"How can you even be sure that what this Mon-keigh is saying is even true?" Tarashe demanded. Macha grimaced, but she already knew that this response was to come. "Even in death, he may still serve their Corpse-God!"
Draco's apparition turned to face the Warlock. "My entire existence is the Webway, Warlock. I stand to gain nothing from trickery. My time as a servant of the Golden Throne is long past."
"So you say," he growled.
"Enough, Warlock," Macha raised a slender hand in reprimand. "Inquisitor Draco has given me my word, and that is enough for me. To speak any further would be to dishonour me and Craftworld Biel-Tan."
Tarashe fell sullenly silent.
"My goal is to help you, kindred of Ulthwe," Macha continued, her voice softening. "I will use any means at my disposal to aid you in finding your lost leader."
Tarashe nodded silently. There would be no use in pursuing this matter further.
"For what it's worth," Draco inclined his head with a small, subdued smile upon his ghostly features. "I apologize for the actions of my zealous kindred."
Macha's red lips pulled back from her pearlescent teeth into a wide smile. "Always the diplomat."
"In any case, I have memorized the route to the portion of the Webway you seek," Draco said, his eyes seemed to glaze over for a moment, before looking up again. "I can guide you from Biel-Tan itself any time you wish."
"Very well," Tarashe pronounced. "We shall set off in the morning. My companions are weary from the long journey, and I believe we will all benefit from clear minds on our journey."
"Make no mistake, Warlock," Draco cautioned. "The route we must follow is long and dangerous. There is a chance that none of you will return from this journey. You must understand this before you commit yourselves to your task."
"I am not one to tarry with words, human," Tarashe retorted. "Warlock Veldoran is the future of Ulthwe. We must do all we can to return him to the Craftworld, even if it means our deaths."
There were murmurs of assent from the gathered Eldar of Ulthwe, including the Harlequins, who nodded vigorously.
"It is settled, then," Macha nodded once more to Draco, who disappeared once more into the recesses of the Webway. "Rest well while you can, my kin. Reaching Biel-Tan was but the first step in a long journey. Some parts of which is hidden even from my sight."
Tarashe inclined his helmet in gratitude. As his entourage left the Dome of Seers, he uttered a short prayer to Isha to vouchsafe their mission. He hoped that it would be enough.
***
It was evening in the downtown DC ruins, by the time the Outcast recon group reached the tunnel which allowed access to the bulk of the ruins themselves. Unsurprisingly, the lack of maintenance had allowed many cave-ins to occur, obscuring direct paths and forcing them to use an insanely circuitous route that left everyone, especially Sandoval himself, irritable and edgy.
The cave-ins proved to be the least of their problems, as the tunnels were infested with all manner of wasteland wildlife, including ghouls and Raiders, who were no match for the Outcasts in their powered armour. Still, the last skirmish had slowed them down some, with Jenkins taking a hit to his thigh, which the team medic had to spend around half-an-hour to patch up. In the end, they had decided to hole up in one of the tunnel's many maintenance rooms to rest and take stock of their supplies.
Sandoval looked about his makeshift camp with irritation. It had become clear to him that their informant might have been wrong with his information, and his team was now paying the price for it. Every single thing seemed to be going wrong, first with the immense detouring, then Jenkins' wound, and now the fact that they might be on a wild goose chase. Sandoval felt a fool, but he knew that it would be extremely detrimental to morale if he were to say it out loud.
Striding briskly over to Jenkins' and sitting down next to him, he sighed. Jenkins seemed somewhat uncomfortable at the attention, and did nothing other than a politely nod and smile.
"I don't bite, Jenkins," Sandoval noted the discomfort bluntly.
"You don't, sir," he agreed. "But… permission to speak freely, sir?"
"Granted," Sandoval raised an eyebrow.
"Shooting the wastelander at Megaton, sir," Jenkins began gingerly. "Did you really have to do it? I mean, sir, we got the information we wanted. Even if Kale went on to tell the sheriff, what could they have done about it?"
Sandoval fought the urge to roll his eyes. "We've been over this. I told you that it would jeopardize the safety of our team, Paul."
Jenkins was startled at the sudden use of his first name. Sandoval had rarely called him by his first name, typically only by his surname and occasionally by his designation… It made him truly sit up and listen.
"What you have to understand is that I only care about two things. My men, and our overall mission, and in that order, you understand?" Sandoval's nostrils flared. "And I'll be damned if I'm about to leave any loose ends when it comes down to ensuring the safety of my men. It's better not to have any surprises when it comes to crunch time."
