Mojave Wasteland

September 22nd 1:29 pm

2267

"They're over there, Private," Sergeant Major Dominguez said. Sydney wasn't as social as Rem was, and had headed in another direction. She figured she would meet the rest of the Rangers when the time was right.

"Thank yew, sir," Rem responded, pacing in the direction of a house that was detached from the rest. It was very quiet, too, and there were no people anywhere near it.

"Stay towards the front door!"

Rem turned around, finding Dominguez there staring at him, and wondered why things were so complicated when it involved these two Rangers.

"Yes, sir!"

He turned around again. His helmet was off, held in one of his hands while his other held his rifle. The sole of his boot dragged along the floor as he reached the front door and knocked on it with his helmet.

"Put your helmet on!"

Are yew serious?

He turned around again, giving Dominguez a glance before following orders. Upon turning to face the front door one final time, he found himself staring at a lower torso. Every inch of his body paused.

Then, he dragged his eyes upward until he found a large, green face staring into each of his visors. Even for super mutants, this guy was enormous. Must've been around ten feet tall, or a few inches over, and despite the fact that his clothes had clearly been made specifically for him, likely by Ranger Center, his muscles bulged against them. It was a wonder how they hadn't completely lost their use at this point.

He wore a tattered duster over improvised iron armor that was much, much thicker and heavier than what any human being could lumber around in. It, too, was marked by bullet holes and . . . Rem stopped, his eyes focusing under the helmet.

An enormous claw mark spanned the iron, and memories of the Deathclaw he encountered three years ago returned.

"Yeah?"

His voice rumbled deeply, like two faults grinding against one another deep inside the Earth. It took Rem a few moments to knock himself out of the idea that this super mutant may have taken on a Deathclaw close range sometime in his past.

"Uh, yeah, sir."

"Bolders," he corrected.

"Bolders," Rem answered, nodding assuredly.

"I don't like applying rank to myself. I haven't reported in to Ranger Center in too long."

Rem had to wonder how that worked. He probably just let Captain Salmons handle the decisions, and followed orders.

"Come on in," he said, straightening out. Now that the mutant wasn't crouched to peer through the door, Rem couldn't see his head on the other side of the doorway. After a pause, he followed in and turned, closing the door when the house shuddered.

He calmly turned to see what it was and found that it happened because Bolders sat down on the floor. Unfortunately for him, there were no chairs that could sustain his weight.

"So, boy," he took a glance at Rem. His armor, in particular.

"You don't look like you seen much action. Fresh out of the Center?"

In the midst of his question, he procured an enormous cigar that he had likely rolled himself and then dragged a match across his cheek and lit it. As the fire caught on, he drew a deep breath and calmly let the smoke escape through his nostrils.

"Naw, sir. I'm a deployed Ranger. I just recently earned my armor, though."

"Oh, I thought the four Rangers coming in were all going to be fresh out of the Center. That's good news."

"It ain't so bad," Rem answered, taking a seat on a chair nearby. He set the butt of his rifle down against the floor beside him and kept it upright with his hand.

"Corporal Daley's got a mini gun. Yew can bet yer ass that when he lets that thang rip, Legionaries are gonna piss their pants. Sergeant Crawford's got a sniper rifle, and she's good under pressure. Real good. And then there's Pat. She ain't a Ranger. She was travelin' wit' me, but she's mean, and she's lived her whole life out in the wastes."

Bolders nodded very slowly, still caught in the throes of a smoky, but gentle, bliss, "Not bad. I was worried we would get a bunch of Rangers that were wet behind the ears."

Rem remembered the Sergeant Major's description of Bolders. He figured that Bolders wasn't just the biggest guy in this detail, he was the biggest guy in the whole of the Desert Rangers.

"How'd you get that?"

The Private's focus returned and he looked down at his bloody pants leg, which had the blood wiped off, but the stain was still there.

"Got into it with some Legionaries in Bunkerville."

"That was you?"

"Yes. Sergeant Crawford and I."

