Motley Mutants Ch. 3 - Call Me Rocky

+ To the rest of the world that had been scorched by nuclear fire exactly 218 years ago, it was a Tuesday morning. To Roc, it was the time when the fluorescent light bulbs perched above his head were set to automatically turn on and wake him up. It had been a whole week since his interview with the Brotherhood scribes. He had spent most of his time either sleeping or reading through the stack of prewar books that Daughtry had provided during her visits; visits which came to be the best parts of his days in Brotherhood captivity. He enjoyed the way she always seemed to be in the mood for long conversations and how she always brought warm food for him to eat. Every day he thought she would begin to interrogate him on his life as a mutant, or his life before that, as a human of which he could remember nothing but a name: Rocky. Instead they seemed to find themselves talking about mostly meaningless things like the different curiosities that the old world's inhabitants had left behind, or their theories of what life is like in the other parts of the world since the bombs fell. Alas, their fun and meaningless conversations always seemed to be cut short. After an hour or so Daughtry would glance at her wrist watch, rise from the plastic table in the holding cell and say, "Goodbye Roc. I'm sure that I will see you again tomorrow." Which is exactly what she had told him the day before, precisely 24 hours ago. She was late, and Roc knew it. He had no way of confirming his suspicions, as he had no way to tell time, and without windows he hadn't even the sun's position to go off of, but he couldn't shake the feeling that something was awry.

He paced back and forth in front of the entrance, occasionally glancing at the door when some random footsteps would appear, only to hear them pitter patter away. Roc wondered what he could have said to hurt her feelings: had he been rude to her? 'No', he decided firmly. He had been as he always was to her, and she seemed how she had always seemed to him. He played the flip-flop game, constantly guessing, deciding, and second guessing when suddenly he heard what sounded like large metal boots stomping their way to his door. At once his heart sank, as if somehow it had been late for tea with his stomach. He didn't know how but somehow, he thought, he must have failed her test, and the metal men were coming to execute him. Or worse, somehow Boston had received word that Roc had betrayed and murdered Brand, and it was Chop marching towards him, to do to Roc what Roc had done to Brand. They grew closer and closer, and he had nowhere to hide, and nowhere to run. He stood before the door, frozen from anxiety and paranoia. Then, as if meant to thaw him, there came a familiar rap on the door. It was the same knock he had heard every day for the last week. He felt a wave of warmth rush over him, completely banishing his frigid nerves. While the door didn't lock from the inside, as it was a prison cell, Liona always unlocked it first from the outside, allowing him to answer the door after she knocked. He pulled open the steel door and saw Liona Daughtry, flanked on both sides by Brotherhood Knights in Power Armor. He was used to her arriving with a single Knight, but never with two in full Power Armor, fully equipped with un-holstered Laser Rifles. "Liona." Roc began, trying his best to focus on her, and not on what he assumed were the men who would be his executioners. "You're late." He could see the metal men shift uneasily as he spoke. He recognized that he must have seemed as queer to them as they seemed to him.

"Yes I know, I had to run a few extra errands before I came. Today is going to be a little different, as I assume you've already gathered."

"Different how?" For a moment, and not a second longer, a rare smile flickered across her face. She quickly reigned it in and asked,

"How much do you know about architecture Roc?"

+ The Clan-Voice once told Chop, "To be bored is to be intelligent enough to recognize the staleness of your current situation." And, in that way, Chop had been blessed with an extremely dull intellect. He was able to guard his master's tent for hours on end, in complete silence; that is, excluding the occasional involuntary release of flatulence. That's not to say he was grinning and humming the whole time, because he rarely performed either of those actions unless he was killing or eating, but rather just that he didn't mind waiting awhile for his master to summon him, even if that meant staring blankly into the blue sky until it turned black and starry. Once the sky was devoid of all sunlight, Boston relieved Chop of his duties and sent him away to his quarters. After Chop departed Boston lingered for a while outside of his tent, peering over his throng of mutants and the shanty-like encampment they had constructed. Most of the camp's inhabitants had returned to their quarters, save for that nights selected camp guards, who remained scanning the wastes. They hadn't been attacked by the Brotherhood of Steel in a little over a month, so it had become less necessary to keep watch overnight. Even still, Boston thought, at least it gave the more restless mutants something productive to do during the nights. With a brief sigh he turned and walked back into his tent atop the hill. He sat on his bed and began undressing one piece at a time. First his used-to-be-white-but-now-deeply-stained t-shirt, then his hand-crafted size 28 black boots. He was unfastening the belt to his black cargo pants when he heard a chirp echo its way from his computer. He took two long strides to his computer and sat before it. His eyes ran anxiously along the text it provided. At the head of the screen, there was a familiar emblem accompanied by an equally familiar acronym. He clicked on it and a new screen appeared, spotted with a few lines of text. It read,

"Hello friend. It's odd, isn't it? I never would have guessed that one day I would be referring to a super mutant as a friend. Although, I also never would have thought that a mutant could be so helpful to a man in his time of need.

