Jack Parsons and the Slight Tactical Advantage
A/N: I'm going to start jumping around in the narrative some instead of telling it all continuously. Each "episode" may take a chapter or two to tell.
Also, if you have a moment, please leave a review! Even if you don't think it would make much of a difference, it does. I love to hear how people are liking the story, and ways I can improve my craft!
Codsworth backed away from the raider slowly, discovering quickly that he was getting himself trapped in a corner. He was doing what looked like the Mister Handy version of limping, his thrusters barely keeping him upright. He buzzed his buzzsaw faintly, intending perhaps to look menacing. Ten feet away and closing came a raider brandishing a machine pistol, apparently looking to gain some scrap metal or some energy cells out of this interaction. They were at a playground in Concord, but here, nobody was playing. Or so it seemed.
"Please sir, don't hurt me!" whimpered Codsworth, "I'm sure we can come to some kind of armistice. I promise not to ridicule your unkempt hair any further!"
Unfortunately for our trusty mechanical companion, the marauder only let out a string of nasty expletives and stepped closer.
"I'm going to strip you for parts, you little b-"
However, the raider could not get the next words out, due to the stab wound he was currently experiencing. See, while Codsworth was masquerading as a helpless robot who had strayed to the wrong side of town, Jack Parsons was sneaking out from behind a nearby stack of tires, switchblade in hand. He jammed the knife deep into the victim's kidney and then covered his mouth with his other hand. He caught the body as it fell and let it down easy.
The last words the raider heard before losing consciousness were:
"Nobody insults the robot except me."
Jack and Codsworth had spent a couple of hours that afternoon scouting the town, from its edges. Even without binoculars or a scope, Jack noted several armed, post-apocalyptic thugs trapping at least one person inside the old Museum of Freedom. Codsworth informed Jack that these were known as raiders. Jack needed the fighting to die down before making a move. There was no need, in his eyes, to help the folks holed up in the museum. They could be just as dangerous as the raiders. He waited for what was either a stalemate or a raider victory, time would tell, and crept into the town just before evening. That was when he had set up an ambush for one of the thugs patrolling the perimeter.
"By Jove, where did you learn to do that, Master Jack?" exclaimed Codsworth.
"Military," came the curt reply, "Also, keep your voice down. Or speakers, or whatever."
"Dear me, I suppose that does make sense," mused Codsworth (much more quietly), as Jack began examining the body for anything useful.
You see, Jack had joined the military when he was 18 years old, in the midst of global turmoil but before all of the major tiffies broke out for the U.S.A. In fact, he decided first to specialize as a sniper, then as a special operative, and then as a covert operative. By the time China officially invaded Alaska in 2066, he was 23 years of age, and ready to be unleashed. He saw all kinds of action on the front lines, behind enemy lines, and almost never on the sidelines. He performed counter ops against Chinese Stealth soldiers, who to this day he would describe as "crafty little bastards." Throughout the fiercest days in the battle for Alaska, he became one of the most decorated and reliable assets to Uncle Sam.
Naturally, he was one of the men picked to be deployed to the front whilst wearing Power Armor, mechanical suits that enabled the wearer to become a sort of walking tank. Or a sort of walking nightmare, for enemy combatants who found themselves on the outside of the armor. Thus, Jack Parsons became one of the fine men who pushed China back and enabled America to invade their mainland.
All of this meant that he was more than capable of handling a few grimy punks with absolutely no military training whatsoever.
Jack took the dispatched raider's machine pistol and made sure the clip was full. He then placed it into a shoulder holster he had fashioned with an old seatbelt and miscellaneous junk, including but not limited to a baseball mitt, and some military grade duct tape. It made a fine addition to his switchblade and 10mm pistol.
By this point, the streets of Concord were almost entirely empty. Jack heard shots coming from the direction of the Museum of Freedom. It appeared that fighting between the thugs and the unknown party had resumed. He crept along the streets, Codsworth not far behind, until he got to the door and peered inside.
A few more of the raiders were concentrating their fire at a door in the upstairs region. Apparently the strangers were pinned down in one of the rooms. One thug was situated on a walkway above the first floor, behind some crates. He popped up to empty a clip toward the door, and received a laster blast straight to the chest. That sent him hurtling off of the opposite end of the walkway, ostensibly with a Wilhelm scream escaping his lips. So far, Jack had not been noticed. He took the mental note that the unknown party was heavily armed.
He snuck through a Boston Tea Party exhibit and found the blasted raider on the other side, laying on the ground. He twitched and groaned while smoke rose from his chest. Jack caught the distinct smell of burning flesh and nearly gagged. It had been awhile. The distraction made him lower his guard:
"Hey dipshit, what are you doing in here?!" shouted a raider at the top of a nearby stairwell. He pointed his pipe revolver menacingly. Jack was about to attempt a Wild West draw of his own pistol, but at that exact moment his foe received a blast of flame directly to the face. He caught fire quickly, and fell down the stairs, screaming. He was dead in a matter of seconds, gone home to the big raider dungeon in the sky. Out of the corner of his eye, Jack saw the trail of flame recede into one of Codsworth's mechanical arms.
"You've had a flamer attachment this whole time!?" exclaimed Jack, bewildered.
"I'm programmed only to use it in emergencies, sir," replied Codsworth, sheepishly.
"Well, consider yourself on emergency status from here on out."
Between the special forces soldier and the flamethrowing, buzzsaw wielding robot, they made short work of the rest of the opposing forces.
Our hero made his way to the a door on the third floor that was filled with fresh bullet holes. He figured it was where the laser-gun-toting mystery man was located. He decided it was high time to make some introductions. He knocked on the door, politely.
"Jack Parsons, United States Military."
The door creaked open to reveal a man dressed in some sort of colonial duster, complete with a laser musket and nifty hat. He was accompanied by three helpless-looking survivors and a man dressed as a mechanic, who looked a little bit too cheerful given the circumstances.
"Preston Garvey, Commonwealth Minutemen. You arrived just in ti-" began Preston, but he was interrupted by Jack saying,
"Nice to meet you too, Preston. Say, do you have anything to drink?"