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Gacsam: I'm making me some damn lemonade! It is taking a while, unfortunately.
Chapter 23: Science!
"ID please." The security officer droned through the casual routine without bothering to look up from his less-than-entertaining magazine; the only significance of the stapled sheets being to prevent a suicide from pure boredom. It was only when he finally laid eyes upon the ID card placed in his hand that he scrounged for a more serious attitude, dropping his magazine lifelessly to the floor in his scurry to fall into the form of a strong-postured salute.
"Sir!" A pair of steel-sole boots tapped the floor impatiently as the man watched the entertaining flailing of the guard inside the booth. He chuckled.
"God, are we really that big of a deal?" He laughed again, "At ease bro."
The guard managed to settle his heart and find his seat again, "Head on through to terminal twelve, sir." The higher-up nodded his thanks and did as directed.
"General, sir." He gave a smooth salute, noticeably more refined than the guard he had previously bumped into.
"Specialist Vogue," Ironwood returned the Specialist's militaristic gesture with a simple courteous nod, "at ease." The General swivelled his chair idly, a somewhat childish show of boredom for a man of such high stature.
"I trust that your transportation was… amicable?"
"More so than most of my life, sir." The Specialist smiled.
Vogue set his briefcase down loudly, throwing up some dust from the desk separating him and the General. Patting his down knee-long pristine white coat with gloved hands of a similar shade, Vogue slowly seated himself in the chair beside him, finding a comfortable position for his body in the curvature of the seat. He adjusted the targeting visor over his eyes to fit more comfortably.
"Rich Atlesian leather…" the Specialist mused to himself before addressing his superior, "Are we still waiting for Specialist Schnee, sir?"
As though aware of his words, the doors behind him slid open with their usual grace.
'Speak of the Devil' Vogue smiled inwardly, "Look who's late!" He practically sung his teasing sentence out. Winter Schnee graced the room with her ever-bitchy presence; Vogue could almost feel her ice-cold hatred boring holes through the back of his head.
She gave her usual formal greeting to Ironwood, and he to her, all whilst ignoring her 'equal' seated at the desk. Winter silently took a seat next to Vogue.
"So who'd you beat up this time? Was it Qrow? I know you two kind of have a thing going between you-"
"I have no relation to that drunken hypocrite!" That always broke her.
"Ah here we go with the old lady nag-nag-nagging about her problems." Schnee was fuming. She must have really hated Qrow, "I like to solve my problems with good ol' Abel!" Vogue caressed his briefcase, with a smile painted on his face.
"That's enough, Vogue." The smile fell from the Specialist's face as the General intervened. Vogue adjusted his seated position to look more formal, all whilst offering an unhidden glare to Winter.
"You both know exactly why you've been called here, and you both agreed."
"Actually, I only listened to half of the message. You know how it's meant to explode after the message ends? Well yeah mine didn't do that." Unseen hatred found a bond between Ironwood and Vogue.
"Hey come on," Vogue continued, shrugging his shoulders, "you can't really blame me for that. I promise you that I had nothing to do with it blowing up."
"Vogue…"
"General."
"Please try to be professional for at least this assignment."
"Of course sir." Vogue gave a slight nod. Ironwood sighed.
"As you know our undercover operatives in Vale have been keeping tabs on a few 'foreigners' that were reported to be using odd technology. It seems they're proving… somewhat hard to contact, which is why you two are here. Put simply, I need you to make contact with these three foreigners and acquire some technology from them. If possible, I would also like you to invite them to have a little chat with Atlesian authorities. This would be a much simpler task and I would not require assistance from my specialists… if I still had contact with my operatives."
"Sir?" Winter raised an eyebrow in question.
Ironwood sighed, "I lost contact with all three of my operatives in the last week. They have been designated AWOL for the time being, but I fear worse…"
Vogue's heart skipped a beat and began to ache.
"As time is of the essence, I will skip unnecessary detail." Ironwood cast a stern look of authority upon his Specialists.
Winter saluted, "You can count on us sir."
'I have to work with Winter Schnee…'
Ironwood dismissed both Specialists, handing them files with as much information on the foreigners as they had and insisting that they begin their assignment whenever they see fit or are prepared. What that actually meant was that they should start immediately, or risk some good old-fashioned military discipline.
The elevator ride down to the ground floor of Atlas' military headquarters was not filled with pleasant conversation.
