AN: Second chapter, let's do this.
The dream remained as beautiful as ever: birds sang and hopped from tree to tree, while small animals scurried in the brush. The Lone Wanderer was on edge. There was far too much cover, both sound and sight. Behind every bird call could be the step of an enemy, and each rustle of the leaves may not be a squirrel but a shifting gun barrel.
He couldn't help it, really. His skin crawled as he trudged through the thick forest, which could easily hide any number of foes. He always focused an eye and an ear on scanning for threats, but now more than usual. All around him stood a deep green mass that camouflaged potential enemies.
One hand was on Crocea Mors at any time, finger on its trigger, ready for action.
Action, action, action, how he never seemed to elude it. Even in the confines of his own subconscious, he was corralled towards combat. Then again, there wasn't exactly much else he knew anymore, was there?
He crashed conspicuously through the forest, crushing plants underneath in a painfully loud orchestra that echoed across bark and leaf deep into the surrounding forest. He'd never exactly been one for subtlety anyhow. If there would be action, then he might not be shooting first; however, the Gamma Shield Armor would afford him all the time necessary to retaliate. He could feel Crocea Mors jostle lightly in its scabbard, as if raring to go at the thought of battle. Oh yes, he would retaliate.
Still scrutinizing his surroundings, the Wanderer also made sure to keep view of the smoke lingering in the sky. The blackness had only grown and swelled, becoming increasingly imposing and engorged as he approached. The closer he came, the more detailed it appeared. There were small flecks of ember swirling throughout the dark mass, like a legion of tiny dancers wearing costumes the hue of a vibrant sunset, set against an inky backdrop.
He'd long since had to abandon the overgrown road that had led to the lighthouse in favor of trekking directly through the greenery itself, heading straight for the coastal town which had captured his interest. As he closed in, a change of pace became necessary.
Alright, slow down, make a little less noise and keep low. He smelled nothing through the gas mask, nevertheless certain that the devilishly sweet aroma of smoke was wafting over him. He could even faintly hear the flame's crackling. Both were quite familiar, the smell and the sound. In fact, it reminded him of that one time he and Fawkes-
Gunshots.
The Wanderer dropped to the ground, drawing his magnum as he did so.
Breath deep. Hold. Release.
He scoured the forest, time seeping away slowly as his brain worked at a feverish pace. There was nothing, no one near him. The shots had been far off, certainly in the direction of the smoke. Well then, it seemed that things were really starting to get interesting in this dreamscape. Perhaps if he himself were shot, then the experience would be enough to jolt him awake? He hadn't tried pinching himself yet, so maybe a little bit of pain would be the catalyst necessary.
No, no he'd already felt a bit of physical pain, from working out the kinks after getting out of the armor to scraping his knees on the rocks while salvaging what was left. This dream proved especially lucid, and he didn't relish the idea of lifelike pain. Also, he'd had other dreams where much worse had been done to him without waking.
He rose slowly from his prone position, magnum raised, and crept through the trees, ever closer to the smoke that coalesced just ahead. He shortly reached a clearing, a stretch of bare ground that went from the tree line out to several smoldering buildings. What appeared to have been small storehouses were now just distorted embers, collapsed inward and left to burn.
Scanning for any good cover, he found that all candidates were on fire, likewise unfeasible. Scanning instead for enemies, he found nothing.
The Wanderer broke from the tree line and dashed up towards the first blazing building. He crouched near it, trusting in the flaming wreckage to flicker and hide his movements, if not block and projectile. Being hidden was a good form of cover in its own right. However, one thing saw him. A single crow, previously circling above, alighted down near him, but a shoo sent it flapping away.
He circled around the wreck and weaved between similarly fiery buildings, before making his way to the edge of the rocky cliff on which he sat.
"Hmm… "
A diminutive village rested below him, with certainly less than a hundred people able to live there. It was a poor place, if the shabby construction was any indication. Squat, ugly buildings huddled together like an anxious flock of sheep, nestled against the seaside with a gentle slope leading into the forest, otherwise surrounded by steep cliffs. It was a sad little hamlet, far from prosperous but comparatively well-off when set beside examples from the wasteland. There was, however, one similarity between the dream settlement and an earthly counterpart.
Raiders.
They managed to look more civilized than the sort he usually ran into, eschewing the insane hairstyles and absurd uncleanliness in favor of a simple, rugged look that still complimented their savagery. It really shouldn't have surprised him that even the dream's raiders were cleaner.
Hygiene aside, there was no mistaking what they were, for they were armed, and all of the villagers had been rounded up before them, bound and helpless. Oddly, there were only six of the raiders, while there had to be dozens of townspeople, and most of the raiders didn't even have guns, only unkempt swords, while another two brandished strange-looking assault rifles, the last wielding a large spear.
Strange, even if these villagers had no guns of their own, which was unlikely, then they should've been able to overrun a few bandits. There had to be something more here, for the raiders clearly had total control of the situation, despite being outnumbered at least four to one. Wait… there had to be more of them. Yes, these were likely just the guards tasked with overlooking the villagers in the central town clearing while the rest of their gang ransacked the town. Yeah, look at that, a big pile of whatever loot those raiders had managed to take so far, and… yup, someone coming out from the buildings, carrying another bag of pilfered belongings
The Wanderer drew his monocular and searched for remaining enemies, but as he scanned the village, he noticed that only the one man was scurrying between the houses, collecting what he could like a rat going from heap to heap, picking up whatever crumbs could be found. Certainly, there was no more than crumbs, for this village was destitute in its own way, destitute but nothing compared to the wasteland. Some of those buildings even looked a little new.
