- Whirling Triangle Fist Presente -
Two men. This is what it took to bring up this little scumbag through out 200 km of scorched roads onto the Inner Canadian Highway 40, straight to the Capitale. The medical truck wearing the flamming Q in front of the Lilly Flower only made around thirty kms on his way back. A blooming explosion flipped the car around like a turtle on its shell. Gravity smeared the driver's face with his own blood. He couldn't help but to cough quite a bit after regaining consciouness. Smoke's coming out from somewhere; the cooling liquid is probably leaking. The power source is heating up now and the engin is about to set on fire.
It means it's going to blow sky high.
They might not have enough time to get out of reach of the explosion. Him and his co-pilote - one of those wack-head from the reforme programme - might be toasted. Poor guy, he got a shrapnel stuck on his neck. It seems he has gaven up on breathing. That might be why the driver is the only one coughing.
It was supposed to be a simple pick up mission, even if the plan made no sense at all. Driver gets it. Orders. But it was stupid and the État Major does not send people to bring up low-profile criminals, usualy. They "recrute" them.
- Created by Gabriel D. Arouth / Pascal "Ramael" Cadieux -
Driver can't reach the botton of his seat belt. His muscles scream in agony each time he tries to move even the slightest. All those push-ups, his physical and mental training to hold back the pain, but then in a moment of crisis, he can't reach his hip.
That's a shitty morning to be alive.
Driver's blood slides across his veins and stops at the brain. His vision gets blurry. Despite all that, the guy still can see some shape moving at the distance. Maybe two. Maybe he sees double.
They seem armed.
- Based on the successful franchise Fallout from BesthesdaGames Studio -
- Hey! does he yell roughly. Don't be stupid! I'm NRQ troop!
The shapes raise their weapons. That's one hell of shitty morning.
Nymeland Chronicles; the eerie rumors of Fallout Québec
Driver dodges twenty-eight buckshots, somehow. Well, his face did. Finally managing to buckle off his seat belt at the last moment, the death blow bumped painfully on the right leg instead.
"That's not so bad", says the driver to himself while crawling towards the back of the truck. He shiverishly puts his back against the armored walls. His eyes are fixed on the mess made when the whole thing flipped on itself. The guys outside, they must be the friends of this little scum. They are reshaping the structure with bullets. The prisoner is among the rubbles of medical equipements - what a waste of good equipement.
"That's not so bad", repeats the victim of this shit show as his leg goes numb. The temperature dropped faster than that damn truck after the explosion. Driver was only kept lucide by the fire power orchestra outside of his safe box, and the choking smoke coming from the engin.
This whole mission was absurde. Him and the other reformee dickhead got into a trap. A trap the État Major certainly knew about. And yet, they didn't send a bird to get the kid. And yet, they send soemone in the first place. What a waste!
- That's... not so bad... not... not s-so bad, studders the poor driver, a shaky hand pressed against his wound - that poor, poor...
- Poor lil' 'titte marde, says a young arrogant voice from under the bent stretcher turned upside down.
It suddenly got worst real fast.
Episode 1 - All for one...
Previously...
Music of an old time came out of an even older gramophone, standing next to one of the windows of the Bouffe'N Boom! - its door always openned to everyone. The singer was complaining with a whistling voice, crying about falling in love too easily. Estelle adored the melancolic tunes with somehow positive vibe. She was dansing softly while roasting disproportionnate chicken legs.
- Yé bin whiny, ton dude! said a very familiar young voice entering the snack bar.
- Rn't you suppose practice ton english today, yung man? Estelle asked.
- Facts: I'm supposed to teach you, ma belle Estoux, the "young man" replied, sitting on his favorite stool. H'ven't you heard, "tongues" are my specialities. But since you'r married?
- J't'ai miss en osti, 'tit cul, she said with a smile - one of Estelle's beautiful smiles...
She turned around the counter and surrended the little man in her arms to hug him with all of her might. He stayed scotched to her breast a bit longer than needed, but it didn't bother Estelle.
- T'ètès où?
- English, relish!
- S'cuse. Where y'been?
- Here'n there. Makin' friends. Havin' a great time. Then moved on. Made other friends and had even better time... et cetera-et cetera.
- Wow. Sounds fun (she rubbed the kid's shoulder with genuine warm). Must've roll your boots quite a bunch.
- Meh... not really. Not as far as I wanted. Wish I met more friends, y'kno.
- Guess you didn't stick around Doc very long, then.
The young lad rolled his eyes and shoved two fingers down his throat to provok a gagging. Estelle chuckled for a second but she didn't approved the boy's reaction. Doc deserved all the respect he earned over the years.
- He deserves the smooth sunscreen he never had, that's for sure!
- Com'on... Be nice.
