The first thing the Master Chief noticed once the gate had opened were the windmills. He had seen them on the way in, but he was still impressed by the sheer size of the power-generating wind farm that surrounded nearly the entire city in a single row. On most worlds wind power was purely a supplemental source of energy; wind was too variable and unpredictable to be the primary source of electricity for any major power grid. On Meridian, though, even the calmest days had winds hitting at least one side of Meridian Station with enough force to supply most of the power the colony needed; the fusion reactor beneath the city center was largely a backup. This was thanks to the effects of the terraforming machine supplying breathable air. Further away from the settlement wind conditions were roughly earth-normal.
The second thing the Master Chief noticed was what worlds like Meridian had become most famous for: the glasslands. Of course, the area directly around Meridian Station itself was largely a uniform, very dark brown earth. The mining operations had removed the majority of the usable silicates in the area surrounding the colony years before, and terraforming efforts had begun to restore the ground to its former self. As such, the Chief and the other prospectors would be riding survey vehicles several kilometers out, at which point they would be let off to continue on foot.
Although saying that they were riding in vehicles would be a bit misleading. It would be far more accurate to say that they were riding on them. Either piled onto flatbeds or into large, open topped trailers intended for silicate transport, none of the prospectors had the luxury of an actual chair. The Master Chief reflected on the strangeness of that as he boarded the flatbed that would be his transport, climbing up past the enormous tires. Why would the Liang-Dortmund Company not outfit their workers with such a basic necessity as proper transport? If the prospectors were caught in a storm they would have no hope other than pulling a tarp over themselves and praying it kept most of the silicate particles from shredding them alive. Not to mention the lack of proper restraints making even a minor collision potentially life-threatening. Weren't experienced workers valuable enough to expend the comparatively paltry amount of resources necessary for safe transport? The Chief hung on to what handholds he could find as the vehicle started up.
Eventually the vehicles reached the region they were destined for, Grid 347-F. The prospectors quickly moved to disembark. The Master Chief decided to take the time to assist some of the other prospectors in climbing down from the considerable height of the flatbed. Some accepted his offer, grateful for the help; some accepted but were more tentative; and some flat out refused to take his hand. After the last of them had disembarked, they all quickly moved away to allow the drivers to cover their vehicles in the heavy tarps that would shield them against the hostile environment of untamed Meridian. Minimizing the time the vehicles were exposed would hopefully extend their lifespan.
The Master Chief looked down at the petite figure standing next to him. Collins was now completely covered in the same type of face-obscuring gear he himself wore, but he was accustomed to having to interpret body language. Her posture was conveying clear approval.
"Nice job with helping them down, Rogers" she said quietly, despite the fact that all of the other prospectors were already moving away in different directions, each hoping to find a valuable claim. "It won't erase the beating you gave Miller, but keep it up and people won't be so hostile."
The Master Chief frowned behind his rebreather. He hadn't intended his actions to be any kind of bridge-building exercise. He had seen fellow workers he could assist and had moved to do so. He would have done something similar for any marines he came across. In fact he had done so on numerous occasions, in those times that it wouldn't interfere with his mission objectives. He mentally logged Collins' observation for later consideration. He needed any edge he could get in this environment.
"Come on, let's head out. And be sure to watch your step!" Collins warned.
Here, at last, the Master Chief got a true ground-side view of the glasslands of Meridian: an endless sea of dirty, black silicates covering the entire horizon. Some areas looked like nothing so much as a shiny lake bed colored black, the flat ground broken up by the occasional crater. Others looked like desert sand dunes, wavy mounds blown in the wind. Still others resembled peaks and rocky mountains of jagged obsidian; these areas looked particularly alien, with entire canyons covered in razor-sharp towers of silicates. Formations of tall, sharp silicates formed rows in places, like a grotesque parody of a white picket fence. Collins and the Chief moved out.
"Reminds you a bit of an abstract depiction of hell, doesn't it?" Collins asked, after having stayed within 10 meters of him for several hours of walking. She had occasionally called out to the Chief, telling him to avoid a particular patch of ground or to tread carefully over another. It was actually rather helpful, and he always heeded her warnings. "I was a painter before the glassing," she continued. "Could have made a fortune from the inspiration this nightmare can provide." Collins sighed, both wistful and mournful. "But those days are long past. I lost my passion when I lost my home."