He watched, confirming that there was no more than seven of the raiders, but even then, things didn't make much sense. Seven on, what was that, at least a few dozen, maybe fifty? They should've been beat back, but there must have been some reason for why they managed to trounce the villagers.
Oh right, this was a dream.
Anything could happen, and anything did happen. This was just a construct of his subconscious, something to distract him. In that case, he wanted nothing to with it. Fighting wasn't fun, just necessary. So, if he was going to waste away this dream, then he wouldn't do it in a shootout. Maybe if he tried enough, then he'd finally be able to summon some fireballs, wouldn't that be neat? He could go for a swim, even. Yeah, not a bad plan, not a bad plan at all. Whelp, sorry dream people, but I've got some lounging to do, maybe I'll feel a little bad when I wake up, but I doubt it.
He took one last glance through the monocular, this time looking not at the raiders, but the villagers. His curiosity had the gotten the better of him, and it would be interesting to see just what his brain had cooked up. Well… fear. It had made fear. It was etched onto all of their faces. The Wanderer gulped and shifted uncomfortably; one finger started tapping against the side of his monocular. He saw some of them quivering, others staring forlornly at the pile of loot, likely all of the money they had, as well as whatever belongings they were able to call their own. The Wanderer knew all about ownership, for in the brutal world of the wasteland, being able to call something yours, something familiar, something safe, was just one of many ways to cope with the strain (a strategy he himself used). His finger began to tap faster. Then he saw a child clutching at her mother's side. The woman in turn tried to pat her head soothingly, but its little frame was shaking, undoubtedly racked with panic and fright. The sightof that little girl enraptured him for a few seconds.
The Lone Wanderer put his monocular away and cracked his knuckles.
He circled around the village, sinking back into the protective forest which no longer seemed so treacherous. He continued to watch out for his surroundings, but now the forest was more of an ally, shielding him from the raiders' view. The fauna was complicit in his plan, and the irritatingly loud snaps of broken twigs, rasps of brushed bark and flutter of ruffled leaves came to him like loud whispers, uttered with all the excitement expected of a giddy—if inexperienced—cohort.
Inexperienced for sure, as the Wanderer nearly tripped a few times, muttering hushed curses every time a plant snagged his feet. He simply wasn't used to navigating terrain like this, terrain which had never existed before. Even Oasis was less overgrown than this place. At least the produced racket wouldn't be a problem, being well outside of earshot. All that mattered was staying out of sight long enough for him to get close to and maybe even inside the village if he could manage. Even without the added difficulty that was always inherent in unfamiliarity, he'd never mastered the art of being unnoticed. Hopefully the forest would provide all the help he needed.
He snuck his way down and away from the outcropping, leaving the foreboding smoke, a dark cloud which continued to billow and seethe and simmer, the tiny dancers glittering and leaping in unrestrained delight for the coming show. A comedy? Absolutely not. A musical? Even less likely. A thriller? Certainly. A tragedy? Perhaps.
He lurked behind the trees and crept in a circular route downhill, only nearing the town again when he was on level with it and provided additional cover by the ugly little buildings ahead of him. He could no longer see his foes, but fi they couldn't see him either, then all would be well. He stepped out of the forest; the leaves shook as he passed them, as if waving and wishing good luck.
He crouched and crept across the open ground towards the closest building, his magnum drawn and his breathing steady. Noise was now more important than sight. He carefully shrugged off his duffle bag, setting it gently to the ground beside a building. He grit his teeth at the way his armor rasped, the individual steel and lead plates grating against one another. He just hoped that this subterfuge would last long enough for him to get the first shot.
That was to be the defining factor: the element of surprise. Shock was the great equalizer, allowing one to exert force many times what they may otherwise be capable of. And he'd need to exert quite a bit of force quite quickly for this to work. It was one against seven, and they weren't pushovers, if their ability to subdue the village on their own was any suggestion. Thankfully, he had a good bit of experience with bursts of deadliness.
He hugged the ground, going only as fast as his armor's treacherous sound would allow, actually going even slower just because Gamma Shield wasn't exactly the most flexible outfit. Still, this snail's-pace would be well worth it if he managed to get that critical first shot, critical and perhaps even necessary. If he had Metal Blaster, then these bastards wouldn't stand a chance. As it was, he'd been robbed of his primary weapon, as well as the incredible power of Enclave's Bane. Crocea Mors and the magnum were both exceptional weapons, and he was exceptional with them, but exceptional could only ever get you so far. He was wary, as one who wanted to fight had to be if they also wanted to survive.
That didn't mean was afraid.
He'd faced behemoths and overlords; he'd faced deathclaws and albino radscorpions; he'd faced reavers and mirelurks; he'd faced the Dunwich Building and the Broken Banks. He'd faced all that the wasteland had to offer, and he'd been terrified. He'd been so thoroughly terrified so many times that he'd practically been inoculated to fear by now. He wasn't afraid of deathclaws or behemoths or mirelurks or ghouls, not anymore. In the face of such challenges, he'd steeled his strength and his will and he'd survived. There was no room for fear in the wasteland. Fear paralyzed. Fear hindered. Fear killed.
For a while, there'd only been one thing he truly feared, and these raiders were nothing compared to that. The monster... he flinched as an image of its gracious smile stabbed into his mind, warm and kind and inviting and deeply insidious.
He shook his head. No time for that. No time for that! No time for memories when the present is so dangerous. There they are, the six of them… the seven of them. Perfect. He held the magnum ready, and with his other hands, he prodded his belt experimentally to make sure that the frag grenades were there within ready reach. They were junk now after their little salt bath, but the raiders didn't have to know that, now did they?
