The woman grunted as she rested in the ancient ditch that once carried water brought forth by storms to who knows where. She had her teeth firmly grinding on the sinful luxury in her maw known as a cigarette while she fiddled with a lighter in her grasp, some damsel with wings painted on the item. "Piece of shit…" she growled out, annoyance in her voice as the lighter finally sputtered to life with the small flame quickly brought to her cigarette.
With it being brought to the fuse of dynamite that the courier quickly picked up, the sparks illuminated the ditch in the pitch darkness of night. Finally, she flicked the lighter shut as she threw the explosive into the air and blindly a few yards away, earning a pair of scared yelps.
"DYNAMITE-!"
The following explosion of gunpowder and light muffled whatever the MP as they ducked away, hopefully, blown to shreds. "Fuckers are resilient, I'll give em that…", or they were just stupid...Six was hoping they were the first. With a huff of the piece of tobacco, the woman slowly shifted onto her knees and peeked over the edge of the ditch she occupied.
Nothing she could see, as if she could see in this darkness, "Should have asked for new eyes…", the courier whispered to herself while her right arm reached down, gripping onto the straps of her duffle bag of goodies.
"...You fuckers alive?" she ten asked out into the darkness.
"...Yes."
"DUDE!"
...it would seem they're idiots.
She sighed as she pinched the brow of her forehead while she crouched back down into a squat, with her duffle bag being quickly slung over her shoulder as her hand drifted down to the cigarette. She took a long, annoyed exhale before she slipped the cigarette back into her lips, "I ain't in the mood for this shit." nor was her body.
She never figured she'd be spending most of her retirement like this, well who expected to be chucking sticks of dynamite out from a trench when they're forty-two? Three?
...was she getting old?
"Nope, it's the alcohol," she told herself as she glanced to her bag of goodies, so many options, yet so little options, and little patience on her part.
"So...you're really doing it…" the hoarse voice of Jericho filled the silence of the outer area of Megaton, "About damn time, in my opinion, wasteland ain't the same."
"..."
He himself was silent as he tightened his grip on a piece of rope and tugged, ensuring his luggage remained properly held by his beast of burden, a singular Brahmin. He had made sure to pack most of the items he needed, the rest he either destroyed, sold off, or gave to old friends or allies that he owed favors. Yet back to his elder companion's words, he had to agree, the capital wasteland was changing, the raider population had been culled and forced out of the area. Super mutants and their production had pretty much ceased, forcing them to make an exodus with the escaping Raiders, and that made a can of beans he didn't like opening.
By making the Capital wasteland better, he had also made the surrounding area outside of it worse…
Thus was the way of Newton's third law.
Even then that didn't bring up the fact of how people were working hard to reclaim and scavenge what they could from the metropolis. Feral Ghouls, Mirelurks, and every other dangerous mutated creature were slowly being cleared out.
This all brought up a major question?
Who deserved what?
D.C. was a sprawling and bustling city before the war, and afterward many of its treasures were abandoned because of the super mutants and raiders. The Brotherhood had voiced that they held the rightful ownership of every piece of tech, weaponry, and other items they deemed unworthy of the wasters. Rivet City argued that such items belonged to them, as they were a growing community that did help with supplying the Brotherhood of new recruits, and that with such items, their expansion could be much more efficient.
Of course, Underworld had tried to voice their opinion, but they were sadly blocked out by the other two communities.
Then there was the talon company…
By all means, they were mercenaries, they were fighting because someone paid them to, and their hostile decisions could be excused in some way. They knew D.C was still on the frying pan, about to leap into the flame, they were going to side with who knows what and hope to get something out of it.
If not, they'd betray the victor.
"Hey Jericho…"
"Finally gonna speak kid, about time" the raider grunted out with hoarse cough and spat to the side. The wanderer sighed as he picked up his sleeping roll and strapped it unto the brahmin, "Yeah, sorry, but I have a lot on my plate."
"Oh you do for once, well guess what, so do I…"
"Jericho, I just want to ask for a goddamn shovel!"
"A shovel? Do I look like a farmer to you?"
"I don't know, did make more compost in your pants?"
"That was one time dickweed!"
"Yeah, I know, I was there!"
"Fuck you."
"Fuck you too."
There was a silence between the two men before James sighed, "Fine I'll go ask Moira, keep an eye on the Brahmin" he told the former raider. "You best not take your time…" was Jericho's final words to his companion as the younger man entered the city.