Chapter 3

Project: Purity.

Those were the keywords President Eden had cycled through all day, over and over. The artificial intelligence processed those words, trying to form a sentence from them. Its matrices surged with energy processing those phrases and the internal processor warmed up immensely. It was thinking.

He was thinking.

President Eden had known about Project: Purity since it had ever been started. He recalled spying on the Jefferson Memorial, long defiled by the FEV Rejects and other unnatural savages of the wastes. What once was a great and beautiful monument was ravaged and destroyed by time and mongrels who sought to introduce communism into America. This angered him greatly, and he felt his crystalline matrices rise in temperature along with his central processor. How badly he yearned for America's beauty to be real once more. He wished to be moved by her grace, her power and her candor as he once had been when he was just a young boy, fascinated by the affluent and righteous politicians who had made America great. He wanted his America to be white picket fences and apple pies once again, and damn it if his dream was never made real. The Enclave fought for the American people, those who were fair and beautiful, much like their country. They were pure and free.

Eden knew of many ways to utilize Project: Purity for the greater good of the American people. Clean water was a powerful, priceless currency these days and nothing else was sought after more. If the Enclave were accredited to the water purifier nestled deep within the Rotunda of the Jefferson Memorial, more would be open to their ideals and politics. More would listen to what they had to offer. People would finally understand their mission and seek to aid them. America would finally be the best again, and President Eden would make it stay that way. Of course, there were more lucrative means to reaffirming America.

The Modified Forced Evolutionary Virus was created almost 30 years ago by Dr. Charles Curling under the direction of the former President of the United States, Dick Richardson. It was made for the exact reason both Richardson and Eden had wanted to use it for. It was highly toxic to those who were exposed to even just minimal amounts of radiation. It killed 100% of those it was tested on and was an effective agent in rooting out the contaminated sub-human species who were unfit to live in the reinvisioned America amongst those who had the pure-strain genes. The purifier was an ingenious way to distribute the Modified FEV, but how would it end up there discreetly?

Colonel Autumn had put his faith in a young doctor from Navarro. She was strong and one of the most intelligent scientists that the Enclave had to offer. Eden immediately thought of her name- Amarantha Sinclair. The doctor was known for her ruthless tactics and unnerving intelligence. It was no surprise to President Eden that the Colonel harbored intimate feelings for her, any sane man would. But she was cold and calculating, her mind a complex thing to unravel. She was not insane, no, but she had a compassion for the Enclave like no other. The fire burned in her and refused to go out. She was an unorthodox soul, as she strayed often and far from conventional means of political bargaining and threatening. Dr. Sinclair was known for the promises she made and fulfilled.

It seemed as if the young woman had a chip on her shoulder, as a dark cloud as dark as her raven hair hung over her head. She constantly searched for some form of revenge- or was it justice? The lines were blurred for her. Her eyes were the color of the ocean and a storm was constantly brewing behind them. President Eden could almost see the waves frothing and violently smashing against a rocky cliffside, tearing down any home built upon them. Lightning raced under her skin and the thunder boomed and cracked in her voice when she spoke. Was she constantly angry? Hardly. Was she lethal? Very.

The ZAX machine processed this information slowly, heaving a small, electronic sigh. The road to the rebuilding had become long and arduous, and the payoff was long overdue. Project: Purity was the last resort in reclaiming the glorious land once owned by the Enclave.

The more northern regions past Germantown had always been regarded as mountainous and misty, with the extremely rare chance for rain at higher elevations. This was true, except the greenery quickly gave way to the dusty badlands. The ground was scorned by sun in these areas and was cracked and dry, sunburnt from the nuclear fire and the actual sun nestled high in the sky. The anhydrous disk hung like a lazy chandelier, raining down pure light to the dusty lands below. The incalescence of the midday almost began to rival that of the West. The heat was a killer, and the evidence lay in the grass that was burnt to a crisp, all brown and dried up, shriveled from the sun. The wind picked up and scattered dust across the ground, but it was not a cool breeze. It was hot and ravenous, setting afire the skin of the desiccated earth. Deadened trees shot up from the ground and clawed at the sky with their scaly, blackened branches. They sought rain but were given none, and like the grass that had forced its way through the cracks of the mud, withered and died.