He stooped behind a corner that was actually quite close now. They really were careless, weren't they? Probably think they have it in the bag, that these measly villagers are all they have to contend with. Set a few fires, rough some of them, brandish your weapons. Not hard to cow people with tactics like that, but they were men made of paper, easy to push over or crush underfoot or set aflame.
The Wanderer leveled his magnum. Seven of them, so he wouldn't be able to get a shot off on all of them at once, but he wouldn't need to. If everything went according to plan, this would be over in a minute, but of course he didn't expect that. Never expect your plans to work, just hope they do.
He observed for a little while longer, and he saw the one with the spear was pointing at the others and directing them around. Alright, he'd be first. It was when the looter began to move away once more that the Wanderer finally acted. Perched on a nearby roof, the same crow from before cawed.
Breath deep. Hold. Release.
Breath deep. Hold. Release.
Time seemed to slow to a crawl as he focused, finger resting lightly on the trigger.
Then he fired.
In the span of just a few seconds, all six rounds from his magnum had been emptied. The first went straight for the leader's chest. Another two went right for the backs of two others. A fourth went for neck of another. A fifth went for the head of the last. A sixth went for the looter's leg. All the shots connected.
The view quickly devolved into a bloody mess. One man dropped dead, a hole punched into his back and ripping into his heart from behind. A second man had his shoulder blade shattered and fell to the ground, squirming in pain. Blood sprayed profusely from the now open arteries were one man's neck had been ripped open. Futilely clutching at the wound, he tried to stem the crimson tide even as he fell to the ground and the world faded to black. Brain matter and slivers of skull splattered the floor as a man's head was blown in half. The looter collapsed with a scream, blood spilling from his leg as he flopped pathetically to the ground. Most importantly, the two with rifles were dead. Only the one he hadn't been able to target had gone completely unscathed.
Curiously, the leader seemed to be perfectly fine as well. The Wanderer had noticed his shot connected straight with his chest, which appeared completely unarmored aside from a shirt, yet a flash of light and a spark rang out when the bullet struck home, deflected away with no harm.
He'd be dead soon too, just a matter of time.
The Wanderer didn't act to reload, instead his free hand fell to the frag grenades at his belt. They were cheap, crafted things that he'd only brought along with him to clear out packs of ghouls or mole rats or such vermin, rendered inert by the water. Inert, but far from useless.
He threw them both towards the raiders. One look at the grenades panicked them, and the few that could still move ducked away, reneging any immediate counterattack in an effort to survive the explosive onslaught. An onslaught that never came. What did come, was a fresh volley of rounds from the Wanderer, who'd gotten plenty of time to reload while they were distracted.
He flung out shots toward the leader and the man unscathed. The latter was still on the ground from his haphazard dive from the grenades, leaving him immobile and, for all intents and purposes, already dead. Two new shots ripped into the side of his chest, shattering his ribs and liquifying his innards. Another shot went toward the man whom had been shot in the back but managed to survive. He'd been downed, but he was still dangerous. His blood and shreds of his organs sprayed out and leaked onto the ground as his pained writhing was put to an end. The leader managed to stay standing yet again. Another couple of shots met the same fate as last, connecting with a bright flash before bouncing off without delivering so much as a scratch.
The Wanderer was about to reload, if not for a shuffle from behind. There was an eighth. Of course there was an eighth, and of course he'd show up just when he needed to reload. God damn it, why hadn't he noticed that?
Time quickly snapped back into focus as the Wanderer was shaken from his concentration. In a single swift motion, he holstered the Magnum, took hold of Crocea Mors and spun to face the new combatant. Thankfully, the raider didn't have a gun, sneaking close instead, but now he quickly raised his sword and charged clumsily. No real training, that much was obvious from the grip and the footwork, probably no real experience either. This scum had likely only ever fought the helpless. The Lone Wanderer took one step forward, falling into a stance as he twisted his hips and drew Crocea Mors, its many teeth glinting in the sunlight.
He pulled back on the trigger, and the ripper-sword roared to life.
The vicious weapon shrieked as it flew through the air, and its war-cry intermingled with a slosh of sprayed blood and a scream of pain to create a terrible cacophony that rang out through the village. The Wanderer had cut the man's hand off, leaving a gnarled stump from which hung a few forlorn shreds of flesh. A shift of the feet, a twist of the hips and a flick of the wrist had Crocea Mors immediately reoriented and descending upon the man. It bit into his skull before rapidly grinding deeper and sending brain matter, blood and shards of bone flying as he became silent and collapsed—dead and mutilated.
Covered in gore, the Wanderer whirled to face his final opponent: the leader. He looked just in time to see the man raise his spear up and point the tip of it right at him, before flicking a button and…
What.
The spear head split in two, either side of the blade hinging back to reveal a gun barrel.
The spear was actually a rifle?
Yes, yes it was, and he ducked for cover behind the corner of the building. Alright then, not the strangest thing he'd ever seen. After all, the wasteland was filled with bizarre weapons of all sorts, just a matter of sheathing Crocea Mors, reloading the Magnum and finishing—
The Wanderer exploded.
The measly wooden wall he'd crouched behind was reduced to smoking splinters that mixed with a concussive shockwave and a flush of pure flame, sending him flying. Thankfully, he'd installed pads into the Filtration Helmet to protect him from ear damage, otherwise he'd probably have been rendered deaf y the crash. The hardy steel of Gamma Shield managed to keep the fire and shrapnel at bay, but the force of the blast left him sprawled.
Not a rifle. A missile launcher. Important distinction.