"Alright Schnee, you can obviously tell that I am positively thrilled about working with you, so let's get something crystal clear…" Neither Specialist visually addressed the other, instead opting to cast blank stares at the elevator door, "You are not superior to me, neither am I superior to you, so we will be working on the ground of equals, since apparently you don't understand that concept." Winter's eyes idly drifted to her 'partner', though her head remained static, "I hate your guts, I hate your money, I hate your family, I hate your inefficiency, and I sure as hell don't like you… We will be operating with efficiency, not your unideal militaristic methods. Are we at an understanding, Miss Schnee?"
Winter was less than amused, but eventually spoke up, "We start searching at Beacon."
Specialist Vogue snarled.
"Hey look, I'm really sorry for tying you up with barbed wire, but it's all I had, okay?" The Atlesian, chest heaving in and out with short pained breaths, body trembling in constant pain, glared at the man in front of him. Covered head to toe in metal plates and a cowboy duster, an unfamiliar helmet covering his face.
"Alright, I know we've been through this almost ten times already, but I kind of need to know who sent you so I can put a bullet in their head." The Courier had momentary flashbacks, 'Benny… bitch'.
The Atlesian remained silent, quivering on the cold rock beneath him. His face told experienced tales of pain, his monotone expression refusing to give in. His hand quivered, hovering over his now-vacant holster, a silent fear and horror creeping over his body. Barbs dug into his skin, rooting themselves in his flesh and drawing small rivers of blood down his hands, rolling over his stained jacket.
"It's not every day you find someone crawling about spying on you without any identification."
Still nothing. The man's hair remained messy, covered in the blood of his enemy. Unfortunately for the spy, one bullet proved a mere hurdle for his assigned subject.
"Ooh! Ooh! I know what you're here for!" The Courier quickly scrambled to his feet, hopping over to the corner of the small makeshift metal shack he had thrown together. In the corner, he stood next to something draped in an old tattered sheet. As though revealing a prize on a quiz show, the Courier whipped the sheet away, revealing what looked to be some sort of humanoid metal endoskeleton.
"Tadaa! This…" he gestured dramatically to the metal figure, "is a robot! Okay, it's not a finished robot, nowhere near finished actually. I think it'll probably take a few more years to create a synthetic human, so I ditched that idea. I'm just gonna make this one kill shit, maybe give him some cool armour or some shit." Dim light shimmered across the unpolished skeletal-like metal frame; the robotic look on its inhuman face almost reminiscent of a hidden pain. It looked like the flesh had been torn from some poor man and the bones of his very form transmuted into old metals.
The Courier stat down with his prisoner again, "You know, these White Fang goonies are so damn gullible! They just gave me a bunch of books about robotics, hell they even stole some military-grade manuals for me to learn from! And all I'm meant to be doing is modifying this train!" he pointed at an old train a few meters away. "You people are just… so fucking blind!" The train groaned out a rickety creak as it strained to stay intact.
"I have to admit though, the Atlas folks do have some fancy-looking robots. Maybe I'll go nab one for myself… It's a shame that I'll have to kill you though… they only give me enough rations for one person, so if you could haunt the next person who spies on me and tell them not to shoot me in the leg, it would me much appreciated."
The Courier leaned in, "Dust bullets are a real pain to pull out." He thumbed back the hammer of the Mysterious Magnum and pulled the trigger. The bang reverberated through the innards of the cave system.
"Time to science the shit out of these robots!"
Science-ing the shit out of robots was a long and arduous process.
Six had heard the odd word or two about synthetic humans out on the East coast, but a few words would not equate to personal experience or witnessing such a development first hand. In the end though, the Institute 'Synths' were just robots made to look and act like humans, something the Courier wasn't exactly aiming for. Sure perhaps they would be good at infiltration or data accumulation or something of the sorts but such purposes were trivial in the eyes of the Courier when compared to the little progress he would be making.
Returning to the Mojave to acquire some nifty AI for his bots was out of the question; he had already tried and failed to return. Apparently the Brotherhood had dug up some old U.S army robot that was originally intended to liberate Alaska from the Commies, but it wasn't used for some reason, Six didn't know much. All Six knew was that having a huge Commie smashing robot would've been a great asset, or at least would have provided a solid learning experience, maybe even usable combat subroutines. Starting from scratch would be painful, but time would prevail.