I'll spare you the verbosity of which I was subjected to in the scribe's reports. They've received the subjects, and they've completed their tests and procedures. The introduction of the LEO gene into Subjects A and B were met with drastically different results. Subject A - the one with the human limb - did not respond well to the gene. He awoke suddenly in a fit of rage, and was killed by Subject B, who by firsthand account, was said to have been protecting the scribe from Subject A's wrath. Subject B has since exhibited no more irregular behavior than any human man, and has seemed to have regained an undefined degree of his intellect as well. Despite the 50/50 nature of the results, I believe you'll agree that the LEO procedure has been proven to be a success. The details and collected data of the procedure have been attached in the file below."

"They actually did it… Interesting." Boston began speaking - as he commonly did - to himself. He had long ago accepted it as a consequence of surrounding himself with a fellowship of such vacuous individuals. "It's hardly a large enough pool of candidates to render an ultimate verdict, but even still... What they've done is actually quite remarkable." Boston's focus lingered for a moment on a distant memory, one wherein he could recall a man who had yearned to accomplish much the same, whose progress had been halted by his own alliances. "He should have never helped me, that old egg head. The white coats never did appreciate a contrarian. Though in the end, I suppose his sacrifice won't be a vane one after all."

Before retiring to his bed he retrieved a white laser rifle variant from behind his desk. As he cleaned it he realized the amount of wear it had suffered from his now obvious neglect. He was also reminded of the tedious nature involved in caring for a firearm, which further reminded him of why he had neglected the rifle for so long in the first place. He would make it pristine before long however, and with good reason. For he knew that it would get its fair share of attention in due time.

+ Perhaps he had been locked away in that artificially lit room for too long, Roc worried. As he left the front door of the laboratory he could feel himself getting stronger as if he were a young oak tree siphoning power from the sun and its rays. He was told to follow closely behind Head Scribe Daughtry, and to listen to her every order, and that if he failed to do so he would be met with, 'swift and harsh penalties'. This of course was not told to him by Daughtry. But rather barked at him by the loyal soldiers who were sworn to protect her. Roc snarled at the soldiers as they pushed him along, but elected to acquiesce to their demands despite his deep yearning to crush their heads together. Before long he was led into a wide open field spotted with lush green trees and plots of grass. He saw paved walkways bustling with various Brotherhood citizens going about their day and performing their duties. There were men and women gathered at benches and tables conversing and socializing while dozens of children played under trees and in the grass with their friends. The entire scene was enveloped by colossal buildings made from shaped stone and punctuated with colorful stained glass windows. What Roc found most noteworthy was the fact that the bright, multi-colored windows remained in perfect condition; not even the slightest crack could be spotted upon them. Directly to his right he found a garden being carefully tended to by a rust bucket of a being who, Roc speculated, by the copious amounts of neon orange duct tape and protruding circuitry, must have been repaired many times since its initial commissioning. Yet what it lacked in looks and youth it more than made up for in skill, and quality of work. It floated via combustion propulsion and using its four uniquely tooled limbs could easily and effectively perform as many jobs simultaneously. Daughtry noticed Roc had begun falling behind, and in order to avoid any unnecessary altercations she slowed her pace so as to be parallel to the mutant. Rocs mouth was left completely ajar while his mind tried to process all of the images that his eyes recorded. "Pretty, isn't it?" Daughtry said in an attention grabbing tone.

"Pretty? Yeah, I guess it is. Who's the robot?" He gestured a giant green finger at the floating machine.

"That's Hummingsworth, our friendly neighborhood defective Mr. Handy. He's been with us for quite some time now. At first we had him working at The Commissary with Chef Holtsman, but his constant humming was found to be all too annoying for the culinarian. So he's been working the fields as our produce gardener ever since. The Botany Scribes don't seem to be bothered by him."

"He does seem to enjoy his work, if that's even possible for such a being." Roc growled, although he did not mean to. Due to his enlarged larynx and sinuses, he often found his tone did not match that which his mind had intended.

"Hm-hm. Yes. I suppose he does." She chuckled.

They walked down the center-most path leading to the forts main building. As they drew closer Roc noticed that there was a herd of children beginning to form around him. All of their tiny eyes rendered him as uncomfortable as he could ever remember being. He tried to shoo them away in order to break the awkwardness he felt by making scary faces and waving his arms slightly. Whenever he would look directly at one of them, the chosen child would shriek and dart away to safety. "Uncle Leo! Uncle Leo's back!" Shouted a brave young girl to his left. Roc glanced at the tiny tyke who returned it with an ear-to-ear sort of grin. Surprising even himself, he smiled back, even though he knew that he was of course not the Uncle Leo whom the girl spoke of. From his right, one of the boys who he thought he had scared off came running back with a loaded sling shot. The brown haired rascal pulled back the weapons cradle and zipped a stone directly into Roc's neck, making him wince and rub the area of impact like how a human would address a bug bite. Roc turned and roared ferociously in the direction of the group of children, scaring them all off at once. One of the soldiers aimed his rifle at Roc's head as a precaution.

