A/N: This is part 1 of 2 of the segment entitled Cold Hearts. The next will wrap up the ensuing events. I'd like to take a second and thank each and every one of you who have read this far; it means a lot to me... a special shout out to any of you kind enough to review my stuff and the anonymous reviewers who I can't thank directly.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
Two leagues westward and the first obstacle of the starry night reveals itself-
Scorpions. A campfire brims with effulgence in an open clearing ahead, forewarning of imminent death for those who draw near.
He watches from a distance with a pair of binoculars, noting every patrolman's move, every interaction and mannerism. He secretly admired the raiders for their organization, as well as their shared skill of Legion-style flash raids that almost always prove successful. They're even mildly civil. Still, none of it deduces from the fact they will attack on sight, and will more than likely have to be destroyed in the future. For now outright avoidance will suffice like it always has.
Anatolius feels the outline of his only Stealth Boy at the bottom of his pack. With one last glance from behind the crumbling brick wall, he prepares to press on-
just as something stirs in the mostly intact house behind him.
Spinning around, he instinctively reaches for his weapon as his eyes fall on a ghoul hunched in the doorway.
"Hey smoothskin! I thought I heard someone," he staggers uneasily toward the confounded man who takes a couple steps back, "Got a few caps, man?"
The Frumentarius is alarmed by the disheveled mutant,
"Have you gone feral, ghoul?" He exasperates with blatant incredulity in a kind of whisper-yell, hand on the pistol veiled within his duster, "They'll hear you," he precariously shoots a look back at the camp.
"They don't pay you no attention unless ya get close.. I only need a cou-"
"I have nothing for you." Irritation flares in his voice.
Even in the dark, he can see the ghoul's mottled face flesh twist into a frown, then reaffirm,
"Come on man, I'm dyin'… just…"
"Please…" He meekly walks forward again.. reaching out a hand.
.
.
.
Anatolius looks down at the bizarre sight in front of him,
then to the smoking magnum clutched in his left hand. Back down. Up. Down.
He slides open the cylinder. Not a single bullet, not one in the chamber. There's nothing he can do but stare at the headless corpse as it drains itself of irradiated blood. Six shells simmer in the dirt around where he stands.
Abruptly, something unexplainable slams him in the face, bringing him back to attention as if rising out of an ethereal fugue state. They heard. Panic rises to his throat like the pursuit-calls into the night…
If there is any remaining chance the Legionary can evade detection by the Scorpions, it's now.
Taking one last look at the emaciated body wrapped in tattered rags, he conceals his .44 and emerges from the conglomerate of broken-down housing, leaving only a coin behind. There's no time to waste. Unparalleled alacrity may be on his side, but time certainly isn't- he can see figures moving toward him in the distance as he scrambles for an impromptu escape:
Things would be a hell of a lot easier if they were drugged up Fiends instead.
Anatolius barely gets away sneaking along the southwest ruins, using a series of burnt-out cars to reach their right hand flank. They're still heading to the source of the gunshots. About a half-dozen… some stay back to keep vigilance over the camp while others go to sleep. Breaking his line-of-sight with the Scorpions the man disappears behind a twisted morass of urban decay, comes out the other side, and quickly navigates a half-mille span of the ruins; the density begins to spread out notably around more structurally sound architecture… fire barrels flicker from afar paired with the occasional lit up window.
Fiend territory.
This is where extreme caution is required. One misplaced footstep- the entire place erupts into a din of clamor. A cruel fate of either being bludgeoned to death or hunted down like an animal. No matter how comfortable he is sneaking through, no matter how many times he's done it, Anatolius can't help but feel endangered on his first steps into the mess of ruins claimed by the savages… but after that; his scout instincts and discipline take over. Even if the Fiends have numbers on their side, they don't have a particular skillset. He'd kill fifty before they take him down.
Profoundly careful, Anatolius takes his first step into a building that had retained most of its second story ceiling. He uses the derelict shelter as a sort of comfort zone to penetrate their turf as no one ever uses it save the occasional squatter. From there; it's sheer luck. The layout of the territory itself is rudimentary at best- the bulk of them are centered around Vault 3- the rest are unevenly spread throughout the remaining Vegas ruins into little splinter camps of unorganized heathens.
As he passes near the adjacent doorway the man stops mid-step. Both ears prick up.
Voices. The meandering sound reflecting off the concrete is undeniable, but then stops altogether. Anatolius keeps steady footing on the cracked foundation, enters the room, and turns through the next doorway…
… right into a handful of Fiends illumined by the moonlight. Some are standing in the broken room, some are sitting around a heap of sputtering hot coals- they all stop whatever it is they're doing and look right at him.
"Oh."