"Even at the cost of innocent life?" Jenkins protested weakly. "I mean, there could have been other ways to shut him up for good besides killing him."
"Name me two," he narrowed his eyes. Jenkins wilted a little under the glare.
"I… I can't think of one right now," he stammered. "But it seems amoral just to kill in cold blood."
With a quick yank of his right hand, he ripped off his left glove, showing his badly scarred hand, and his comparatively clean palm with a single, white scar cut along the fold of his palm. "You see this scar over here? All the Protectors have this mark. We swore on our blood that we would not repeat the mistakes that Lyons made. We swore to stay true to the original tenets of the Brotherhood of Steel, and continue in the original mission assigned to us by the Elders. I am not about to violate an oath made in blood just because of some moral obligation to others who would likely not return the favour if we did them a kindness."
Jenkins said nothing, lips pressed firmly together.
"We are Outcasts for a reason. We will continue to be Outcasts until the Elders decided to intervene," Sandoval pulled the glove on again, clenching and releasing several times to make sure it was fit snugly upon his hand. "We protect our own, and I would have you remember that. If I fall in battle, you will have to take command. There will be hard decisions, and I trust that you will make the right choices."
Jenkins nodded his blonde head, before pulling up his haversack and placing his head on it. "If you'll excuse me sir, I'm gonna get some shut-eye while I can."
Sandoval smiled humourlessly. "Yeah, do that. I'll get Friedman to check on you later."
He strode out of the room to the adjoining tunnel outside, where two of his subordinates awaited. They nodded briskly, before turning back to their watch duties. Sandoval had offered to command the first watch while the rest slept, and so he pulled up a rotting wooden box and sat on it, feeling it creak slightly under his weight. It was going to be a long night.
Slowly, his subordinates began to loosen up, chatting idly about mundane topics, not the least of which was their medic, Jana Friedman. One of the three women in the ten-person section that Sandoval led, she was also the most attractive, which wasn't saying much considering the other two behaved like men (despite being heterosexual). Of course, their tomboyish behaviour did not endear them much to the rest of the men. Jana was the one with the bedside manner of a true doctor, and had the dexterity of a surgeon (Which she was also trained in, actually), so it was a hands down choice who was to be medic.
Personally, Sandoval did find her attractive, but the fact that he was her commanding officer made it problematic to pursue any sort of romantic relationship with her. She did know of his interest, and welcomed it, but it was to keep their relationship purely professional in nature until a time when they could pursue one safely.
He sighed. It worried him that the West Coast Elders had been silent for so long. It did not bode well that Lyons would be able to go on unchecked in his unsanctioned actions for so long. It made no sense for them to utterly cut off contact to the Capital Wasteland's Brotherhood expedition.
The two guards grew quiet as the object of their discussions emerged from their makeshift campsite. Friedman gave Sandoval a small smile, which Sandoval nodded and returned.
"Something's bothering you," she said as she sat down next to him, voice pitched only for him to hear. "I can see it in your eyes."
"It's nothing, Jana," he replied, trying to wave it off. "Command decisions, that's all."
She giggled a little. "You're a bad liar, Roger."
Sandoval chuckled, a rare occurrence. "Can't hide anything from you, as usual."
Friedman's smile turned coquettish. "No one knows you like I do."
He paused, smile fading from his face. "Jenkins called me out on some of my decisions recently."
"That's normal, isn't it?" she blinked. "If your second in command doesn't speak his mind, he isn't worth the rank, is he?"
"He's not ready, Jana," Sandoval picked up a small piece of brick from the ground and threw it idly at one of the flaming barrels that illuminated the area. It arced through the air and entered squarely into the mouth of the barrel, landing with a muffled 'thunk!'. "I've made a lot of decisions that could have been construed as inhumane or evil, that's true. But the thing is, I did it because the Brotherhood comes first. Paul doesn't understand that."
Friedman was quiet, her canniness and medical training served her well in her role as the group's official counsellor. That look of keen attention, warm support. It made him feel human again.
"He's starting to think like one of Lyons' bunch. Caring for every little wastelander that we come across. Thinking that we should play hero to the lot of them," he continued, picking up a rusty tin can this time. He managed to get it into the barrel again. "We're not humanitarian workers. We're here to do our jobs, and that does not entail holding hands and helping your fellow man. We are soldiers, first and foremost."
She nodded. "Go on."
"I'm worried he might run off to join Lyons', to be honest. And I'll be stuck training a new first officer," he sighed. "Three years he spent as my second-in-command. Three years and he's still as naive as the day he walked in. And because of that, three years of my blood and sweat'll go down the drain."