Luckily, the explosion had been mostly fire, and the Wanderer scrambled to his hands and knees, grasping a hold of Crocea Mors and stumbling away just in time to avoid another gout of flame and debris. He righted himself and sprinted out of the way. The leader hefted his spear and fired another round. Now with a proper view, the Wanderer saw that it wasn't a missile launcher. An angry red light shot from the shaft of the weapon and careened through the air, just missing the him and bursting in a raging inferno nearby.
Those strange rounds seemed to be focused on fire, and it was probably that same weapon which set those houses ablaze. That damn thing was closer to an Enclave heavy incinerator than anything else, but how the Hell had someone managed to compress that down into a spear form?
Oh yeah, this was a dream.
The reminder made the Wanderer hesitate. This momentary pause left him vulnerable to another shot, which he just barely avoided, once again being sent sprawling. A wave of dull pain pulsed under his skin from the landing. Certainly didn't feel like a dream…
He scrambled back up and rushed again, avoiding another few blasts. He looked back at his opponent, just in time to see him pull the trigger on his spear again.
Nothing happened.
The raider leader looked down at his weapon with a snarl. Out of ammo. Excellent. Now the Wanderer would have enough time to reload the Magnum and take him down, though whatever armor the bastard was wearing would make that a little har—whoa!
A plume of smoke and flame rushed towards him, crashing across the ground like a great wave flooding in from the ocean. The fiery avalanche had originated in the blaze's set by the leader's weapon, now propelled by a strong wind. The fire and debris washed over him, scorching his armor but not his skin. Gamma Shield was made of sturdy stuff, after all.
Still, the flames had caught onto what little flammable material there was on his suit, and the Wanderer was forced to break away and dive into a roll, putting out the fire by the tried and true method. He quickly got to his feet and eyed the leader once more. The man's snarl had been replaced with a smile. He raised one hand in the air. It was completely empty and certainly posed no threat.
Certainly.
The leader narrowed his eyes and swiped down vertically through the air. What was he doing?
To the Wanderer's side, the fire which he'd just leapt from was hit with a great gust of wind that apparently come from nowhere. The additional oxygen crashed down into the flames, feeding it and causing the blaze to roar back upwards, swelling with a malicious might and transforming into a hungry, raging maw of heat. Sparks and tiny embers danced all around as the fire grew, smoke quickly billowing once more as millions of those tiny dancers all bounded together, glaring right at the Wanderer with cruel little eyes.
The raider cut his hand horizontally, and another gust of wind rushed into the blaze from the side, sending the firestorm crashing towards the Lone Wanderer once more.
God damn it.
The flame devoured him. The fire once more latched onto his armor. Sweat instantly covered him as he was cooked alive inside the frame of steel and lead. He dashed out and rolled to the ground, trying to desperately put it all out before any of it managed to creep into the armor and scorch his skin. Whoops, too late. Jesus Christ, this pain is too real!
The Wanderer frantically, clumsily, thrashed at himself to try and pat out any remaining flames, slivers of pain prickling across his body where he was seared. He lusted for the ability to pat himself flame-free, but he instead grabbed hold of Crocea Mors and rushed out of the way. He wasn't slow to learn.
Sure enough, the firestorm surged behind him, engulfing the spot he'd been not a moment before. The wind changed course and again rushed towards him, but the fire died out if it tried to roll towards him too quickly, enabling him to outpace it this time. Sprinting, he left the inferno behind.
A paranoid, practical part of his mind reminded him to check the real danger here, and he was grateful that he did.
The raider pressed the button on his spear and snapped back into a blade form, before thrusting a hand back behind him and hurtling himself forward with another blast of wind, heading straight towards the Wanderer, weapon raised.
Dear Lord, this was something straight out of a Grognak comic.
The Wanderer raised Crocea Mors and pulled the trigger. Its teeth lashed against the shaft of the spear, producing a brief, harsh squeal as he deflected the initial strike, which had a surprising amount of power behind it, actually making him stumble. The raider quickly swung out with the haft, smashing the Wanderer in the arm. Pain coursed through him as the steel of his armor crunched and bent under the force of the strike and he backed away. What the Hell!? How was this person so strong!?
He dodged the downwards stab delivered next, which practically shattered the ground where the spear struck, chunks of earth sent flying in all directions. Jesus, he must have hit with the force of a truck. Seriously, what the Hell!?
The Lone Wanderer didn't let his surprise get the better of him, instead capitalizing on the opportunity to plant his food just under the head of the spear, successfully keeping it stuck for a second, just long enough to swipe Crocea Mors at the man, who ducked under the initial swing, yet was unprepared for the Wanderer's quick pivot, kicking off of the spear to immediately bring back the blade and run it across the man's neck. With no armor to protect him, the ripper-sword's teeth drove towards his artery for the kill, biting down into exposed flesh.
It was promptly repelled by a flash of white, not even leaving a scratch.
Okay come on.
The raider drove one fist into the Wanderer's gut. The metal there crumpled like tinfoil against the punch. The single strike sent a shock throughout his entire body and propelled him—several hundred pounds of flesh and metal—backwards by several yards, landing flat on his back. Crocea Mors clattered out of his grip, its harsh scream finally ending as it lay lifeless only a few feet away.
A few feet which might as well have been a mile. He couldn't even breath, his entire abdomen shuddering from the recent impact. He couldn't even move. All he could manage was weakly opening and closing his mouth like a fish and blearily looking back at his attacker.
All that pain… this really didn't feel like a dream anymore.
"I've got to hand it to you, not bad," the raider taunted, lazily circling the tip of his spear in the air as he strutted towards the Wanderer. He looked back towards the huddled group of terrified villagers, bound and defenseless. Now they were even more forlorn than before, they're sense of hope revitalized only to be freshly torn away, leaving them with only a melancholic ache.