"Maybe it'll come back now that it's being restored...?" the Master Chief commented. He had been largely silent since their discussion in the morning. He didn't want to offend her by never responding to her occasional attempts at conversation.
Collins stopped and looked at him for a moment. Her body language didn't signal that she had found his comment offensive or insulting. If anything, she looked...amused?
"Hah. Thanks for the thought, Rogers, but I'm afraid this well is bone dry regardless. The painter Evelyn Collins never made it off Meridian. I'm all that's left." Collins shook her head, her posture conveying determination and restlessness. "Now let's keep moving. We still haven't found anything yet."
They moved out, carefully crossing the deadly environment while holding out the scanning equipment they had brought with them. Collins was using standard gear intended to detect particularly valuable silicates, created whenever the Covenant plasma bombardment had hit a particular type of target. Areas with a high amount of organic matter, such as forests, were particularly valuable for their makeup. The Master Chief, on the other hand, was holding out the makeshift device Dr. Halsey had built. He was looking for signs of the presence of Forerunner technology and the Guardian in particular. Collins had not mentioned his unique equipment, apparently mistaking it for a jury-rigged version of her own gear.
It was nearing the end of the day, and both prospectors had failed to find anything. Recon could be a long game, something the Chief had forgotten since he rarely had to do it himself anymore. Even before...even before...
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"Could we possibly make any more noise?!"
The Master Chief's response to Cortana's question was to fire both barrels of his rocket launcher in rapid succession, each shot striking and destroying a banshee gunship. The deafening cracks of their destruction drowned out the weapons fire of the infantry battle taking place below them.
"I guess so."
The battle calmed down considerably after that, the remaining Covenant forces being composed largely of Unggoy and Kig-Yar. Not that they surrendered. It was standard Covenant behavior to either fight to the death or flee outright, and the latter only really happened when all of the Sangheili were dead. Thankfully, they were.
After the last Unggoy turned and fled for the proverbial hills, the Master Chief shook his head. Halo. They had found another Halo. Mere hours ago, not including time in cryo-sleep, he had been taking part in the desperate defense of Earth itself from a Covenant fleet. Then, the Covenant Supercarrier that had led the invasion had suddenly jumped to slipspace, necessitating the UNSC In Amber Clad, and the Chief himself, to give chase. They hadn't even had time to pick up the rest of Blue Team. And now they were on another Halo. A replica of the galaxy-threatening superweapon that Cortana and he had barely stopped and destroyed less than a year before. Or rather, another installation in the network of Halo rings. The Chief sincerely hoped no more were found, at least until the War was over and they could dedicate enough resources to hunting down and annihilating them all.
Commander Miranda Keyes was on the comms, demanding an update. The Master Chief responded that he and the marines had secured the primary LZ and were awaiting further instructions. They only needed to know where to move out to once their transport arrived.
Cortana, as usual, supplied the answer.
"I've been scanning Covenant comms chatter, trying to find any trace of the Prophet of Regret."
Regret was one of the three Covenant Hierarchs, the highest ranking members of the San'Shyuum religious species. Those three individuals were the rulers of the Covenant. They were the ones most responsible for the Human-Covenant War, and all of the horrors that had occurred therein. The Chief looked forward to meeting him in person...and then stepping on his neck.
"I've discovered that most of their forces are being committed to what appears to be a large temple complex situated in the middle of a lake about 2 kilometers from here. If I were a megalomaniac—and I'm not!—that's where I'd be."
The Master Chief smiled beneath his helmet. Once again, she had come through for him. Even on the original Halo Cortana had provided him with a near-constant stream of crucial intelligence that had been key to stopping the weapon from firing. It was as much her victory as it was his, if not more so. It was strange to think he had only known her for less than 2 years.
What had he ever done without her?
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John was shocked out of his memories by nearly tripping over a small pile of rocky silicates. He shook his head, clearing away the mild disorientation. These trips into memory were becoming more and more unacceptable. He couldn't afford to be distracted, least of all out here.
