The trees, covered lightly in the spring snow-fall rustled a small bit as a Giant Praying Mantis attempted to climb its' bough. The thing, so violently green and yellow, was making the most terrible noise of clicking mandibles and scraping chitin. Its' multicolored wings sprouted, its' fore limbs waving at the top of the tree with some menacing accompaniment.

In the top of the tree, shivering with cold and red with the inebriation so common amongst his people, sat Harley. Harley was quite a sight then, six-foot seven and wearing the most provocative black leather vest with fur trims, and a horned helmet. His black, weedy mustache descended below his square chin, and his blood-shot eyes turned downward, his lips raising opposite to show yellow, gritted teeth.

His left arm, tattooed with the marks of one loyal to family above all else, reached into his left leg holster, drawing a sawed-off hunting shot-gun, pointing it at the slowly ascending mantis. With some cold jittering, he let off a single shot, sprayed lead scattering into the creatures front. the fore-limbs were separated as it fell downwards, sprawling in pain and dying. He laughed, a manly bass laugh echoing about the mountains around.

With some slow, lumbering movements, he slipped down the trees bough, landing the last five feet with a jump. As he landed, his boots crushed the mantis' head, ceasing its' struggles for life. With a tremendous roar, he spat onto the dead carcass, putting away the empty gun and drawing his combat knife to begin harvesting the important bits. the bits that cost him a whole Saturday Night and morning to aquire.

With powerful cuts, he took the fresh mantis limb-meat, placing it into a small plastic cooler hung onto his back. With a sneer, he spat on the things carcass once more before turning South, sheathing his blade and walking cooly in the snow.

Ahead of him was deeper forest, soon giving way to rocky mountain, and then to the familiar Red-Rock Crags and rocks of his home. His steps took him across the mass-amounts of Big-Horn tracks. He was tempted to give the creatures; only a mile or so in the distance, chase. But thought better of it. He had only so much ammo, and this looked like a herd, not just some roving family.

As his feet continued his walk, he had begun to hear the words of the NCR Rangers a mere thirty feet above him, their radio tower peaking just above his vision, the rest covered by a grey stone incline. He growled at the tower, flipping his middle finger indignantly at the tower. It wasn't that he hated radio towers, obviously.

Harleys' father, Skull, was one of the camp guards at Bitter Springs. He had remembered from boy hood having seen his father, running to help him escape, suddenly die. His head was exploded by some hollow-point long ago, his bloody fragments spraying his only son. Harley was especially angry at the NCR right now, because they won the war.

It was Bull, really. His people had sent their soldiers to aid the NCR at the Dam. He had personally taken down several dozen legionaries in the bowels of the Dam itself. And now the selfish bastards were forcing his people to leave Nevada! They had apparently already forgotten their great aid, and were forcing them to leave the Canyons or Die for Loitering and Drug Exchange.

They were all probably planning for the squads of NCR soldiers that now combed the area both surrounding and within the canyon, ensuring that his people were kept under their thumb until they were spat out into the deadly hot sands of the Mojaves' Easternmost dunes. Harley turned from them, putting his finger back into a tightly clenched fist. As he walked away, he heard a peculiar sound from the camp. Or rather...didn't hear any sound.

He turned again, noticing the words he heard weren't those of rangers but...the radio. no one was actually speaking at the camp itself. Were they all gone now? Were they wiped out by remnant Legionairies, or killed and eaten by Mad Night-Kin? His hands began to itch, thinking of all the military supplies perhaps left behind. He personally could use more twelve-gauge shells like the rangers had for their hunting shotguns, and the food alone would aid his people.

Harley walked to the incline; tongue licking his lips in deep thought, even as his hand caught the first hold in the stone. With little effort, he climbed to the top of the incline, his powerful muscles taking him step at a time up twelve feet, to look over the little outpost. What he saw next would haunt him forever.

The camp was not burned, but the people were butchered. twelve corpses; all masses of musculature and blood, hung from the radio tower at differing heights. The snowy ground was pounded with bloody pools beneath the tower, and the rest of the camp seemed to have been hit by explosive fragments of the stuff, crimson and dark red splattered unevenly across every surface.

Harley had almost gasped, but maybe it was the cold that froze his breath and saved him, or maybe it was just pure dumb luck, but he stayed silent as he heard a noise from the camps receiver.

"Camp ETC, Respond. This is main directory Camp Golf, respond. Kahn Outpost, Respond. God Damn it, what the hell is going on?" Said a surly, old voice. Harley was about to drag himself when he was stopped by the radio itself. The vocal receiver...moved. No, floated smoothly and slowly upwards, near six feet in the air above the ground. A terrible noise sounded, like some mantis' mating in brambles. Then, he heard what sounded like screams, human screams. His face, though cold from air, began to sweat with fear.