Both stayed awkwardly silent for an instant. The boy shown some contradictory emotions through his facial traits but never said a word to let them out. The mature woman saw the possible distress she intilled in him and felt painfully sorry for that. Hesitant asking that question, she went through with it knowing it might get things worst.
- You... miss them? Sometimes?
- Like the world miss nuclear bombs. I'm hungry but I'm capless like a ghoul.
- You kno's not true, what y'say about ghouls, Estelle correted with that smartass look - one of Estelle's beautiful looks.
- Whatever. Can I wash the dishes à place? S'te-pliiiiiit...
The face the boy made, with his narrowed eyes and his stretched smile, melted her woman's heart just as he was nine years old.
- Sure. Don't let pots soak forever, this time.
Her young friend jumped off his stool to ran inside the kitchen as fast as possible. She gently slaped his butt with her cloath and went back roasting chicken.
It didn't took long before music from the gramophone got submerged by some hysterical singing and clanking sounds on empthy pots. This song, this damn song, it took her back several years behind. Apparently, it was a jingle composed for a cat food comercial on television. The kid got obsessed from the first time he heard it. Singing it at loud to fill any silence he could. You could tell he is playing it inside his head when you are talking to him - he began to chatter his teeth to the beat of the music.
It was a wonderful tread down to memory lane... but she reached the end of the trail real fast.
Jérry came in a hurry, traversed by a steady panic. Station, the mystic Station, their hometown, was getting under attack by a raider pack from NoGo Island. Jérry said Lawrent was finishing inspecting the weapons at the gates. They needed her to start gathering women and children, get them to safety.
Her heart was pounding violently inside her chest, pumping blood too fast. She almost forgot how it felt. The rush... the anger... the rage. Estelle agreed to set everything in motion and join the battle as soon as possible. Jérry looked satisfied so he turned around and left the little cafe behind. Music was still playing quietly and that shook Estelle up. She ran into the kitchen to see if her friend was doing O.K.
But the kid was gone. This was a week ago.
Then...
Gunshots stopped knocking few seconds earilier, leaving Driver and the prisoner in the middle of a deadly stare contest. Of course, Driver has his service weapon holstered. He's not usually a bad shot, but never he had to fire a protenticial thread while using his good hand to preserve his own life. The forehead got feverish - any of those drops could hamper his vision. Nothing could garantee his aim is not going to be a little too shaky. And trigger's not modified for rapid fire.
Moment's crucial. Focus must be as sharp as it gets. Only one thing missing...
- T'âs pus l'air confident anymore, mon grô fart-face.
It was an euphemism. Driver should have raise the white flag instead. He should have centred all his efforts on slowing the bleeding. He should have let this asshole go. But an escaped reformee is a dead one. Even if it's just a potential candidate. That's the rules.
Driver draw his gun only to feel the trigger ring twist painfuly around his index. One shot is fired close to his ear, leaving a deafening, drilling buzz whistling inside the poor man skull. Time lacks to fully appreciate the sensation before a train comes punching his throat, finishing to take Driver out of combat. The little guy has reflexes. He knows what he's doing.
Suppose that's good enough for a white flag.
Driver is now half blind and half deaf, coughing his lungs through a bruised trachea. The head spinning but he still remembers to put pressure on his wound. Life depends on it.
Suddenly, a brust of light splashes over his blurry line sight. Very few informations transpire. There's a silhouette, that's for sure. It's pointing a weapon at the driver but soon lowers it to help the prisoner to get out of the truck.
Oh! and what the hell. They can have him, for what it's worth. Driver is just going to stay quietly there, waiting. No fuzz, no chasing. Only the cold focus of death on the wound he got to his right leg, or the grim dark smoke scraping the inside of his throat with unbearable irritation.
Soon, there's sounds of screeching tires on the cracked pavement. That's fine. The NRQ don't need another reformee, after all. Driver is just going to rest a little. He doesn't feel pain anymore. Sure, it's cold in here. Whatever... That's not so bad. It wasn't so bad either when the unstable fusion core bursted into the engin, atomising what remain of the armored truck and all in it... specially the wounded driver.
Afterwards...
From the back of the old pick-up, sounds were muffled. The kid had to hide inside a huge duffle bag and was specificly told not to move an inch. Jack is a serious mercenary. With a reputation. The kind of reputation you never question the veracity; just as you never question his orders.
Since the man had to pick up this "cargo" around the North Shore, passing through Dock is mandatory to get back to the South.
Saint-Lawrence River is quiet, today. No sight of giant mutated crustacean or worst. The bridges connecting the sunken battleships are unoccupied, which is always the case for this time of the year. But somehow, security is tighter than usual. Apparently, it has to do with some fugitive. Ensign Bistro at the first post says Captain Fournier of Dock's militia might want a word with Jack, concerning a very lucrative bounty. The soldier understands, 'though, that a man of principals like le Grand Jack might be in the middle of something. The mercenary does not exclude coming back shortly today, since he's one of the few with rolling wheels around here.