Still, it was hard not to get lost in his memories sometimes. Whether it was of the Spartan siblings he had lost in the War or Cortana, there were times he just seemed unable to resist the pull of memory. Although it was happening more frequently since Cortana's...death.
Chief, I know I'm supposed to know what to do-!
"We'll have to deploy the warhead manually. How and where?"
I always know what to do...I always know what to do!...
The Master Chief shook his head, banishing the sound of Cortana's frantic, terrified voice. Her rampancy had robbed her of her abilities before killing her. Another thing he didn't need to dwell on. Of course, it was possible she hadn't died at all...
"You OK, Rogers?" Collins asked. "Looks you almost took a spill there."
"Yeah, sorry, just...," the Chief hesitated, unsure what to say. Deciding that half-truths had served him well so far, he continued, "just got caught up in a memory for a second."
Surprisingly, Collins didn't immediately berate him. Instead, she nodded in understanding. "Yeah, happens to a lot of people on their first time out. Especially if they came from a glassed planet themselves. Nothing to be ashamed of. Still," her posture changed to a lecturing stance, complete with her pointing a finger at him. "Don't let it happen again. I don't like wasting my time, and if you fall and impale yourself on a standing silicate I'm gonna be pissed!"
The Master Chief laughed before he could stop himself. He couldn't help it. Sgt. Avery Johnson, a marine friend who had died in the War, would almost certainly have liked Collins. He nodded at her, turned his attention back to where he was going, and continued covertly scanning for signs of Forerunner technology.
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Linda arrived at her apartment to find a bouquet of flowers in front of her door.
Riley, she thought, mentally grimacing in distaste. She picked up the flowers, entered her living quarters, and promptly dumped the offending vegetation in the trash receptacle. Riley had apparently decided to bring his "courtship" of her into her domestic life. It was not unexpected, his activities having proved unfruitful for nearly 3 weeks, but it meant that Linda was running out of time. She would soon have to either find the data she was looking for or eliminate Riley as a threat. Perhaps some clandestine physical assault. A chemically induced castration might be feasible...
The Spartan shook her head, banishing the thought. Riley was still a UEG citizen. Permanently harming him was a last resort. However pleasant it might be to think about...
Sighing internally, Linda sat down at her desk to begin working on her side project. It had taken only a few minutes bus ride to get back to her apartment. Being an administrative employee, she warranted her own private domicile a few blocks from the Administrative Building where she worked. She was not quite high ranking enough to get living quarters within the former colony ship itself. Only the higher-ups could live there and, with the former colony ship's cafeterias and various resources, were able to effectively never go outside. This also accounted for the comparatively low percentage of lung disorders in the upper echelons of Meridian's corporate government.
While technically an apartment, her living quarters were closer in size to an office cubicle. There was barely room for her bunk, a small dresser, her desk and chair, and a latrine that could barely fit one person inside it at a time. It was no bother, as she was used to having little space in her usual military accommodations. There was, however, one thing that did bother her: the disparity between her quarters and those of the rest of Blue Team. Linda had, naturally, researched the types of accommodations that all of her family would be treated to. Halsey would no doubt be unhappy, but she knew that her siblings at least would have little trouble adjusting to the limited space of their sleep pods. It was the fact that Blue Lead, the Master Chief, had been given inferior quarters to Linda that was problematic. He was her superior, as well as her older brother. While she knew that he never indulged in petty luxuries, she still felt uncomfortable receiving better treatment than him. It just wasn't right. She shook her head, knowing that he would not approve of her wasting time thinking about such trivial topics.
All right, Miss Cortez, let's find your weakpoint, Linda thought as she used her compad to access the net. If the mission was to be a success, Linda needed every asset she could get her hands on, and a secretly one-sided friendship with a coworker could be a powerful one. She decided to start by investigating Cortez's presence in social media. On the first site she checked, Linda discovered that her coworker had quite an extensive profile. Home planet and city, hobbies, likes and dislikes, favorite foods, social circles...The amateur intelligence agent marveled. For millenia intelligence agencies had worked tirelessly to obtain such information, and here people were willingly making it all available to anyone with a connection to the net!