"Ramsey Fink! I saw that!" Daughtry's words startled the boy who had only just begun to retreat. Paladin Reese, the other one of the two aforementioned loyal soldiers, hoisted him into the air by his waistband.

"Where do you think you're going, little boy?"

"You've done it now Fink! Now you've done it!"

Taunted Paladin James Reese and Knight Doyle Samson respectively, through their Power Armor's external speakers.

"Let go Reese! Let go you brainless lackey!" Shouted the boy, whilst vainly struggling to free himself. Daughtry stepped towards the boy and spoke under the early sunlight.

"Ramsey. I know why you're angry at him, but -"

"At HIM? That's no him! That thing's no better than any other rad-soaked beast!" The boy's eyes burned red from sour tears. His adolescent voice struggled to match his aged hearts intensity.

"Ramsey Fink, you will be silent and you will be civil, or I will have you digging holes with Hummingsworth for the next month. Have I been heard?"

"But Liona I..." The boy began revving up for another round but, perhaps after realizing the futility of his plight, elected to steady himself and surrender. "I apologize, Liona."

"As I was saying. I understand your anger, but with time you will come to understand, just as I have, that the mutants of the wasteland are their own enemies well before they become ours." She signaled for Paladin Reese to release the boy.

"You got off easy kid. Now go to your mother, will you?" As soon as Ramsey's boots hit the dirt, he turned and darted through the audience that had gathered during the public scolding. Liona briefly offered a contrite look to Roc and then began leading the party once more. Soon they arrived at a short bench placed in front of an old statue that stood in front of the base's main structure: The Steel Chapel. It was a colossal Castle/Chapel amalgamation complete with ramparts, pillars, and arching doorways leading to a portcullis gate. Standing at a closer proximity, Roc could truly admire the painstakingly crafted menagerie of colored windows. To Roc they looked to tell a story, although its characters, he did not recognize, and so the specifics of the narrative eluded him. At its pinnacle there were erected spires that bore blue Brotherhood banners whose cloth whipped aimlessly in the wind. Roc found himself once again awestruck by the forts majesty.

"Hm. Architecture." He remembered, turning and smiling at Liona, who was sitting alone at the bench.

"I thought you might like it. I've lived here for my entire teenage life, and I've never been able to simply walk by The Steel Chapel without recognizing and respecting its magnitude. We spoke on several occasions about the old world, and its relics; this one is undoubtedly my favorite."

"It is impressive to think that something this awesome could be built by the hands of humans. Uh…I…didn't mean to offend." He awkwardly took a seat next to Daughtry on the then instantly crowded bench.

"And you didn't. I too find it hard to picture a time when humans could productively work together in enough numbers and for enough time, not simply destruct one another's homes, but to instead construct something like The Steel Chapel. Today, here in Post-Apocalyptia, we spend far too much time focused on the petty squabbles of our day to day survival, and not enough time combining our efforts for the betterment of society. Which brings me to the real reason that I brought you here." She reached into one of the deeper pockets of her robe and removed a stout journal. She placed it onto her lap and began nervously tracing the scars in the leather binding with her forefinger's nail. "This journal, It was my mother's. Her name was Fiona Daughtry. I mentioned her to you in our first interview. I told you a little about her past, about her love for Leo." She paused to glance at Roc, who nodded to show that he recalled the story. "Well her and Leo, they had planned to accomplish a great deal in the wasteland, but when Uncle Leo was murdered, she lost her companion. And without him at her side she knew that she hardly stood a chance at creating change with the aid of Brotherhood idealists, who would rather gun down a mutant than try to save it. See that's when she started to shut everyone out, even me, and began chronicling everything down in her journal. All of her studies and scientific breakthroughs. All of her interviews in the beginning with Leo, her hopes, her dreams for the wasteland, for my future, everything. And in the end, her struggle must have been too much to bear alone, I…I could have, but she… She chose to be alone and it killed her. But the information that she left for me in this book, is the key, Roc. I know you've been through hell, I know you have. But once, you too were a human. You were a part of all of this, and if you want to, you can be again. All I ask, is that you help me accomplish what my mother could not." The teenage scribe, whose normal disposition was a rather stoic one, now looked up at the hulking figure to her left with tears dripping from her nose. "Roc I need -"

"I'll help you, Liona. I don't remember what it was like to be one of you, though sometimes I still have fleeting feelings that I am not entirely what I appear to be. In my life as Roc, I did terrible things to your kind, and even though I harbor his memories, I am not Roc anymore. I'll help you Liona Daughtry, but I need you to do one thing for me in return."

"Anything."

"Call me Rocky."