Waking from a restless dream, I find myself warm and dry, almost comfortable lying in what is most assuredly not my bed. As I stretch out, the hangover from hell makes itself known as my body protests my movements. Cracking my eyes, blinded by the bright early morning sun, I take in my environment. I found myself at the edge of some sandy rundown shithole. I could make out about forty or so odd buildings, almost all Spanish-style mudbrick; only two buildings even had a second level. I was far away from home. Looking around reveals desert and sparse shrubland, the sand-blown road leading past the town into endless sands, and an old fading wooden sign, 'Welcome to Datlinburg est. 1933" in a newer coat of paint, it read 'Protected by the NCR.' I dusted myself off and stood, "Guess it's a common acronym," my throat was dry, and any town worth being called such must have a bar. I set off down towards the taller buildings, intending to find a drink.
The buildings in the town were old but maintained the mud streets well worn; the sun was finishing revealing itself to the world cresting over the far dunes. The sounds of a waking community began to echo around. Observing the more rundown two-story building, I found the bar, 'The Tin Starr Saloon.' Pushing aside the heavy wooden doors, I came to the empty main bar area, save for a sleeping drunk; the sounds of arguments could be heard above. The furniture was well worn, and most windows shuttered close. Looking behind the bar counter, I noticed a man standing opposite me: tan cargo pants leading into black combat boots, a faded gray flannel collared shirt crossed by a bandoleer holding shotgun shells of varying colours. We stood there for a moment, not moving. I opened my mouth to speak, and he did the same then I noticed the back wall was a mirror. It was my reflection, but that wasn't me, was it? Why can't I remember what I looked like, who am I? I could make out the shuffling of feet above interrupted by wood breaking. Then two persons came crashing down into a table from the broken railing of the second floor. Before hitting the table, the one ridden down fliped themselves, forcing the more prominent man to slam his back squarely into the table, breaking it into two. More dust than I thought possible erupted around the crash site, blinding my vision.
As the dust cleared, lying between the broken half of the table, a rough-looking man in his forties lay dead; a bowie knife lodged several inches deep into his eye; above him, panting and bleeding from several different wounds was a young woman. "You killed the boss," the drunk was awake, "you dumb bitch we gave you everything!" Looking at the three, they all wore some close-to-matching biker gear combined with thick leather addons, complete with imagery of a horned skull, the words 'New Khans' stitched underneath. It happened so fast the drunk went for his holster, pulling out an Ithaca Auto & Burglar, and he went to fire. She was just standing there like a statue. The woman didn't react, and I did; acting quickly, finding a heavy brown bottle, I whipped it across the room; it struck true and shattered into the man's face causing him to discharge buckshot into the ceiling. Looking back, the Kahn woman looked at me; the sides of her hair buzzed short, leaving a long red mane in the center that flowed over the side of her head. Freckles framed her lower face, and her dull green eyes looked at me confused, her dark eyebrows knitting together.
Distracted, I failed to notice the armed man regain his composure. The flash of anger across the redhead's face was the only indication of what was wrong; turning my head, I found yellow-stained teeth smirking back at me behind the barrel of a shotgun. The world slows to a crawl. I would say my life flashed before me, but I can't seem to remember anything aside from the past ten minutes. The blunt end of a thrown bloody bowie knife impacts his mouth; seizing the opportunity, I lunge at him, the gun goes off beside my head, and I lose most senses. We fall to the floor, kicking and biting; he tries to bludgeon me with the empty gun but doesn't have an angle. I reach, searching for the knife with only its blade in reach. I grip it and drive it repeatedly into the man's gut; sometime later, my hand is raw and gushing, and he lays motionless. I feel tired and still never got that drink I wanted. More beat and bruised than I, the woman slides down against the wall and clears her throat,
"Why..." her voice is quiet and strained like she had been shouting for hours without stopping, "I'm not worth this..." She looks more lost the I am.
I can start to hear the sounds of a crowd building up outside; using my remaining strength, I shuffle over to the counter and snag something I've always wanted to try. I slide down the wall beside the woman and offer her a cold bottle of sasparilla; with some trepidation, she takes the drink; after downing half my bottle, she takes a few swigs, and I clear my throat. "I need your help," she cokes on her drinks and sputters, "I won't be much help to you; ill be at the end of a rope before noon." she looks at the body of the older Kahan she killed. Lost in thought for a moment, she continues, "we've had control of the town for three days now, killed the sheriff and his deputy," she has a slight southern accent. "Beat anyone else stupid enough to challenge us; I'm the only Kahan left here. They will want revenge." She looked resigned to her fate; I took stock of the room and found a first aid kit, most of its contents missing. I apply 200-year-old disinfectant and wrap my hand in some off-white bandage.