As the sound progresses, it all tapered out at the end into a human voice, male and sounding like some Bone-Yard dwelling waster.

"Kahn Outpost." Was what it said, curt and unemotional.

"Kahn Outpost, we have radioing for twenty minutes now. what in the hell is going on up there?"

"Nothing." Harley got up more on his elbows, almost interested more than afraid.

"Nothing? Where is Ranger Killroy? He is the officiated reciever for the camp."

"Out."

"Out where?" The Radio voice was now more irked. More irritated by the lack of emotion and information that the bodiless voice was giving.

"Mountain-Top."

"Mountain Top? What the Hell is he doing up there? Who is this?"

"Must Go." And with that the voice-box dropped into the snow, landing in a small puddle of blood splashing a bit onto the snow and...some of it floated. Floating splatter marks inches off of the ground, clinging to nothing yet acting like they were on some surface. Harley got up a bit more, pebbles falling as his left elbow slipped. He fell down, and stayed there as he heard the clicking noise again.

He couldn't see the camp, grey stone filling his vision. He wanted to move, to some how slip down the incline and return to his people, and never speak again of what he saw, but he felt lodged to the spot with that sour feeling of fear. He could hear the radio, but only momentarily.

"God Damn it, what is Wr-" And it suddenly was silent, replaced by the sound of smashing metal against stone. Harley felt little pieces of glass and tin fall lightly on the back of his head, but he still stood still. Now, the clicking noise was somewhat tamed. It was orderly, clicking only in steady succession, instead of the terrifying clammer of earlier.

Harley finally gathered the muscles of his neck and arms together, getting his upper half to move slowly upwards, his helmet askew slightly, hanging to the back of his forehead. He looked into the camp once more, and saw a brilliantly flashing of blue begin to swim in the air at one point. His right foot shifted in its' hold, and slipped out, dragging him down suddenly, his chin digging into the stone. His fall was quick, and he landed into a large bush, twigs and branches scraping his skin and clothes. his helm had landed more close to the inclines bottom, the horns still pointing upwards. He groaned, trying to lean his body against the bushes base, when he heard a loud sound, like a whole crate full of ammo dropping onto cement. He looked over, and saw nothing still, But he could see tracks in the snow. Two large footprints, each about a foot opposite his helmet. The helmet floated upwards, turning slightly.

And he heard his groan, this time distorted somewhat by the bodiless voice. His eyes were wide open, though he could feel warm blood spilling around the right socket. The helmet seemed to sop at one point, before it jerked upwards so fast he nearly didn't see it go. it dissapeared over the incline, leaving him bleeding and alone in the bush.

He was there for nearly five minutes, silent and breathing like a still wind. When he rose, it was fast, like a Deer dodging the bullet. He sprinted into the woods, leaving the base of the incline far, far away. tree branches and bushes caught him, but he plowed through as if they were not there. He didn't think while he did this, his mind barely even pushing his body to run in primal fear of the unknown, and supposedly dangerous.

It was ten more minutes until he burst out of the trees and onto Red rocks, where he fell to the ground and was rolled by gravity over the side of an even smaller incline. This time, there were no bushes to catch him, and he fell into rough, yellow sand. He screamed, not of pain or hurt, but of fear releasing itself from his chest. He was forcing it our, eyes clenched deeply closed and fists thrashing against the sands, throwing up moats of dusty clouds.

"GOD!" He cried, invoking a name that never meant anything to him, for he thought it was a favored curse of some Wasters. Tears and blood mixed along his face, and spittle was flowing out of his mouth. He was so loud himself, he didn't hear the somewhat loud sound of foot-steps approaching. His eyes opened, the bright-sun flooding his vision white as he hunkered up onto his elbows, blinking and sniffling back his tears.

And he suddenly lurched, eyes widening far more than ever before, as his leather jacket was pulled upwards, his feet leaving the ground. He did not cry, nor roar with battle-fury as some Kahns would have. (And perhaps, this is what truly saved him.)

He felt like he was again in his ritual of manhood, lifted from the ground and about to be slammed and beaten by his peers. yet there, none of his friends or family were present, only forceful and empty air that held him with invisible, strong arms. One arm left his leathers, and a taloned hand of air grabbed his face, pushing it left and right, though he gave no resistance. He felt as if the heat were getting his eyes, for the air was shimmering before him, not like the heat on the black-top roads, but a straight and measured wavering of the air.

And, as fast as he was lifted, he was dropped, making almost no noise as he landed, standing on his feet. He would have fallen, but it seemed his strong leg muscles recovered more quickly than his mind, and he stood staring blankly at the nothingness, the wavering lines then long gone.

SORRY FOR THE LONG WAIT. AND EVEN SORRIER FOR THE LACK OF FURTHER PLOT...WHICH IS STILL NOT THERE. WORKING ON IT, BELIEVE ME. JUST...WORKING ON IT.