skull. The round doesn't penetrate, but she goes sprawling face first and I just know her spine's mush. Two more riflemen emerge from behind dumpsters on my side of the street, too close and off to the left for me to effectively cover them from this angle, as I've got the whole first floor blocking the way. They move carefully and I soon see why; in the short time I've glanced away, Ghost has vanished again. I read the files, bitch can run a hundred yards in twelve seconds flat, fully geared. She could be right behind me for all I know.
With a curse that echoes on the centuries old tiles, I drop back down onto the ancient desk, letting it crumble under my weight, and roll the rest of the fall, stopping by a chest high chunk of wall with windows on either sides of it. There are still quite a few Brotherhood Initiates around and I've just revealed my position, so I keep an eye on our troops using a glass fragment from the left window frame. When I hold my palm against it, I can see the reflected soldiers enter the alley. Not exactly high-definition surveillance, but it's better than catching a 5.56 to the face because HQ couldn't spare the armor.
Ghost doesn't even uncloak for this; she carves them both apart, first at the elbows, then the knees and finally one slash to rip both their throats open. I peek with my own eyes, but the setting sun flares into my skull, blinding me completely.
This time I don't curse. I can hear the squad downstairs taking fire, hear Ghost's stealth field crackle in tune with her sword as she carves a bloody swath through my people.
"Retreat!" Somebody yells. Best idea I've heard all day; Vertibirds are swooping in now and Enclave or BoS, I don't want what they're selling.
I make my way through the meeting room, knocking a file cabinet across the doorway, just in case, and freeze when the thing goes right through the floor.
The birds set down in the back alley, where I came from, and since Ghost is having a field day down in the street up front, I seem to be low on option. After debating it for a moment, still struggling to keep my burning eyes open, not to mention the dancing red spots and tears now clouding what little they see, I decide this is my stop, right through the ceiling and we'll see where we go from there. I'll take close quarters over a cast iron staircase with zero cover any day, marksman training or not.
The cabinet rings out like a cymbal when I land and everyone in the room turns to look at me. The must have noticed the fucking roof giving in, but its unlikely they thought much of it until I came through; Black-white-grey cargo pants, boxing tapes, a Talon Company t-shirt, a .22 suppressed pistol in my belt and a .32 hunting rifle smeared with boot polish on my back. I don't know what they think of this whole "pajama commando" thing I'm rocking, can't see their faces, but nobody shoots at me, so odds are I'm looking suitably harmless.
Nobody's running away, nobody's shooting, although a firefight's raging in the next room, so I'm guessing we're all waiting for whatever's supposed to happen next. I'm late for the party, I fucked up a cover shot and I just opened an entry way into their hidey-hole, so whoever I'm with right now has every right to be pissed off. All I want right now is to get in the rank and become anonymous. "Who's in charge here?" I call. A roughly humanoid figure steps up, but doesn't introduce itself, so I go first, "Private Cole Griffin, Special Duty Officer, Third Platoon. How may I assist?"
"You took that shot? Knocked her down?" The man calls, the only discernible accent in his voice being that of a veteran sergeant under fire.
"Affirmative, sir, assumed the round wouldn't knock through, tried to break her neck instead." Colors are returning, but it's all photo negative at this point, and I still don't get much contrast, just enough to tell the man I'm reporting to is wearing a cap.
"Fuck that was good. McKiney, what was it? Two hundred meters?"
A man at my back responds, muffled as if wearing a gas mask, "One-sixty with a three seconds window on a moving target. We get out of here, I want my rifle autographed."
"Five seconds!" Someone else barks, behind the officer.
"Copy!" He puts a hand on my shoulder, "Alright, Cole, you want to help? I've got the job for you; we'll flush her out of this floor, get as much height as you can and keep eyes on both the street and floors above, keep her from falling back, we'll burn through her shell, as long as you get her to stand still for five seconds, got it?"
Well, this is embarrassing. The man I'm talking two is wearing beige, his cap has an E circled with stars on it and everyone else in the room wears power armor, the red eyed evil nazi stormtrooper model.
I just reported in to the Enclave. Might as well keep on rolling with it, at this point. "Just as long as I can see the bitch."
He pulls something from his breast pocket and takes his cap off, handing me both, though I don't really see what the palm-sized device is supposed to be.
"Thanks." I blurt out before hurrying back the way I came.
The desk is splintered and there's a lot of stray 5.56 flying around. Combat armor is a luxury too easily taken for granted, a single ricochet could knock me out for good, meaning I don't have time to fuck around looking for a new way up. I head out back and climb the emergency staircase all the way up to the ten square foot of un-collapsed roof.
Kneeling up here, I've got eyes on most of the second floor, can't see the ground floor at all and nobody can get to what's left of the other six stories without me seeing them. Better yet, from this angle I see half a dozen Talon Company grunts backpedalling into the bloodstained alley, shooting at something just out of my sight. Through windows and bullet impacts, I can see Ghost dancing back and forth between dumpsters and cars, but never long enough to get a decent shot in.
Pulling my radio out, I try the Platoon command frequency, "This is Griffin, Enclave forces in the building have set up a trap, flush target into close quarters and they'll take her down."
I put the radio on the floor. The sun is no longer directly visible, but residual rays rising over the city are still fucking up my vision.
The device that Enclave dude gave me is a scope of some kind, with a hinged part that looks like the radio's belt clip. Putting the cap on, I attach the scope to it and push buttons at random until a dull blue picture flickers in my left eye. Skeletons are running around downstairs, silver lights pulsing in their red ribcages. The skeletons fade away between each pulses, so the imaging must be based on heartbeat somehow. Someone fires an assault rifle in a building to the right and the imager's feed overlaps with my other eye's vision. I see the gun illuminated in yellow, waves of energy rippling into the user's power armor, all of this showing up on against a brick wall.
Downstairs, little suns bloom at every bullet impact, creating a runway towards that bitch Ghost.
Her heart is beating fast. She's on the second floor, she sees me and she's scared because my rifle's already trailed at that palpitating star in her chest.
Talon pushed her back, Enclave pushed her up, I'm going to finish the job.
A vertibird catches fire overhead as I suck in a long breath and she shifts all her weight sideways, ready to dodge. I compensate, predict her trajectory. Last time I shot her in the neck, it failed, now I have a direct shot at the red faceplate, that little groove running down the middle is a structural weakness for sure. This time, she's done.
The rifle barks, a metallic sound that reminds me of a pickaxe, but that's because the goddam firing pin just exploded out the chamber. The misfired round still catches Ghost in the knee, but the pin has dug itself deep in my shoulder. Completely paralyzing my right arm. It hurts about as much as a cramp, but that's because the shrapnel is choking a nerve cluster, keeping the arm from realizing how badly it is hurt. The Brotherhood is storming the ground floor and I can see Talon Company troops falling back in the alley, driven away by the sheer volume of hostiles the BoS is throwing at them.
Ghost and I trade a glance. Enclave wins, she's dead, Brotherhood wins, I'm dead, killing one another won't change that and neither of us intend to stick around long enough for it to come to that. I leap right onto the emergency staircase, riding it as it crashes onto the opposite building, an adult movies store or something like that. From there, I head straight ahead, the Capitol in sight, about half a city block away. We had a solid foothold there an hour ago, medical installations, with some luck. Med-X with even more luck.
On the bright side, although my weapon has misfired, I technically still have all the parts to put it back together. Just need to dig them out.