The road is long and the young man in the trunk is not a patient one. Feeling like tempting the atome devils a little, he unzippes the duffle bag to take a glimpse of where they are and where they're heading towards.
There's nothing to see so far except dry forests here and there, large empty fields of dead cropes - there's only one ghost town in the entire area. This is where Jack tells to the kid to go back into hiding, in case they meet NAA's patrols. The young brat could've exhaust his breath as much as he liked, saying he did nothing wrong. Jack is not a good talker, even less good listener.
After around forty-two minutes of driving past Dock, the car finally stops. The boy does not wait for the engin to shut down before taking off. He is greeted by a familiar face. A face he did not wanted to see.
- Ah for cock's sake, pâs toé!
The old skin growls, arms crossed to his chest. He's accompanied by a middle age good-looking gal dressed like a soldier and another old mess, face painted with oil and engin grease.
- What have you done, this time?
To be continued...
Lieutenant Welch fasts his pace. The news are, well, not good at all. The last reports from the "space station team" are three hours late and the last entries gave a bad vibe. Plus, the "extract mission" hasn't come back from the Noblerie yet. These are bad signs and General Prime won't be happy about it.
- Hey Cedric! don't be late for next Grognak's game, this time, says a colleague as he catches Welch on the fly.
- I-I-I... don't... studders lieutenant Welch, barely turning the head, pursuing his course to his cardiac arrest.
The General's office is down an endless and tortuous elevator. It seems that the floor is even colder that the rest of the base... or maybe it's just the Lieutenant sweating.
Captain Penelope, General's secretary, is sitting in front of her terminal. She finishes typing an sending order for supplies and does not even look up when the Lieutenant enters.
- R-r-r-reports f-f-from Laval and the-ex... trac-tion-team, does he finaly say before almost collapsing.
Captain Penelope leaves the monochrome screen to raise one eyebrow. This silent is even more awkward than a rejected diner invitation.
- I... must in-forme Ge-ne-ral Prim... immi-diatl-ly.
Without quiting Lieutenant pitiful stare, the captain press the intercom's button to call inside General's office.
- General, lieutenant Welch is here to deliever his rapports on Operation Space Station and the classified extract mission.
After a short while, Cedric is invited to enter his boss's lair. He is at the end of his road and yet, the legs are stuck in place. He heard rumors. Stuff of nightmares about the General. Welch have been laughed at by colleagues and friends during the Grognak's game sessions. They told him he was very gullible. But stories are always more impressives. What if they are true?
Two more doors.
So he went there. It took courage. General Prime was waiting patiently for the rapports. All ears. Welch said the NRQ lost contact with their team at the Laval's Spacedome Museum. Also, the delay with the extract mission from Joliette. It was a simple task, after all. He made sure not to forget any guide lines - even so he studdered a few times.
- The Children didn't accept our fusion cores in exchange of the prisoner? the general simply asked.
No, we have confirmation of the exchange, only the team didn't come back, Cedric said.
- D'accord, the general mutters. Have you made a detailed repport of all the intels so far? With three copies: one for me, one for the archives and one for your departement, lieutenant?
"Detailed... repports"? This silence was suffocating. It was to good to be true. He's the one responsible for writing copies of the repports before those documents to the authorities, but usually Vince does it. But since there was a note among the orders to repport any developements around the extract team's mission... directly to... the...
Jimmy was in total inner panic.
- Lieutenant?
There is only few infos on the situation. Welch didn't thought they needed a full written repports with three copies, one for the general, one for the archives and one for the departement before getting in touch with the General. First, a decision had to be made, did he guessed.
No sound could be heard behind these two sets of doors. But when they opened, a very sad-faced Welch went through. He slowly dragged his feet out of the main quarters, passing by a nonechalant Captain Penelope. The general voice filtered throuth the intercom.
- ... put in staff register Cedric Welch new assignement to the Science Departement, Sector Z, and demote him to the rank of caporal. Effective immidiatly. And I want a recon team on the Inner Canadian Highway 40 from here to Joliette Town. Their orders are the look out of a missing transport and I also want a recovery team ready bring back the vehicule, or what remains of it. Order a full investigation on the matter when it is back to base - we need to know exactly what happened. Both teams are allowed to use excessive force to anyone tempering with the investigation if needed.
- Yes sir, the captain acknowledged, watching the new ranked caporal Welch disapearing inside the elevator.
- And finally, I want a bird at bay and ready to fly for the next few days. I'm busy at the moment, but I might need to see a friend very soon.