There was not much life left in the desecrated world. The only semblance of something living was still dead- the once shining city of Washington DC. Its skyline rested on the murky horizon. It had long since become a bastion for Super Mutants and mercenaries and the Brotherhood of Steel and its respective rejects. There was nothing worthwhile here. There were no future opportunities left. Dr. Sinclair did not see what Colonel Autumn saw in this godforsaken land. Her eyes scanned the horizon, looking for possible threats that sought to wreak havoc on the mission she was sent on. For a moment, she took off her antiquated aviators, which had become dusted over from the many miles of travel she endured. The scarf wrapped around he face and head sheltered her from most of the dust, yet her throat felt cracked and dry.

The two Hellfire troops at her side had it better than she. Their armor was advanced- ceramic plating under titanium used in old world battleships. Their HUD, or heads-up display, gave information such as directional bearings, temperature and radiation exposure. The power armor itself distributed Stimpacks and Med-X per the need for it. Most of all, the gel undersuit cooled and warmed as it suited the outside temperatures to keep the user comfortable. Sinclair would be lying if she muttered she wasn't jealous. Wiping away the sweat beading on her brow with the back of her hand, she kept walking.

But something nagged at her conscious. She didn't know if what the extended silence from the two soldiers or being in a new place. Before she had left Raven Rock, she hadn't been outside much, and her pallid complexion was proof of that. Even if she had been from Navarro before it was sieged by the damnable efforts of the New California Republic, she wasn't used to the world where so many dangers lie. Sinclair hadn't even seen one of those sub-humans that Eden was always rambling on about, the ones that were taking over the wasteland and trying to re-introduce communism into the world. Apparently, they looked much like a normal human being. How was she to differentiate a citizen like the two Enclave beside her from the ruined ones?

Her thoughts were quickly interrupted, as the twin soldiers at her side stopped in their tracks. They immediately took a defensive position around her, guarding her from the front and back. She looked around, curious.

"What's happening?" Sinclair inquired frantically, unable to see through the mass of the grey power armor. This was not a good position to be stuck in. Nervous trembles ran through her for a moment before she collected herself, drawing out a 10mm pistol.

"Two bogies approaching from the south. They appear to be raiders- something easily taken care of. Don't worry about it, Ma'am," the trooper in the front said, his voice crackling through the rusty microphone inside of his helmet. He sounded young and fresh from training.

"Can it, Jones," retorted the second one. "She doesn't have a military rank so she ain't no 'ma'am'." In contrast, the one behind her sounded aged and cracked with an attitude. Sinclair stayed quiet. She began to stew over the fact that Colonel Autumn had assigned her two inexperienced, ill-advised troopers when she most likely could have done a better job herself.

A shot rang out, whizzing past Sinclair's ear. She looked in the directions of whence it came, and saw that it wasn't just a couple raiders. It had to be five or six of them, armed with weapons in poor condition that they did not know how to use. It suddenly became a very dangerous situation, and Sinclair felt the heat rise on the back of her neck as she stared into Death's face.

Metal pinged off of metal as the two soldiers moved forward, the small arms denting their armor. Some of the raiders were idiots enough to charge with hand to hand weapons- simple things such as tire irons and baseball bats. However, their efforts were not futile. One smashed in the older, unnamed trooper's helmet, his lens breaking and falling into his eye. He let out a blood curdling howl and shot the raider who had dealt the damage, but blood dripped into his gloved hand as he did so.

"Move!" Dr. Sinclair yelled, pushing the injured Hellfire trooper over. It had to have been an extremely lucky shot fueled by her rage from the incompetence of those who were supposed to protect her, but she sent a bullet straight through one of the wastrel's eyes. Her brain matter painted the sands a luscious red color, with white bone fragments glittering in the sun. Sinclair popped off another shot, hitting a raider in the shoulder. He clutched his wound for a minute, but growled fiercely like a rabid animal and charged towards Jones.

"Ain't someone a top shot!" The raider yelled, tire iron in one hand. Blood spewed from the dark hole in his shoulder down his tanned, leathery skin. Jones hesitated a moment, his finger fumbling for the trigger on his plasma rifle. He winced as he shot the raider in the face, his skin peeling away and bubbling as he fell on his knees. Sinclair finished him off with a bullet to the head, putting the dying animal out of his misery. The smell of gunpowder and blood and singed human flesh was heavy in the air, a concoction that made Sinclair's stomach turn but she ignored it as best as she could. This was most definitely not a perfume she would choose to wear every day of her life.