The raider rubbed his neck where the Wanderer had struck. "Not bad at all. Who knows, if you actually had aura, then maybe that would've taken me close to yellow. Got to say that I underestimated you for a second there. Saw how my fire got at you and how you had no aura, figured you'd just be a chump. You are, but slightly less of a chump than I thought. That little move with my spear was pretty good. If you had aura, then maybe you actually could've done a little damage." The raider got ever closer towards him, now standing just above the Wanderer, spear raised.
There was a harsh bird call and the little crow that the Wanderer had seen earlier flapped off of its perch from a nearby rooftop, gliding towards them. The raider hefted his spear and prepared to skewer him. The crow cawed, beady red eyes flashing midair as it plummeted. Then it exploded.
No… no it didn't explode. It transformed.
It shattered into a shadowy ball that immediately expanded before taking shape in a split second, and not a split second later a large sword swung out towards the raider's back. The devastating surprise attack raked slashed into him, sending him flying. The man's pained cry was drowned out by the loud crash of collapsing wood as he smashed straight through a house, tumbling further away. For his credit, he managed to keep hold of his spear through the ordeal, but it was rendered useless at that distance, for the crow-man unlatched his sword blade and began to fire from the hilt of his weapon, forcing the raider into the same evasive position that the Wanderer had occupied just a few minutes prior.
The raider frantically dodged the shots as Birdman closed the distance, catching his foe when he was off-balance by the last blast and delivering an incredible flurry of blows, sword moving so quickly so as to be no more than a blur. Still, the raider managed to block or dodge most of those strikes… most of them.
He stepped back and whipped his hand, sending out a gust the propelled Birdman away. Now he tried to keep him at a distance where his spear would be most effective, trying to keep Birdman at bay with lashes of wind and striking out with his spear when he could. It wasn't enough, not nearly enough.
The Wanderer finally struggled up to a sitting position and grasped Crocea Mors, but he wouldn't be needed. Things were practically already done. Birdman deftly dodged or deflected each one of his opponent's attacks and never allowed the gusts to put him too off-balance, pressing back in immediately to render his enemy's weapon as ineffective as possible and limit the amount of wind he could discharge; after all, he couldn't very well strum up a hurricane right at his own feet, now could he?
Birdman got in a few more strikes, each of them clashing against a flash of white as they connected, but judging by the winces on the raider's face, they were nevertheless effective, painful too. He pressured the increasingly overwhelmed and out of breath raider until, finally, it was finished. The raider overreached with one of his thrusts, allowing Birdman to flash in under the spear with a swirl and kick out his feet from under him. As he was airborne, Birdman righted himself and delivered a vertical, downward slash that smashed him back down to the ground. The force behind that strike was so great that the ground where he landed exploded as if an artillery shell had hit, a shockwave and debris flying several yards out in all directions. There was silence.
Birdman stepped away, then, certain of his victory, turned back to the Wanderer and shot a cocky smirk. Now that he got a look at him, he saw who appeared to be a middle-aged, wiry man with greying hair and a field of stubble that looked less like a beard and more like a forgotten (or simply neglected) shave. For all the fighting, he barely even seemed winded.
"Heh, good work buddy. Gotta give you props for having the guts to take on a rogue huntsman when you don't even have aura yourself. Stupid, but gutsy," Birdman said, voice raspy and lilted. Was he drunk? The man in question glanced back towards the village, specifically at the other raiders' bodies. He whistled. "You really did a number on his cronies, though."
"I did what needed to be done," the Wanderer answered, his voice airy and deep through the filter. He got to his feet. Everything was sore, and he'd have awful bruises, and his armor felt strange and uncomfortable after being warped by the blows, but he would survive.
Birdman only hummed in answer, taking a flask from his hip and gulping down some of the drink inside. The Wanderer turned away from his rescuer and looked at the battlefield himself, noticing some unfinished business. "You go and free the villagers, I'll take care of that one."
Without waiting for a response, the Wanderer marched back into the village center and followed a short trail of blood. He'd aimed to immobilize, for you never know when one might be useful alive. The looter clutched his leg, which had finally stopped bleeding. Nonetheless, the pain was evident on his face, and it was about to get worse.
The Wanderer walked up. Before the man could utter a word, he viciously stomped down on his leg, grinding a boot into the wound, reopening it and driving out a fresh spurt of crimson blood. Predictably, this elicited a pained shriek.
"Are there any more of you!?" he yelled.
"Agh, why!" the looter screamed.
Wrong answer, the Wanderer stomped down again—hard.
"Are there any more of you!?"
"NO! NO! There were only eight of us! Only eight! Eight!"
"Is that right!?"
The Wanderer stomped again, collecting another scream.
"YES! Gods it's right! It's right!"
He stomped again.
"Are you lying to me!?"
"NO! No! I'm not! Oh Gods!"
He stomped again.
"You better not be lying to me!"
"I'm not, I swear!"
He stomped again.
"Are you sure, really sure!?"
"YES!"
He stomped again. This time, he heard bone crack.
"You're not lying to me?"
"NO DEAR GODS I'M NOT!"
The Lone Wanderer looked at him for a moment, analyzing the man shuddering before him. He drew the Magnum and reloaded it.
"I believe you," he said.
Then he leveled the pistol and pulled the trigger.
At the last moment, a hand shot out and struck his own, diverting the bullet so that it struck the ground just beside the looter's head. He whipped about to face this latest attacker, stopped short by the iron grip and furious face of his rescuer.
