Fear. That was what she'd been missing all along.
No, not fear in particular. Emotions in general were the key, the source of the inspiration that she so desperately needed. Would a robot ever feel the need to dive behind cover? Of course, a robot might use cover. Any protection would reduce the probability of a vital component being damaged, leading to the perfectly rational decision to crouch behind a rusting car. But when a feral charged her, rotting teeth bared and diseased fingernails clawing wildly at the air, it was raw, exhilarating fear that compelled Curie to leap behind a concrete barrier and scoop up her laser rifle.
Determination, that impossible, irresistible force that drove all the greatest scientists in history now guided her hand to fire two clean shots through its gnashing face.
A twinge of regret(regret!) flashed through her overwhelmed brain. The piercing wail that tore free from the ghoul's mangled lips lingered in the air, a final haunting cry that sent a chill down her spine. By all medical understanding, the creature's nerve endings should have died years ago. And yet as it dissolved into ash, it cried and moaned like a human being. It was fascinating and distressing at the same time.
She hadn't been prepared for how tiring it was to be human. In her robot form, she could respond to inquiries, take notes, analyze samples and fight at the same time without overloading her processors. But right now, just the smell of the battlefield threatened to swamp her baffled consciousness; speak nothing of the sights and sounds!
The acrid smell of burning flesh scorched her nostrils(disgust?) as she peered over the concrete barrier. The metallic taste of blood from a cut on her lip, the musky scent of her own sweat, the clean smell of ozone in the air; each and every sensation deserved its own detailed analysis. But somehow, her human brain managed to identify the important information from the overload of sensory input and discarded the rest. She had so much to learn about her new body. Were her eyes tearing up in awe or as a natural reaction to the plumes of smoke rising from the battlefield? Were her hands quivering in fear or excitement? Every question needed to be filed away somewhere in her disorganized mind for later analysis and experimentation.
In the meantime, what she'd tasted, heard and smelled confirmed what her eyes were telling her; the battle was going poorly. The narrow street was clogged with bodies, mostly the diseased and rotting corpses of ferals. But interspersed among them were splashes of dark blue, each marking the fall of a Minuteman soldier. The living soldiers had formed a loose semi-circle near the center of the street, alternating between cranking their laser muskets and bashing away any creature that got to close.(despair!)
Hope. By far her favorite emotion and unfortunately one that she very rarely got to experience. To her dismay, she found Hope to be in very short supply in the Wasteland. But for once, a warmth flooded through her chest and gave renewed strength to her arms.
There were still two suits of power armor on the field.
The first was a battered, worn-down suit of T-45 armor. The faded military green paint had been hastily painted over with a fresh coat of blue, but mostly the surface was covered in the scratches and scars of a hundred furious battles. Loose wires stuck out of the right armor piece, and sparks flew whenever the pilot moved the right arm, A pale, yellow light flickered through one of the eyeholes; the other was mysteriously dark. Bruised and weakened, the armor wouldn't have been very impressive at all, if not for the massive weapon it wielded. The absurdly long, two-handed scythe sliced freely through emaciated limbs and rotting flesh; if not for the pilot's constant sweeping motions, the island of Minutemen might have already been lost in a sea of green decay.
But the second suit of armor was what made her believe against all odds that they would be alright. The majority of the ghouls had congregated around the X-01, and yet the pilot continued to wade deeper into the swarm, grabbing the attention of as many ghouls as possible. Swimming in a sea of claws and nails, the monstrous machine was coated in sleek black paint, bright blue light shining out of its eyeholes. The X-01 pilot carried a Gauss rifle in one hand, blasting ghouls apart with cold, calculated indifference. Their other hand was clenched into a fist, splitting skulls and rending limbs with each brutal punch. It was this sight that filled Curie's heart with that wonderful, fluttering sensation. Hope.
As long as this pilot was standing, the Minutemen would survive.
Sweat dripped down Jennifer's brow as her armor began to radiate energy.
Necessity is the mother of taking chances. She'd found that Mark Twain quote to be so unforgivably derivative back in English 101. And yet, after three years of law school, that was the one quote that had managed to stick.
She swallowed hard, wishing desperately that she could wipe the salty sweat out of her stinging eyes. There was no doubting that what she was about to do was necessary. If she could give her life to save dozens, she had the obligation, if not the responsibility to try.
John would have done the same.
"Preston! Get the men into lines!" She cried. Could he hear her panic? She wondered, cringing at her unusually squeaky voice.
The T-45 pilot nodded at her, turning around to bark out orders. If he'd noticed her fear, he wasn't about to point it out now.
A blue dial flashed in the corner of her eye; Overdrive mode was ready. Deep breaths. She reminded herself, before she slammed the appropriate button. Her suit jerked to a stand-still, energy coursing through the servos and hydraulics. Even through two inches of steel, she could still hear the frenzied scratching, the panicked shouts and desperate orders. There was no time to spare.