All the Courier had to do was dig around in his brain for everything he had learned from the Big MT Think Tank, but time would prevail in the end. Perhaps making simpler combat subroutines, disregarding target prioritisation and differentiating between friendly and enemy, would be simpler, if only to serve as temporary guards or drones.
Six recalled digging around in a few military grade Sentry Bots in his spare time; that would prove useful now.
But Six knew that this was no one-man job. Well, it could be but it would take straight years to manufacture even a few combat-ready bots. Allies were required.
'Hey Courier…'
"Oh fuck off voice, you're the last thing I need."
'You know you can't just push me away… I'm here to stay, always have been.'
"Just shut up."
'And what good would silencing your thoughts do? You're getting sloppy, Courier. When was the last time you put a bullet in someone's brain? Had to have been almost a week.'
"Ain't been no one to kill."
'Must have felt good to kill that poor soul over there. He was just watching, you know? Had no reason to kill him, but you did it anyway.'
"I would rather think clearly without you in my way."
'Heh… if you say so. By the way, there's a noise over that-a-way.'
Six's ears perked. His thoughts had not betrayed him, what sounded like scratching was echoing from somewhere about the cave, loudly too, surprisingly loudly. Six drew the Mysterious Magnum and thumbed back the hammer, slowly stalking away from his shack. A small generator hummed as the shack's single aged lightbulb swung slowly back and forth. The ground gently rocked.
Six's eyes stayed transfixed solely on the direction his ears guided him to. The closer he crept forward, the more opaque the scratching noises became. A thought grew in Six's mind… his feet ground to a slow stop as his body became inanimate.
The sound was growing ever nearer. Slowly, steadily, the scratching grew louder and louder until it overshadowed the generator's gentle hum. Then it stopped. Six looked at the floor. It was coming from the rocks. The Courier took two cautious steps backwards before slowly guiding the barrel of his revolver towards where the sound had stopped. The barrel glinted with the rugged light behind him. The revolver's carvings shone brighter than the darkness.
He pulled the trigger.
He pulled again.
Still the scratching ceased to return.
The bullets hadn't pierced the rock as Six slowly came to the realisation that .44 caliber rounds weren't designed to hollow out caves.
'Maybe your imagination, crazy boy.' Six jumped at the sound of his own thoughts returning. Six sighed, shook his head, and holstered his revolver with a click. Something jabbed at his lungs from inside. He rubbed his chest.
'Just your imagination, Courier.'
Six coughed, "Why did you tell me there was a noise then, dumbass?"
'Because I'm you, dumbass.'
Six noticed how shitty he smelt.
The Courier eventually came to the realisation that he needed to start manufacturing ammo. He was running low as it is and he wanted to try and chamber some of the dust-based ammo the locals used. But he could start on that another day, his Pip-Boy's internal clock was ticking into later hours and Six needed some beauty sleep if he didn't want to fall asleep halfway through making volatile ammunition.
The Courier slumped down next to the inanimate corpse of the spy he had murdered earlier, a bullet hole glaring through his head. The size of the hole was somewhat disturbing.
"Hold this for me." Six slipped his helmet off and plopped it over the man's head. Much more appealing now, without a giant bullet hole in his face. Well, technically it was still there, just covered up.
Sleep was restless, as always, and Six found himself lying plainly awake some way through the night. Scampering brought the Courier to attention and he drew his revolver. He simply lay there for a moment, listening.
The sound was more of a scuttling, and it grew distant for a few seconds before dying out completely. What sounded like some tiring breaths was also heard, though it sounded reminiscent of a dog, just much louder. Six's eyes casually drifted up. The lightbulb was swinging again.
His boot ground against the rock as the Courier slowly stood to his feet. He retrieved his helmet and flicked on the night vision. Revolver at the ready, the Courier took a heavy step forward. He followed the long-gone scurrying back to where the scratching once emanated.
There was a hole.
Broken rocks and ground stone lay about the opening in the floor, and upon further inspection it appeared not to simply be a hole, but a tunnel. A fucking tunnel. What the tunnelled its way here?
Six shook his head, dismissing it. He eventually covered it with a few old metal panels and decided he would fill the tunnel when the White Fang made their scheduled arrival the next day. Hopefully they would bring enough resources to start ammo manufacturing, robot manufacturing, and to fill that random tunnel.
Whatever had made that tunnel surely wouldn't be able to move those metal panels. He pushed the thought to the back of his mind.