Jones turned to his left, his gauntlet on his forearm blocking a hard swing from a baseball bat. The audible crack almost sounded as if his arm had broken, but the bat lay in pieces on the ground. Swiftly grabbing the raider by his neck, he shoved the splintered handle of the bat dangling loosely from the raider's hand and shoved it through his exposed sternum. Sinclair listened to the small sound of the ripping of flesh and internal organs and the sick squelching of blood. Bile raised in her throat. Jones threw the adversary aside, his body thumping on the ground. The trooper pivoted on his feet, meeting another assailant face to face. She was vicious and rabid, and the sharp combat knife in her hand was proof of that. It was covered in dried blood, most likely from past kills. It also was rusty. Jones' gun was swatted out of his hand in a moment of stupor.

Sinclair held back, observing the behaviour of the frenzied wastrel. The sides of her hair were shaved off and a mousy mop was left on top that hung down in a frizz to the back of her neck. It was a prominent shade of pink. Homemade tattoos lined her arms with numerous injection sites of some backwater drugs. Her skin was blistered and scaly, obviously dealing with some sort of infection. The raider's face was also swollen and bruised, her lips cracked and bloody. She snarled through yellowed or missing teeth, obviously trying to slide her knife between the plates of armor that protected the young trooper. Amarantha Sinclair shook her head, and pulled the trigger. Blood splattered against Jones' armor and her eyes locked on his helmet, searching for another set before she keeled backwards, landing in an unnatural position. The soldier was obviously unnerved by this, as he looked down to examine his armor painted with the distinctive carmine shade that Sinclair was becoming used to seeing more and more of. It looked like some virulent warpaint was spread over him in a gory art project.

The trooper previously injured at the beginning of the battle lay in the sands breathing languidly, each inhalation ragged. He had not yet taken off his helmet, and Dr. Sinclair knelt down beside him to look over the injured soldier. She had Jones help with propping him up. Gently unlatching his helmet, she looked at him, fragments of glass still in his eye. His suit was working overtime, pumping Med-X into his blood. It wasn't doing it to to save his life, however.

The Enclave were ruthless. They had engineered a fail safe in their power armor that when a soldier had become grievously injured, their suit detected this and overclocked itself to administer large amounts of Med-X to put the soldier out of his or her misery.

Sinclair thumbed his dogtags, observing the little metal fragments that recorded his name, date of birth, rank, and the year that he had entered service. They clinked together as Sinclair yanked the chain from his neck.

"How bad is it?" he yelled, grimacing. His wrinkled eye was closed shut, and the other one was open, but black and red. Blood dribbled from the damaged socket, and obviously, he couldn't see out of it. Sinclair pulled one of the larger fragments out, the yellow glass ripping through the soft cornea of his eye. The soldier writhed in pain, a vein popping out near his temple under fine, recently buzzcut grey hair.

"Matthew," Sinclair said, pausing for a moment to look at his tag, "How do you feel?"

"I'm in fucking pain, you nitwit Doctor!" He spat, his voice venomous.

"Do you want the quick way out of this?" She asked, pulling her gun back into her hand from it's holster on her hip. Jones looked at her from his helmet, his eyes widening in fear. She really was the one inhuman doctor the other Hellfire troops murmured over.

"Yes, please! Just get me up and going to somewhere with medical treatment!"

Sinclair pressed the end of the barrel of her gun into his temple and looked away, squinting her eyes closed as she pulled the trigger. Jones stepped back in fear of her and the gory scene at his feet, causing Sergeant Matthew to fall over limp. The monitor in his suit let out a single, unending beep- he flatlined.

"You didn't have to do that!" Jones bellowed at her, anger and fear mixing in his voice. Sinclair stood from her stooped position slowly, before looking into the eyes of the last soldier in front of her. She had a mean glare on her face.

"He was a liability." Sinclair answered frankly, her voice chilling. There was no denying he wasn't one and Jones definitely did not protest the doctor's answer to her face.

"We must keep moving," he muttered, leading the doctor away from the site of the massacre. As the doctor keep moving in front of him, Jones took a single looked back at the bodies slewed across the ground. This was the Capital Wasteland he knew well.