Linda immediately absorbed every scrap of information available to her, looking for a way to endear herself to the Hispanic office worker. There were a number of methods she could try, such as gaining enough knowledge of Cortez's favorite films to pass for having similar tastes. However, Linda needed something that would grant maximum favor in minimum time. She did not have the luxury of the months or years normal intelligence agents took in developing an asset.
Wanting to be as thorough as possible, Linda decided to access Cortez's private email account. It was easy enough to learn the address—it was posted right on her profile. Now to discover the password. She exhausted 2 of the 3 attempts the site allowed before clicking the "I forgot my password" option. The site then provided a security question which, if answered correctly, would allow her unrestricted access to Cortez's account.
The question was simple: "What is your favorite animal?"
It was unlikely to be an obvious answer, such as "cat" or "dog." While she had encountered people who had been guilty of such foolishness—even officers of the UNSC, a fact which gave her no small amount of frustration—she decided to scan the information available in Cortez's social media profile for clues.
After several minutes of digging, Linda noticed that Cortez was apparently an avid fan of an ancient animated film series starring an anthropomorphic animal. Said animal was a long-extinct breed of ursine mammal native to Earth called the "panda." Searching for related subjects, Linda found that Cortez was a fan of several other fictional works that had incorporated the "panda," and was even a member of a group of individuals on the same social site dedicated to the animal. Linda switched back to the tab containing the email login, typed in the answer, and was rewarded with immediate access to Michelle Cortez's private email account. Linda grinned slightly, amused at her coworkers amateur security skills.
The next 45 minutes were spent scanning Cortez's emails for anything Linda could use. She found several promising leads, and in the end decided to pursue the field that had been causing her so many problems of late: romance. It seemed Linda's coworker had an unrequited crush on another Liang-Dortmund employee, if the correspondences between Cortez and one of her friends was any indication. While Linda had no experience in it, she knew from various sources that romantic relationships had a powerful effect on the ordinary human's psyche. If she could somehow arrange for Cortez and the male to liaise, and more importantly receive credit for doing so, her victory would be almost assured. Now how to go about it...
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This is getting ridiculous, Fred thought to himself. It had been an entire month and they hadn't found anything! He had scoured the police records, passing off his investigation as mere enthusiasm for his new job, but he had found no indications of any Forerunner ruins. Neither had his attempts to covertly interrogate his fellow officers yielded any progress. The only thing it had accomplished was to cement his new reputation as an over-enthusiastic rookie out to make everyone else look bad. He wasn't proud of it, but being treated as the noobie was grating on him a bit. He had fought for decades as one of humanity's elite soldiers; he had become accustomed to at least some respect. His unexpected emotional response only made him more frustrated with Blue Team's overall lack of progress.
Fred finished putting on his security armor, the light vest and under-suit of ballistic cloth feeling like tissue paper compared to his normal attire, and closed his locker. Some of his fellow officers teased him when he checked the mirror to make sure his uniform was worn perfectly. Fred gave them one of the several new responses he had picked up in his time there: he flipped them off. They rolled their eyes, some of them returning the gesture, and left to go about their duties. Fred made his way to his assigned patrol vehicle. It was an unarmored car with two front seats separated from the back by a metal grate meant to keep prisoners from attacking their arresting officers. He suppressed a sigh as the vehicle pulled out onto the roadway, running over a pothole on the way.
It wasn't that his new position was too difficult. Just the opposite, actually. It was too easy. He normally received the most dangerous, most crucial missions, the kind even the newer Spartan IVs couldn't handle. He realized the importance of what he was doing now, but the tedium of daily police work was beginning to wear on his nerves. If I have to fill out one more report...
"Car 17 we have an Alpha-9 in progress in 'The Waterloo Pub.' Repeat, we have an Alpha-9 in progress in 'The Waterloo Pub.' Over," the radio in Fred's police vehicle squawked.
Officer Delacroix, the vehicle's driver and Fred's immediate superior, responded, "Copy Control, Car 17 responding to Alpha-9 in 'Waterloo Pub,' over."