"Nice job. I heard you were in charge behind Corporal Daley. Why wasn't the Sergeant in charge?"

"Captain Salmons promoted her just now. I was second in charge because I seen more action than both of 'em."

"Makes sense."

"Who are you talking to?"

The alien voice garnered each of their attentions from somewhere else in the establishment, and Rem noticed something very odd about it.

"One of the other Rangers! One of the ones who killed eight Legionaries in Bunkerville!"

Out loud, Bolders' voice lost some of its vibration, but still sounded very, very clear when compared to many of the mutants Rem had seen and met before in the past. It also reached him just then that Bolders wasn't wearing vices to keep his lips out of the way.

"That's Mortekai. You met me already. Go meet him."

Bolders watched as Rem stood and paced into the hallway. He was glad he could just sit around and enjoy his cigar now. There was no puff that went unsavored.

Rem didn't need any more directions when he went into the hallway. He came across one of the rooms that, instead of a door, had a transparent wall in front of it instead. On the other side, there was a desk up against it, holding it in place, and a chair with a Desert Ranger in full armor seated atop it. Like Bolders and Dominguez, his armor had a lot of battle marks on it.

"Private Peregrine, sir."

"Mortekai, please."

"Mortekai," Rem assured.

"Fresh out of Ranger Center?"

"I'm a deployed Ranger. I just earned my armor."

"Oh, alright."

Up close, Mortekai's voice was even weirder. Was it his helmet? No, it must be the glass. Yeah, the glass.

"Sir, I have to ask," he reached forth and knocked on the glass, which was bulletproof, probably taken from the post office and put here, "What's goin' on wit' this glass?"

"They haven't told you yet?"

"Uh, no, sir."

He breathed out, "Heh, they have a dandy old time with this. Especially Dominguez, that dumb ass."

Without further adieu, Mortekai reached up towards his helmet and began pulling it off. Rem watched closely, and the moment that there was a gap between the helmet and the ridges it settled into, an emerald glow emanated from within.

The helmet finally came off and Rem was staring at a glowing ghoul who hadn't lost his sentience. Now he understood why Mortekai was the brightest guy in the detail.

"It's for your own good, what with the radiation I let out."

"Oh shit . . . "

"What, never seen a glowing ghoul before?" As he asked, his helmet thudded onto the desk he was seated in front of.

Now without the helmet, Mortekai's voice was easily dissected. There was a ghostly echo that followed after it. That was definitely something he wouldn't want to hear at night, all alone somewhere.

"No sir . . . I mean," he answered, forgetting to call Mortekai by name.

"I have, Mortekai, I just ain't ever seen one still . . . yew know, normal. All the ones I ever seen are always tryin' to rip people to shreds."

"Yeah well, first time for everything."

The openings in Mortekai's skin gave way for portions of meat that readily glowed with that same, emerald brilliance, and while Rem stared, there was silence. Mortekai's eyes stared into his guest's visors for a good long while before suddenly, he drew his revolver out from its holster on his hip and fired.

Rem flinched and nearly ran for cover, but stopped when he realized that the glass had stopped the bullet.

"What the fuck is wrong with yew?"

Bolders bellowed laughter that they both could hear all the way from the living room.

"Sorry kid, I thought you were falling asleep," he mocked.

Rem watched in astonishment as Mortekai spun the revolver around his index finger and let it fall straight back into its holster. With his head tilted, Mortekai returned the glance. Nothing was said again.

"Am I gonna have to knee cap you to keep you awake, kid? Or should I blast you with radiation?"

"No," answered Rem.

It wasn't his intention to be silent, but he found himself unable to come up with what he wanted to say.

"We're done talking?"

He breathed out and composed himself, and even though he was still processing if whether he even wanted to have a conversation with a person who made sport out of shooting at people, the pressure that Mortekai put on him convinced him to just talk, even if it was just the first question that came to mind.

"How long yew been a Desert Ranger?"