Curie stared in awe as the General charged fearlessly into the fray, sending ghouls flying in every direction. The Gauss rifle pulsed periodically, rending limbs and punching holes in anything and everything that flew her way. Behind her, the rallying Minutemen had entered their firing lines, muskets pointed down the narrow street.
"General! Get out of there!" Preston shouted over the din of the battle. There was no time to check if she'd heard him; he turned and barreled across the street, barely clearing the street before a wave of red lasers saturated the air behind him. The sound of wails and shrieks grew thick as ghouls dropped in droves.
A chorus of cheers broke out among the Minutemen, as they turned to congratulate each other. Preston couldn't keep a smile off his face. For all the criticism the General faced over her firing-line tactics, when they worked, they worked beautifully. A small patch of ghouls still surrounded the General, but the rest of the creatures lay twitching and smoking in the street.
"Commander! Behin–" the hysterical voice turned into a piercing cry of pain. Preston's T-45 sluggishly turned around as more cries erupted among the Minutemen. The General was still crushing the last of the ghouls, seemingly unaware of the chaos unfolding behind her.
A new horde of ghouls, drawn by the noise, was streaming down into the unprotected flank of the Minuteman firing line, pouring out of backyards and houses in a tide of raw ferocity. A few hastily aimed shots flew wide as the Minutemen were forced into hand-to-hand combat. Preston gritted his teeth and powered forward, his armor whining in protest as he forced it into a run, swinging his scythe menacingly to create some space for his troops.
It was over. Two years of crawling through the Wasteland, building settlements, defending settlers and clearing raider camps. All gone, buried under a growing tide of ferocious, biting bodies. Her viewports were going dark, the blue sky disappearing behind a forest of flailing limbs and wailing ghouls.
Just a few seconds ago, she'd been crushing the last of the ghouls with her fists to conserve ammo. She'd put down her Gauss rifle for just a moment when a swarm of creatures knocked her off her feet, carrying her face first into the ground in a tangle of biting heads and scratching nails.
For just a moment, she hesitated. Covered in sweat, panting from exertion and exhausted beyond belief; as miserable as she was, atleast she was alive. The last person on Earth who remembered John Morrison, 2nd Battalion, 108th Infantry Regiment. When she died, he died with her.
He's already dead. The cruel voice of reason spat.
"Did I fight well John?" she asked aloud, her words lost in the chorus of cackles and shrieks. "Did I make you proud?"
She had to know, before it all ended.
Of course you did, Pineapple.
Her breath caught in her throat, her eyes welling up with tears. With a sudden surge of determination, she keyed up the radio.
Pure panic. Utter chaos. Preston had hundreds of words he could use to describe the situation, and yet none of them seemed to capture the sheer anarchy that was unfolding in the ranks. He knew what the plumes of red smoke coming from the General's power armor meant. Even though the bright red flare she'd launched had to compete with the blazing midday sun, he knew it would be enough. And judging by the growing panic among his men, they knew it too.
"Location confirmed. Permission to fire?" the voice on the radio was disconcertingly calm.
We're being swarmed! Preston wanted to scream. Send help now!
"Permission granted." The General's grim voice was rock-steady with conviction. He had to double check…yes, there she was, her suit covered in ghouls desperately trying to claw their way in. If he was half as brave as her, he might have decided to stand by her side. But he wanted to live.
"Authorization Juliet Oscar Hotel November."
Preston whirled around, swinging his scythe to clear a path as he blindly dashed down the street, away from the blue, glowing power armor. She's using the last of her overdrive to keep them occupied. Bones crunched and cracked under his massive metal feet; he didn't bother to check if they were human or ghoul, living or dead. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw blue-coated troops pelting down the street with him, ditching their laser muskets in a desperate bid to outpace the ferals.
Curie's heart was pounding at an alarming pace. Would it slow down on its own? It was a terrifying question that demanded an answer. Her centuries of medical knowledge told her yes, but her panicked, terrified human brain screamed no. She dropped her rifle and clutched her chest in a futile attempt to prevent hyperventilation. Think. Think! Her thoughts were as tumultuous as the battlefield, every rational solution wrapped in a shroud of fear and anxiety.
A heart attack! Beta blockers! Frantic, shaky hands rummaged furiously through her pack only to come up frustratingly empty. Part of her knew she wasn't thinking straight; how could she? In her own body, diagnostic tests were a routine part of her maintenance. One command would bring up an array of graphs and charts, simple and easy to understand. But how could she possibly understand the beating of her own heart? What was this icy numbness overtaking her extremities? What was her stomach trying to tell her with its constant churning?
Her heart was hammering in her chest now; surely this would be fatal? Her lungs seemed to agree, heaving desperately to keep pace. Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted the clouds of red smoke covering the battlefield. Some still-functioning, rational part of her mind knew what the smoke meant. But its weak voice was drowned out by a torrent of fear and irrationality.
It was pure instinct then that forced her frozen legs to carry her straight to the nearest building. She grabbed her bag and rifle on her way up the rickety porch steps, charging headlong towards the door.
Fear was quickly becoming her least favorite emotion.