"You don't know that, Roger," Friedman picked up a can and threw it as well - her aim was just as good as Sandoval's. "Paul's young and impressionable, but he has nothing but the utmost respect for you. Give him time."
"We don't have time, Jana. It's been years since we've heard from the West Coast, and our numbers are dwindling, slowly but surely," he ran a gloved hand over his face tiredly. "First O'Malley and Dunlop, then Linden goes MIA after a skirmish. We're dying out, Jana. There might not be any of us left when the West Coast people show up again."
"You heap too much responsibility on yourself," she shook her head. "It's going to get you killed, one day."
"We're all gonna die one day," he replied, looking her in the eye. She gazed back steadily, and Sandoval found himself lost in those crystal-blue eyes for a moment. Just a moment.
She leaned in close, and he knew she wanted to give him a kiss, but it would not do in front of his subordinates.
"Not now, Jana," he whispered, one hand on her shoulder. "We talked about this."
There was disappointment in her eyes, but she said nothing more.
"If that's all, Medic Friedman," he averted his gaze. "You should get some rest while you can."
"Yes, Protector Sandoval," she replied quietly before entering the maintenance rooms again.
The guards were respectfully silent until the younger one deigned to speak up. "Sir. I'm sorry that I have to say this... But you're an idiot."
"Shut up, Williams," Sandoval allowed himself a rueful smile that he disappeared just as quickly as it appeared.
It was fast approaching night as Veldoran and Lyra trudged back toward Megaton. The stress of their journey and the subsequent violence had taken a toll on the both of them, especially Lyra, whose face was pale and tired. Sweat dripped from her bangs, turning her hair into carved ebony in places where it accumulated. Veldoran was as stoic as always, bearing his own share of the load with indifference. He had withstood worse in his three hundred years. Much worse.
The sky was a light blue tinged with yellow, from the sunlight reflecting off what clouds there were in the sky. She would have made a comment about its beauty if not for the fact that she was too tired to even say anything.
Though her vault-issue boots were ideal for long travel, it had not taken long for blisters to form under her toes, ankles and the front of her foot. Every step was agony in its own right, but still they drove on, intent on reaching Megaton before nightfall. Veldoran, in comparison, seemed to move effortlessly in the roughest of ground, sometimes balancing on one foot when it came to crossing stony areas. He was quick and light, even with his impressive armour on. Lyra felt a little envious at his grace, but knew that it was not something that was taught, but something that all Eldar were innately born with. The grace and speed with which he traversed the distance was nothing short of inspirational. It did help her along somewhat, and she sensed Veldoran's active effort in helping her along by numbing the constant pain in her feet.
They had bumped into few of the wasteland denizens along the way, but it was nothing that they could not take care of. The few bloatflies and molerats were quickly dealt with, often by a stab of Veldoran's witchblade or a shot from Lyra's well-worn pistol.
"I want a bath," Lyra sighed, taking yet another step over a well-worn rock. "I'll die if I don't get one."
Veldoran lifted an eyebrow, amused.
"You're so boring, sometimes, you know that?" she complained, narrowing her eyes in mock irritation. "It's been two hours since you said anything, and all you were doing was warning me about that giant mole-rat."
"Do humans always waste time on pointless words and small talk?" he asked, as they turned into a small ravine.
"Yes," she replied. "We do. We really suck. So sue me."
"Fine," Veldoran returned. "What do you wish to speak of?"
"I dunno," Lyra shrugged tiredly, before cursing at having to climb out of the ravine. "Jeez, that's like the fourth time today!"
Veldoran ascended the ravine wall with deft grace, jumping from stone to stone easily. Once up, he offered a hand to Lyra, who glowered at him despite the gesture.
Pulling her up, a ghost of a smile crossed his face. She did not attempt to engage him in conversation, but he sensed the growing disquiet in her mind about the recent spate of killings she had been subjected to. Especially those she had performed by her hand.
"Killing is a reality you have to accept," he said suddenly, jolting her out of her reverie. She looked somewhat irritated at the sudden-ness of his advice, but said nothing of it. "Death will seek you out in one form or another, whether you seek it or not."
She pressed her lips and looked down, still trudging forward. "I don't like to kill, Vel. But I keep running into situations where I have to do it. It's becoming easier to pull the trigger, and I don't like it."
"It is no shame to learn how to kill," he pronounced, placing a hand unconsciously upon the pommel of his witchblade. "If you learn to kill for the good of your people."