Fred mentally shook his head in disbelief. Meridian was a place where a single or small group of individuals getting drunk and making a scene in public was categorized as an Alpha level occurrence. Compared to the alien or rebel activity he was used to confronting, Meridian's problems were nothing. He felt like an accomplished admiral who had been forced to command a small patrol ship in a peaceful Inner Colony system. Important mission or not, he still felt his skills were going to waste here.
They arrived at the location of the disturbance quickly, the security force being one of the few groups on Meridian capable of affording its own personal vehicles. Officer Delacroix and Fred stepped out of their car, the higher air pressure escaping from the hermetically sealed vehicle when they opened the door. They entered the equally sealed pub, finding 3 drunken colonists brawling a few meters from the bar itself.
Officer Delacroix blew a whistle, drawing the attention of the drunken fighters. Upon seeing Fred, 2 of them immediately stopped their activity and assumed the position for arrest, laying down on the ground with their hands splayed out in front of them. Fred had quickly developed a reputation as an officer to be respected amongst Meridian's sizable population of drunks.
One of them, however, had no intention of going so quietly. He was a man of average height and scrawny build, suggesting most of his money went towards the purchase of alcohol rather than food. Fred was unhappy to notice that the man had a metal prosthetic arm and a neural implant on the back of his neck, indicating that he was a veteran. Dmitri Ivanov was his name. Fred had dealt with him before.
"Fuggin' UNSC bitch," Ivanov slurred, throwing a clumsy punch at the Spartan II. Fred effortlessly dodged it and had the offending assailant cuffed on the ground in seconds. His reputation had been well earned. Fred wondered what had caused a fellow soldier to develop such a loathing for the very military that had saved the human race. Unfortunately, Ivanov was rarely in a state to answer this, or any, question.
Delacroix chuckled at his subordinate, muttering "Show off" beneath his breath. At least he was inclined to like Fred's professionalism, unlike many of the other officers who seemed to view it as a sign he was some sort of glory hound. He would have to thank Sgt. Singh for assigning him a capable superior.
The 2 security officers hauled their charges to the back of their patrol car, Ivanov muttering angrily the entire way, gathered statements from witnesses, brought the perps back to the station for temporary detainment, and got on with their rounds. They would continue dealing with petty disturbances, and filling out tedious paperwork, until it was time to clock out for the day. Hooray, Commander Fred-104 thought to himself.
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Kelly suppressed a yawn and finished typing up the log entry for Dr. Halsey's newest patient. Christopher Johnson, a middle-aged prospector, had developed a lung disorder. Many of the miners and prospectors had conditions similar to his and Dr. Halsey had tasked the majority of the lab to brewing medicinal treatments for them.
"Thank you, Kelly," Dr. Halsey said, her face betraying mixed emotions. Kelly nodded in response, knowing better than to draw out this particular interaction. Kelly's augmented speed made her the natural choice for transcribing records, the small clinic lacking voice recognition software. Kelly understood the Doctor's ambivalence. Before she had lost her arm Halsey had been even faster a typist than Kelly, normally breaking 120 words per minute thanks to her decades of practice and exceptional intellect. The Spartan remembered it sounding like automatic weapons fire. Having to rely on another like this, even one of her Spartans, was difficult for her.
"How's my buddy doing, Doc?" Evelyn Collins asked Kelly, Halsey having left the waiting area to tend to other duties.
Kelly smiled at Collins from behind the desk, happy that the community leader was once again visiting one of her charges. "Please, Ms. Collins, I'm not a doctor. I would prefer it if you didn't call me that," she said.
"And I would prefer it if you stopped calling me 'Miss' all the damn time," Collins smiled back. "But please, Johnson...?"
"Mr. Johnson is going to be fine," Kelly assured her. "He's in the second patient room having a rest. He just had a bit of an attack in the lungs, and Dr. Pym wanted to keep him here overnight for observation. Can't be too careful with a breathing problem. So long as he takes his medicine he should be fine to resume work in a few days."