"What the Hell is wrong with you!?" Birdman asked.
"What do you mean? Let me go!"
"What do I mean?" he asked incredulously. He pointed back at the looter, whimpering and cradling his brutalized leg. His face was covered in his own tears and his hands were covered in his own blood, slick and scarlet. He was a man in incredible agony… and he was a man who'd been prepared to rob these people of everything they had, kill anyone who tried to stop him and then do God-knows-what to the people left afterward. The Lone Wanderer only shrugged.
"I said I'd take care of him, didn't I?"
"Umm yeah, I thought you meant you'd bandage him and tie him up, not torture and execute him!"
"What would we do to him after I tied him up?"
"Take him to jail, you psycho!"
"Jail?"
"Yeah, you know, prison, the slammer, the can, the joint, jail! What, do they not have jails where you come from?"
"No."
That seemed to get the man's attention. The rage in his faded ever so slightly, curiosity creeping in. The Lone Wanderer was pretty curious himself. They had jails here? Permanent jails? The most civilized places he'd ever been to didn't even have jails. Rivet City only had a few short-term cells, before they quickly decided to do one of three things to you: let you go, banish you, kill you. Vault 101 had cameras and guards around every corner, no one ever tried anything. The few who did were beaten and/or killed. Even the Brotherhood didn't have jails; they'd kill anyone caught doing something deserving of death, and people caught doing lesser crimes were generally impressed into a period of indentured servitude. Slavery-lite, but only for criminals. They'd take pity on people who did things out of desperation, maybe even let them go if the reason was good enough. Still, not even Lyons, with his bleeding heart, was willing to take on the strain of running a full jail.
Wait a minute, of course they had a jail here. It was a dream! How could he forget. Anything could happen here… it was a dream. Everything felt so real, though. He'd gotten completely caught up in it, even going through the usual interrogation motions. The adrenaline, the pain, all of it. Everything felt vivid and strong, lacking the same hazy, amnesiac edge that dreams so often maintain. No, come on, this couldn't be real. It was a dream. Then again, a lot of crazy and bizarre stuff had happened in the wasteland, but no, no this was just too ludicrous.
It was a dream.
Right?
"Hey buddy, stop spacing out," said Birdman. "I dunno where you're from, but around here we don't just kill people and torture will-nilly. That's kinda not okay." He shoved the Wanderer aside and knelt over the looter, who was curled up and shaking. "Now let me patch this guy up real quick. You can go stand somewhere else, just try not to murder anyone."
The Wanderer scoffed and stepped back. A look at showed the villagers showed that Birdman had indeed freed a few of them before intervening in the execution, and they were helping the rest get untied. A few looked back, furtively. Their glances were quick and frightened, perhaps due to what he'd just done to the looter. Strange, such treatment wouldn't have been so frowned upon back in the wasteland.
He holstered the Magnum and let himself take a relaxing few breaths before assessing the situation. Several buildings were still on fire, but the houses were far enough apart that it wasn't spreading. At least most of the town would still be left with their homes. All of the hostiles had been taken out too. He looked down to his equipment. Crocea Mors was an advanced piece of military hardware, and a little fire wouldn't do it any harm. The magnum was still in good condition. The armor itself was a mess, scorched all over and crushed in a few places. Thank God he'd put the MF cells, ECP's and other ordinance into his duffle bag, less they'd been singed and set off. His stimpaks were also safe in a metal compartment at the back of utility belt, good.
What wasn't so good, however, was the state of his med-x syringes. They were half-melted, partly shattered and completely useless. He threw them to the ground in disgust. Just fantastic. With the way his body felt right now, he really could've used those. How his body felt… he'd never felt this way in a dream. Still, it had to be a dream, right?
Right?
His musing was interrupted, however, for over the sound of quiet conversation from the villagers, the crackle of smoldering homes and the whimpers of the looter, there came a single, gruff roar.
If this was a dream, then it was a terrible one.
From the woods lumbered a large… monster. That was the only way to describe it. A monster. It looked like a yao-guai, just with a bizarre bone structure on its face, almost like a red and white mask. The rest of its body was covered in perfectly black fur. No, not a yao-guai, those things were covered in scraps of fur and looked thoroughly diseased. This was something different.
"Ursa!" one of the villagers shouted.
Okay then, guess it's that. The beast in question looked at them and gave another ear-splitting roar that was quickly joined in a chorus by similar monsters that trudged out from the forest. Their massive weight shook the ground with each stomp. Fangs and claws scraped together and produced a scratchy, staccato melody as they neared the village.
"Grimm! Damn it, they must've come for the negativity," Birdman snarled. "Psycho, you stay back and cover for the villagers. I'll take care of this." The villagers in question all screamed and tried to huddle together, and the Wanderer dutifully drew his magnum once more.
He backed up to give Birdman the requested space, and watched idly as he once again drew his sword. Instead of charging at the Ursa, however, he flicked a switch on the weapon, and the Wanderer noticed that its hilt contained a strange clockwork mechanism that began to whir. What was that thing… oh… wait…what… really?
Really.
Birdman leapt into action, brandishing his scythe and swinging it in wide, deft arcs that sliced with practiced precision. He showcased his mastery with each decisive swing, leaping through the air to cut down the Ursa without a problem.
The Wanderer surveyed the area around the village, making sure that nothing else was coming. Of course, something else did come, and, of course, they were deathclaws. No, some bizarre shadowy variant. Several of them sprinted from the forest, heading in from a different direction as Birdman and charging straight for the villagers.
Breath deep. Hold. Release.