I take out the one stimpak and shudder at the dagger-like needle; walking back over, I pick up the Ithaca Auto & Burglar. from the floor and eject the casings and safety the gun. I hand her the stimpak, "your parents give you anything to call you by?" She looks conflicted momentarily but then locks eyes with me, and I can see her resolve, "I am Gallia, scout and last of the New Khan but not anymore; the once-mighty Khans died today by my hand... and yours." She was still bleeding and wouldn't use the stimpack, "finish it... end me, and you'll be a hero to the town, hell you can be a hero for the whole dammed NCR, just, please put an end to the nightmare caused by us," she pulled the gun towards her heart. "End it!" At that very moment, the doors were kicked open with a cloud of dust swirling in, announcing the dusty cowboys' arrival, soon levelling an M79 "thumper." I met his black bleachy eyes. Then he fired.
"One... two... three..." the quiet voice spoke in my right ear, I've heard it a hundred times before, but I could never help but get the shakes just before the go-ahead. "four... five... Six..." my heart was pounding. I could feel the pulse beating through my body and the liquid fire pumping in anticipation of the boom. Everything is set and prepared to the highest standard; rucks packed tight with supples, weapons oiled, maintained and clean. C4 plastic explosives shaped, rigged and set. "seven... eight... nine..." The monotone voice counted up in my headset. Rifle at low ready, I rotated it to the side and pulled the bolt back partially, 5.56x45 FMJ. New mag with a round chambered thirty-one shots. "Ten."
The Steel reinforced entrance blew inwards, one door skidding across the ground colliding into the wall with a thud, and the other ripped through the legs of the legionary closest to the explosion. Disorientated by the blast, three more stood in the lobby, the closest rubbing the dust from his eyes, went down easy with two shots. The other two were further in and less affected, already going for their guns. A simple squeeze of the trigger and one more joined the others; I was out of position and in the open when the fourth sighted me. Thinking quickly, I rolled to the right, avoiding his first burst of fire and grabbed my old Ithaca Auto & Burglar. With one hand, I went to fire; only he was already dead, an arrow protruding from his neck and chest. "Good work, keep moving," Gallia looked smug as she led the others forward new arrow notched.
Each step we took carried a militant echo off the walls, breath laboured, and ears ringing from the firefight. We moved quickly down the length of the first hallway; the inside of these pre-war military installations was designed to withstand an assault from an entire company, or at least it was. Destroyed turrets, empty casings, and microfusion cells littered the lobby. Scorch marks of an earlier battle dotted everywhere, and the remains of a sentry bot partially grafted to the floor are the only sign of the original defenders. Rounding a corner with a sweeping motion, I catch a squad of reinforcements in the open; my thumb flicks the fire selector on automatic. Seven rounds bolted out, striking true before I ducked into cover. I signal the squad for a fragmentation grenade. We continue our advance, weaving through the broken bodies and debris. My mind was on autopilot, my actions almost mechanical in nature. Another corner abruptly ended with a large blast door; finding a connecting terminal, I jack in and brute force my way past its firewall. As the door raises its first few inches, "Let loose a flashbang," Private Douglass pulls one from a bandoleer, "only one left, sir." He was keeping it together better than his first engagement, tosing it generated a pop and constant ringing sound before we forced open the door.
It's a large two-story room with three branching hallways visible at ground level; the centre of the room contains sparking computer banks and dazed Legionaries; no movement on the second level yet. Wasting no time, I bound up the nearest staircase. Gallia and I are on two-deck as the rest of the squad clears the first level: "This is a lot of technology for the legion to handle, look over there!" Gallia looks up at the large frame of one of the dozens of T-45 power armour suits painted in legion colours. Ranger intelligence has never reported power armour use in the legion, "Who is training them to use them?"I voice my thought out loud only to be interrupted by creaking; at the far opposite end, a freight elevator dinged open to a battle-worn suit of T-60 power armour armed with a super sledge. Around it, veteran legionaries poured out." Hey, remember the day we first met?" I asked, setting my sight on target."Yeah, It was not my best day, but you made it slightly less shitty."I chuckled. "Well, this should bring back good memories." My under-barrel launcher thunked with the kick of a mule.