"Around a hundred and fifty years," he answered, his right hand lifting off the revolver's grip. "I was there from the beginning, just about. I originated from Vault twelve, made my way east when some of the people there got violent with one another. I eventually arrived at Ranger Center. They took me in, trained me, and here I am."

"Damn, yer from way back then. How come I never heard o' yew?"

"Andre and I have been traveling out east for about ninety years now. We haven't reported in to Ranger Center, and I guess none of the Rangers we've met have gone back to mention us, either. According to Ranger Center, we're either dead or living somewhere far away from here. I don't know if Colonel Watts mentioned us."

"He might've mentioned yew to President Muller, but he only told us we were meetin' higher rankin' Desert Rangers over here."

"Mhm."

"So, what's it like further east?"

"Everywhere you go is a wasteland, kid. There are factions. Some are good, some aren't; same as here."

"Why did yew come back this way?"

"We wanted to see how things were going closer to home. We found Caesar's Legion, so we decided to stick around for the war."

"Hmph," he breathed out in amused surprise, "Never thought I'd meet anybody like yew and Bolders. How old is Bolders?"

"Few hundred. He was part of the Master's army out west."

"Master's army?"

"Ask him about it. It's a damn long story. He's tired of telling it to people and I'm tired hearing about it. You might get lucky, though."

". . . Awright. Are yew a pre war ghoul?"

Mortekai leaned back in his chair, "Shit, if I had known how many questions you would ask if I encouraged you to talk, I never would have wasted a damn bullet. Yes, I'm a pre-war ghoul. Do you know about Necropolis?"

"Nope."

"Necropolis was formed atop a Vault that I took shelter in when the bombs dropped. The damn door didn't close right, so we got hit with radiation. Some died, some turned into ghouls."

"Did all of 'em turn into glowin' ghouls?"

"Nope. I got captured by some Enclave scientists on my way east to where I would eventually find Ranger Center. They put me in a bucket full of liquid radioactive waste to see what extreme exposure to radiation would do to a ghoul. It turned me into this."

". . . Enclave, huh. The wasteland's boogeymen."

"The scientists left me there alone for a few hours and I managed to get the hell out. Escaped into the wasteland, and reached Ranger Center."

"That's one hell of a story."

"That's the short version."

"Uh," Rem paused, "What were the pre war days like?"

Mortekai began putting on his helmet, "That's enough questions for today."

Once Rem was gone, Sydney was left to move on along the town of Littlefield all by herself. She did so silently, walking past the people that watched her go by without saying anything. There was something about her quiet way of carrying herself that caused everyone who saw her to stay away from her in general.

She didn't get through it without hearing a few murmurs about herself. Some of them, the ones she could vaguely make out, commented on how much less talkative she was than the others.

Her steps eventually led her to the one place she found any interest in. The outskirts of the town, which were decorated by crucified Legionaries.

The same smell that there had been back in Bunkerville, of burned bodies, dry blood, urine, and feces, reached her after entering the vicinity. Her nose scrunched up in disgust before she reached up to her helmet, toggling something that caused the air filter to activate.

With her sniper rifle hanging off the fingers of her left hand, she started to pace from the first cross towards the others, glancing at each of the Legionaries as she did. They looked so pathetic.

One of them in particular had a plethora of injuries all throughout his legs. She could tell that some of the bones had been broken. The thought that the people here had savagely beaten the man and followed it up with crucifixion was harsh, but strangely, she didn't harbor an aversion to that kind of treatment. After what they turned Bunkerville into, they deserved it. .

After she reached the last one, she came to a stop and stared up at the Legionary's face. This one must have been in his late twenties, dead like all the others. For a few seconds . . .

His eyes slowly opened, and Sydney's body tensed. As he came back to life, the cross he was nailed onto creaked in protest, especially when his biceps tightened and attempted to lift him.

This one was different, very different, to the man in Bunkerville that she had killed. His eyes didn't reflect the pain of his body. They reflected anger and an undying ferocity, the type a man might only see on a caged animal.