Time trickled by, and to the Wanderer, there was only him, the magnum and the deathclaws. He fired. All six shots screamed through the air and towards his latest prey. Four in total, he aimed for their legs. It was always best to crippled deathclaws. He'd need to be careful now, for he was down to just one final cartridge, which he hurriedly loaded back in as the deathclaws dealt with their recent injuries. The magnum was exceptionally powerful, but it still had its limits. Three of them were left heavily limping as the rounds tore through tendons or maybe even bone. Alright then, not so bulletproof as a deathclaw, claws weren't as long either, thank God. Still, one other had only been hit by a single grazing wound, quickly rearing on the Wanderer. Excellent, how excellent.
The beast covered the distance quickly, but the Wanderer reloaded faster. He raised the magnum once more. Breath deep. Hold release. The world slowed and he focused on the beast's legs. He could just barely make out Birdman's footfalls not far behind him. Oh well, as long as he was handling his side of the attack, then the Wanderer would be fine, so he pulled the trigger.
Misfire.
The Magnum had never misfired before. Jesus Christ, what kind of luck is that!?
He threw it aside and drew Crocea Mors instead, barely having enough time to block the beast's first strike. There went his plan of picking it apart when it was crippled. Thankfully, it was mindless, not nearly as witty as a deathclaw. It was, however, still a seven-foot tall monster with large teeth and claws. The Wanderer evaded and deflected a few more of its crushing strikes before pulling the trigger on Crocea Mors and rushing inside its guard, raking along the side of its chest with the ripper-sword. The beast howled in response, and the Wanderer was covered in a new coat of blood. He edged out behind it and struck its leg, hamstringing it. The creature still twisted and smashed him with a burly arm, sending him flying back. Just in time for the others to arrive. Even if they were crippled, they were determined, and two more bore down on him with their claws and fangs, snapping and slashing with impunity.
Crocea Mors roared defiantly and he hacked at their hands and jaws when they lashed out, cutting back at their brutish and unrestrained strength. One clipped him on the shoulder, shearing through the steel and cutting a shallow wound. He thrusted, rending through its neck so that it could do no more than splutter, bleed and sink to the ground to die. The others persisted. A hand shot and snipped at his waist, so he cut it off. Another struck and stabbed into his side, the tip of the claws tickling his ribs. He bit down on the scream and forced himself through the pain. Another one cut down into his leg, imposing a slight limp upon him as blood seeped out from his armor and dribbled to the ground. He sawed through its faceplate and tore into the matter behind, ripping off its jaw as he drove the blade through. Another down. Alright, just two more. As painful as his wounds were, with a stimpak they wouldn't be life threatening. And as he charged in and carved Crocea Mors up and into the chest of the third, it seemed it may just stay that way. Now where was the fourth—
Oh no.
The villagers had started to run and scream back to their houses as the monsters first attacked, and now most took refuge save for a few stragglers. Another shadow-deathclaw had come in and cut off several from escaping, forcing them to run back towards the Wanderer. The fourth deathclaw he'd previously crippled had been attracted to their cries. One of them was that very same child he'd seen before through his monocular, her separated mother screeching nearby, unable to get close for the deathcalw between them. The girl ran in a panic from said deathclaw, even as the last of the crippled ones lurched towards her. Birdman leapt into action and cut down the one behind her, before looking up at the final monster standing. The desperate child finally looked up to see it too, so blind in her fear for what was behind her, that she didn't even notice the threat ahead. Birdman shouted and moved, but the Wanderer had been moving well before, limp be damned. He dashed in just as the last deathclaw began to lash out at the child. He was close to it now. He could swing Crocea Mors and cut into it, perhaps even kill it, but that wouldn't stop the momentum behind those claws. He saw the child. Young, not past five. He saw her tears and he saw her fear. Most importantly, he saw what he had to do.
At the last moment, he dove in and knocked her out of the way.
Things became very quiet after that; not silent, just quiet, disturbingly quiet, as if sound itself had become hollow. The Wanderer looked up at the deathclaw's face, directly into those cruel red eyes. He looked down at the claws lodged within him. He heard the sickening squelch of those same claws withdrawing. A gaping wound was torn into his midriff, his own blood and shreds of flesh spewed out from the breach in Gamma Shield, the armor that would hold until the day he died. Too bad that day seemed to be today.
He collapsed back onto the ground. The last monster pressed on, determined to finish the job. A flash of steel ended that.
Birdman crouched over him, eyes filled with anger, though not for the Wanderer.
"Damn it, damn it!" he chanted. He must've mopped up the rest of them, because he set his scythe aside and inspected the Wanderer's wound. It was bad, that was for sure, but as long as he got several stimpaks right away, then dressed it, he should hopefully be fine. So the Wanderer reached for a stimpak at his utility belt.
It wasn't there.
A panicked glance revealed that his entire belt was missing, and his roving, desperate eyes caught sight of it not far away, under one of the monster's claws. It must've cut it off while they were fighting. Gamma Shield was covered in rents and scratches, and many scraps had been discarded, but why did the belt have to go to, of all things?
"Sti-sti-stimpak... "he muttered.
"What?"
"Stimpak… stimpak… stim…" His strength was departing, making it harder to speak. He could feel blood bubbling out from between his lips as he tried to splutter his wish, making it even harder. He tasted only bitter iron. He tried to point feebly at his utility belt, but his hand fell back down before Birdman could notice. Birdman… why didn't he get it? Why wasn't he getting a stimpak? Didn't he have one? As it was, the man was gritting his teeth and examining the wound. The Wanderer kept trying to speak, but between the blood, the weakness and the mask, Birdman couldn't hear a thing. The other man realized this, so he quickly yanked off the filtration helmet. His expression sunk instantly.