"My father… He taught me that I should treasure all life, no matter its source," she looked at him, and he was struck by the earnestness in her eyes. "That all life is sacred."
Touched and somewhat amused by her naiveté, he gave her a small, thin smile. Very few things had made him smile outside of childhood and adolescence, but the fact that he was listening to a human say these words was somewhat jarring and ironic, considering the near-psychotic zeal of humanity in his native time. Once again, he was struck by the truly sad fact that humanity would transition from such a moderate mindset to that of utter zealotry.
"My father truly believed in it," she continued. "Not surprising, considering the fact he used to be a doctor."
"You speak as if he is dead," Veldoran observed. "Why is that?"
"He might be," she replied sadly. "I have no other news of him other than what we plucked from Moriarty's head. And from all accounts, the capital city ruins are an extremely dangerous place."
"We will find him," he replied firmly. "Regardless of whether he lives or dies. I have seen as much from the casting of the runes."
He patted the satchel on his belt.
"You've already done that?" she looked at him with wonderment.
"Yes, but I can see no further from the fact that we will find him. There will be many who will block our path, some friend and some foe. The road will be difficult and fraught with lies and deceit," his eyes glazed over as he recalled the formation of symbols within his mind. "And I fear that my arrival may only serve to complicate matters further."
***
Colonel Augustus Autumn stood in the main command hub of Raven Rock, his brow furrowed in thought. It had been some time since he had ordered increased surveillance on the Brotherhood of Steel and their Outcast brethren, and the results had been most disturbing indeed. They were obviously searching for something, something big. Whatever it was, it had to do with technology, and Autumn had a strong feeling that it would have many implications for the future.
The Enclave had always maintained a technological edge over the Brotherhood of Steel, considering that they actually possessed the industrial facilities to create and produce advanced technology like the powered armour and energy weapons that the Enclave was both known and feared for. What Autumn feared most of all was that whatever they were chasing, it could possibly bridge the technological gap, and shift the balance of power in the Capital Wasteland. Already several kill-teams of Enclave soldiers were scouring the Wasteland for signs of any Brotherhood or Outcast personnel, intent on interrogating and eliminating this nascent threat, but so far, the trail had gone cold. Intercepted communiqués were still in the process of being decoded by the Enclave's best cryptographers and cryptography software (Which also borrowed processing power from the supercomputer nestled within the bowels of the Raven Rock facility).
President Eden had been accommodating, as always, and work had been progressing at a steady rate for some time now. It was merely the waiting, the anticipation of things to come, that was driving him insane. Daily reports of minor skirmishes with both Outcast and Brotherhood personnel were piled on his desk, yielding little insight except for the location of their patrols, which happened to cluster around a settlement by the name of Megaton. So far, infiltration missions into the settlement had yielded little viable intelligence, considering the insular nature of the inhabitants, and their thinly veiled suspicions regarding outlanders.
"Colonel Autumn," a blonde-haired Enclave scientist by the name of Jerrold handed him a printout communiqué from one of their many patrols. "Another encounter. Near the capital ruins. They spotted Outcast personnel heading into one of the metro tunnels granting access to interior of the ruins. Agenda unknown."
He read the description given by the kill-team, of the overall leader of the Outcast troop detachment, and of the various equipment and personnel dispositions of his ragtag team. He knew this man from intelligence reports, one of the premier Outcast leaders by the name of Sandoval. By all accounts, he was a man of formidable combat prowess, having wiped out several Enclave patrol groups through judicious use of infantry tactics during his tenure as a Paladin in the Brotherhood. It was because of him that both the Brotherhood of Steel and the Outcasts had access to plasma weapons, a technology which had formerly been exclusive to the Enclave.
"D'you have orders for them, sir?" Jerrold asked, squinting through his glasses.
"Tell them to keep their distance," he said finally, handing the paper back to Jerrold. "This man is dangerous. Unless they have a deathwish, they should avoid engagement or detection at all costs."
"Yes sir," he replied, with a nod that nearly messed up his well-styled blonde hair. "I'll relay the orders at once."
If the Outcasts had sent their best man to do the job (short of their leader), there was something of significance that they did not wish to lose. It made no sense to waste such skill and manpower on a project that would not yield a decisive advantage. Also, intelligence reports gathered from other reconnaissance units had detailed that the Brotherhood of Steel's elite unit, a troop section named Lyons' Pride, was also in the downtown D.C. area. Their proximity was no coincidence. Definitely not.
It was all coming together, he knew. It made all the sense in the world, and he was in the perfect position to claim the prize.
If only he knew what it was.