"Go on, profligate . . . stare, learn, fear . . . " He coughed out, but promptly cleared his throat and continued, "This shall be the fate of your men."

Because of Sydney's curves up against the jeans she was wearing, he was able to make out that he was speaking with a female. Otherwise, her helmet would have kept it a secret.

"Caesar's Legion will come," he nodded his head slowly, "We will cut a swath across Arizona and well into Nevada."

Sydney sneered.

"We? Being up there must make it hard to see reality for what it is. Whatever the Legion does from now on will be done without you."

"Please, profligate. Legionaries are Legionaries in battle, captivity, and in death. Such is what makes us strong. Such is what kept me from spilling when they attempted to torture me for information."

As he spoke, he took a glance down at her armor, noting how different it looked as opposed to the others he had seen. What that led him to believe was that the Desert Ranger he was staring at was new at this.

"In time, you will understand that, the way the others do. You haven't seen it yet, profligate, but there is pain among your ranks, whereas my comrades will not even remember my face as they butcher you."

"So far, the Rangers I've met look like they're doing just fine."

"Perhaps . . . " he answered, his voice growing tired, "But if you truly believe that . . . why not test it? Mention Rebecca . . . to the one they call Dominguez, and watch as the pain strips away the facade. Tell him that she will soon be fit to bear our children, and see it worsen."

The intensity with which he stared at her, and the conviction with which his voice reverberated in her ear . . . planted a seed of doubt in her. She turned away and paced to her left.

"I saw what your friends did with Bunkerville. They left crucified men behind."

"That image will be with you for the rest of your life, profligate. Now, when your men are crucified, all the way to the years you spend enslaved."

"I wasn't finished," she claimed, "My superior and I, we ended the suffering there. You, on the other hand, are still suffering."

"So is Dominguez, and soon, the same will be said of you. Soon, the ones you love will suffer the same fate that your predecessors have suffered for a long, long time. And believe me, you, people who have lost . . . will suffer longer than I ever have, or ever will. You will not see an end to it until the day you die."

"If you're right, we'll have something in common," she answered, drawing her revolver from her hip and pointing it up at his head. Without hesitation, she pulled the trigger and the bullet that burst forth blew a hole through the Legionary's head, splattering blood against the wood behind him.

That sound of her revolver echoed through the whole city. She lowered her hand just as the community wide alarm came on. The improvised car alarm sounded off, letting everyone know that it was time to gear up.

Before long, guards ran into the vicinity and Dominguez followed after them, his laser rifle held firmly in hand while Sydney simply waited.

"What's going on, Sergeant?"

"Sir, I executed the Legionary."

"Sergeant, might I inquire as to why you decided to end the Legionary's suffering?"

As she stared into the Sergeant Major's helmet, his words about Rebecca kept repeating themselves in her head.

"He pissed me off."

The conviction with which he was questioning her softened. Then, he turned to the others and spoke, "Go let everyone know that nothing is wrong here."

"Yes sir."

The other Littlefield citizens turned and left as Dominguez removed his helmet. Now that she could see his face, she couldn't help but keep wondering about what the Legionary had said. Should she mention Rebecca to the Sergeant Major?

I doubt there's any substance behind it, she thought.

"What'd he say to set you off, Sergeant?"

"He said that I would suffer more than he has, and that I wouldn't see an end to it until the day I die. I answered saying that if he was right, then we'll have something in common. Then I shot him."

Dominguez cackled.

"I like you already, Sergeant."

After patting her on the shoulder strongly, he turned around and began walking.

"He also mentioned a Rebecca."

The Sergeant Major's body came to a full stop, and he slowly turned around again while Sydney scrutinized him for the response. The look in his eye was vividly different to what she had been used to up until then, and that was when she knew that the Legionary hadn't been lying. There was pain.

"Rebecca?"

He stepped forth, "Is . . . is she . . . did he say where she was?"

His voice became louder, and despair tinged his facial features.