"Gods… your face... and you're just a kid… you've got to be around Yang's age…" All anger fled as an instinctual fear flashed across Birdman's face, mixed with pity and surprise. Perhaps he'd expected him to be older, more grizzled. Most people did. The legendary Lone Wanderer, nothing more than a teenager. No one had ever guessed, and it seemed that no one would ever guess again.
Birdman's face set into a visage of determination. He stared down into the Wanderer's eyes, one red, one blue. Both of Birdman's were red, but the color became less noticeable as the world darkened. Darker and darker and darker. The pain which had become so horribly prevalent in the last few moments now bled away, leaving an all-encompassing numbness. He was sleepy. Very sleepy. So very sleepy.
His eyes closed, and he began to drift away. He faintly heard Birdman's voice, saying something, something interesting, something like a chant, or maybe a song, or maybe a last rite. It didn't matter, because everything was fading—
The Wanderer's eyes shot open. He felt incredible. He felt bizarre. It was as if his blood had been replaced with pure jet. He could feel power coursing through his veins, seeping through his muscles, radiating from his skin. Literally. Literally radiating. He was glowing. Why was he glowing!? Above him, he could see Birdman, a weary and concerned look on his face, but that quickly twisted into a smile.
"Don't worry kid, you're gonna be alright."
He didn't know whether or not he could believe that, but he didn't care, either. The incredible euphoria died down, the power settling in and shortly becoming familiar. It merged with every fiber of his being, or maybe it had been there in the first place, just now exploding out. Wherever it had been, he could now feel it receding within himself, pooling around his wounds. Exhaustion returned, but with this new feeling of power, and with Birdman's confident smile, maybe it wouldn't be so bad if he went to sleep…
When he woke up, he didn't immediately open his eyes. He was too tired to do that right away. Instead, he simmered in soreness. He wasn't in pain, he was just sore. Horribly, horribly sore, everywhere. Every muscle ached, even his skin ached. He groaned and shifted, enjoying the way the soft fabric brushed soothingly against him. It still wasn't nearly enough.
That aside, he also felt good. Really, really good. There was something in his muscles and in his blood and his skin that was simply... strong. That was the only way to describe it: strong. It was different, he was different. Not a bad difference at all; it was an incredible feeling to wake up to. Wait a minute… he'd just woken up. Oh, thank God, he'd gotten out of that dream. That crazy, crazy dream. The Brotherhood must've finally found him since he was in what felt to be a nice, warm bed.
Wait a minute, nice, warms beds were rare at the best of times.
He opened his eyes and looked around. It was dark, with the only light in the room coming from the moon through a nearby window and dozens of tiny lights on the surrounding machines. He was immediately struck by the stark cleanliness of the room. An inexplicable cleanliness. Not only did it look like every surface had been wiped down recently, it also lacked the usual cracks and holes. It looked new. Nice and white and new. All of it. It was a hospital room, one that looked as sanitary and professional as Dad's old clinic back in the vault. The room's only door opened. His eyes shot towards it, seeing a young woman dressing in blue scrubs, a nurse.
"Oh, hello Steve, you're awake! Fantastic! You took a real beating, but thankfully your aura was unlocked in time to save you. You actually have a lot by the way, any less and you may not have fared so well. But don't worry Steve, you'll be fine; we've been monitoring your vitals for a while and everything's stabilized. I'll tell your father that you've woken up, but for now you should just get some more rest, and I'll send him to visit in the morning." The nurse flashed a warm smile and turned back around to leave the room, her monkey tail waving lazily behind her as she left.
Steve…?
Aura…?
Father…?
Tail…?
…
…
Steve...?
The Wanderer was dumbstruck. This was ridiculous. Was he still dreaming? No. Not at this point. This simply wasn't a dream. It couldn't be. This bizarre place, was it real? Was it actually real? If it was, then so much about it was so strange…
He tried to quiet his thoughts and distract himself by looking outside the window and at the night sky. Then he saw the moon, half of it shattered into a thousand pieces.
He let out a long sigh and closed his eyes again. Maybe, if he just went to sleep, then he'd wake up again and find that this really was just a dream, and things would be back to normal again.
He didn't believe himself.
AN: Alrighty then, now we see some of the AU I was talking about. Crocea Mors is no longer a classic, but an advanced piece of military hardware. I considered making it a shocksword, but I selected a ripper in the end. This is one way I'm trying to input as much fallout into the RWBY world as I can while blending the two together, since otherwise this may just be a fic where Jaune has a different past, and if that's the case, why bother even making it a crossover? Also, this is still based off of the in-game character, who used a ripper as his primary melee weapon. In the game, Metal Blaster, the original Tesla Cannon, a ripper and a magnum made up my primary weapons, with the Gamma Shield Armor and Filtration Helmet being my primary armor. But why not use power armor? As I said before, roleplay impacted my in-game decisions. Crocea Mors and how the Lone Wanderer came to wield it is a story of its own, one to be revealed in due time. His magnum has a story too, and that'll be teased in just a few chapters.
Also, I would've liked to have more build-up to Crocea Mors's reveal, but I want to get through the introduction as soon as I can. We still have a few more chapters of this, but I promise it won't last long. That's why I chose to mash together both the raider and Grimm fights, rather than try to space it out between two chapters. I also tried to drop some references to his stats and what happened back during the story of Fallout 3, and I hope that the lore is being delivered well.
But now we're faced with the pivotal question: who the Hell is Steve?
Find out the answer to this and more, in our next installment, which you can expect next weekend! Of course, any and all reviews and/or questions are encouraged and appreciated!