"No . . . "

"No? But . . . wait, if he knows about her, then she must still be somewhere nearby. I have to find her! I don't give a damn what the Captain says!"

It hit her, the damage she had done. She panicked, and searched for the quickest way to remedy it. There was no doubting that if the Captain found out that she caused the Sergeant Major's defection, she would face major repercussions.

"He said she was dead, Sergeant Major."

"What?"

He turned to her, and the look in his eyes lost any and all intensity they may have had before

"But she was only a little girl . . . why would they . . . "

"I'm sorry, Sergeant Major. Maybe I shouldn't have mentioned it."

"No," he held his hand up, "It's . . . don't worry about it," with that, he turned away again and began walking away very quickly. As he put more and more distance between them, she couldn't help but realize how much of an idiot she had been.

The pain in the Sergeant Major's face stayed with her even after he left.

The thought of Rebecca being dead, that pretty little girl, with her red hair, green eyes, and her innocent demeanor . . . choked him. Sitting there, alone in a room that was lit by a silver light, Dominguez slowly slipped into a blissful reverie of the day he found her.

She was five years old. Her father had just succumbed to injuries that he received after fighting a group of White Legs. She had nowhere to go, nothing to do other than wait for the horrors of the wasteland to swallow her and end her life.

He also remembered himself during those days.

So much history of fighting, so much time spent losing loved ones; it had left him as nothing more than a shell of a man. There was no soul there, no love. Just hate. Hate for the wasteland and hate for the people who kept feeding into that endless cycle of death and suffering.

Rebecca changed all of that.

The day he took her into his arms and told her everything would be okay, she gave him his humanity back. He became a father for five years, and he swore that he would never let anything happen to her. But then . . . then something did happen, and she was taken away from him, nothing left behind but blood, corpses, and most of all, pain.

A bunch of enraging memories containing the words that Captain Salmons told him manifested. A lot of bullshit about how he couldn't go looking for her because she had been gone for days, and she was likely already in Flagstaff. That hadn't been enough to stop him. He picked death over accepting that Rebecca was gone, but Salmons persisted, urging him to understand that his fellow Desert Rangers needed him.

Who? Bolders? Mortekai?

It hit him suddenly. Bolders had tortured that Legionary, asking for information, and he had likely been told something about Rebecca as well. Anger flooded him over.

That bastard. He didn't say anything!

His fingers tightened into fists, but then all of that emotion gradually faded away into sorrow again, into helpless, debilitating sorrow. She was dead.

It became too much, so he stood up and yanked a cabinet out of its slot and dropped everything inside to the floor. A bunch of syringes came out, some of them still full of liquid.

That numb sensation a med-x high could give him was what had kept him sane throughout those days. It was what gave him the chance to replace the sorrow with determination. He needed it.

He stuck a syringe into his thigh and pushed the piston down, ignoring the pain of when the liquid forced its way in. After throwing that one away, he followed up with another and dropped onto his rear again with his back against a wall. There, he waited for help to arrive.

It never did. The tolerance he had built up for it stunted the effect.

Another one.

His hand reached for another hypo on the floor and, with a slow but sufficient efficacy, he stuck another needle into the same area as before. The syringe bounced off the floor a few times after he discarded it, rolling away from his body as he pressed the back of his head against the wall.

"Rebecca . . . I'm sorry. I told you I'd give you a better life."

His eyes turned pink, and tears flooded the eyelids, rolling out onto his cheeks as he began regretting having never just left with her. He never should have taken part in this damn war.

Mindlessly, he reached for another syringe and found the last one. With it in hand, he stabbed it into his thigh. The liquid flowed into his body and spread into the bloodstream.

This time, he no longer had the mind to pull it out and toss it aside.

It wasn't until that fourth syringe that the transcendent relaxation reached him. The thoughts that had pained him so evaporated, like hot gas, and the euphoria followed. It felt so good. So free. Rebecca started to disappear from his memory. Those following moments of mercy were just what he wanted to have. It would help him cope.