Collins snorted. "Unlikely on both counts, Doc. If a prospector doesn't work, he doesn't get paid. He'll probably be back out in the glasslands tomorrow if noone stops him. As for the medicine, well..." Collins grimaced, "he might try to stockpile it. A lot of people think that if they're feeling anywhere close to fine they'll try to save it for when things get really bad. They don't want supply to run out when they literally can't get out there any more."
"But...their conditions will worsen much more quickly and severely if they do that!" Kelly objected, horrified. "And unless they're storing the medicine properly it probably won't last that long anyway!"
"I know that," Collins tried to assuage her, "but fear ain't rational, and these people are afraid. A lot of them live payday-to-payday. They can't afford not to work even for a short time. The day he spent in here is already putting him at risk. I might have to raise some funds to support him until he gets back out there."
Kelly actually groaned in frustration, a spectacular display of emotions by Spartan standards.
"Why is this place so short on everything?" Kelly asked rhetorically. To her surprise, Collins answered.
"Funding, honey. Company headquarters barely gives any of the profits toward medical necessities. Would cut into the profits," Collins scowled, clearly restraining herself from becoming angry.
"But...isn't it the job of the colony's leadership to ensure that the residents are provided for?" Kelly asked hesitantly. She had never interacted with Governor Sloan herself, but she had grown to suspect that many of the colony's problems might be traceable to being run by an artificial intelligence that was, for all intents and purposes, going senile.
"Ha! They tried," Collins responded. "Sloan actually diverted funds meant to go to mining equipment into the medical budget one year. Tried to argue that if Meridian was to keep being productive, it needed healthy workers. Know how headquarters responded?"
Kelly shook her head.
"They cut our food budget for the next quarter in half! There were a lot of growling stomachs that year..." Collins scowled to herself. "Look...if I keep talking about this stuff I'm gonna start getting worked up. I'm just gonna visit my friend and then head back home. Take care, ya hear?"
Kelly nodded as Collins left, still trying to process what she had just been told. A rampant AI was serving as a protector of the common human here on Meridian? Could that be true, or had the self-proclaimed governor tricked the populace into thinking he was on their side? Surely Liang-Dortmund wouldn't be a able to get away with such a clear abuse of its workforce. Although...Collins' story certainly seemed to line up with the general neglect that Meridian clearly suffered from in nearly every area of its existence. Surely even an AI like Sloan wouldn't be able to conceal all of the conditions here...
Kelly sighed and decided to get back to work. She would have to find time to think about this later, although she couldn't imagine when that would be. Their clinic was so understaffed she had been spending nearly every waking moment at work, sacrificing a significant amount of sleep to try to keep up. She reminded herself to view it as just another challenge to be surmounted, and resumed her work with all the speed she could safely use.
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The Master Chief looked into the alley from his perch on the roof of the 2 story-tall warehouse. Looks like Collins was right after all, he thought with a frown. It had taken several weeks, but the petite prospector's prediction had come true.
Yao Miller, the kid who the Chief had subdued the first day he went into the glasslands, looked into the alley in confusion. His three friends were equally confused. The alley was a dead end. There shouldn't have been anywhere for their prey to escape to. Had the Master Chief not been a Spartan, they may have been right. Being what he was, however, the Chief had had little trouble leaping most of the way to the roof and climbing the rest of the way in the few seconds it took his pursuers to arrive.
The Master Chief had spotted Miller and his cohorts as soon as they had started following him, less than a block away from the exterior gate. It hadn't been difficult. Committed as they might have been to making trouble, they were far from professionals. Blue Team would never have been so obvious. The Chief continued to observe them from above, careful to minimize his profile in case one of them thought to look up.
This was, unquestionably, a problem. The Master Chief was unused to dealing with threats he couldn't simply kill or injure into submission. Physical force had clearly not been an adequate deterrence. The small group below would be little threat, lacking even a single firearm, but if he subdued them they would likely escalate the situation again next time. More people, potentially better weapons. Eventually the Chief might be forced to use lethal force, which would bring all sorts of unacceptable attention. Not to mention the fact that he didn't like the idea of killing the kid, mixed history or not.
At his behest, Linda had researched Yao Miller. It turned out that Miller had a history with an organization named "Emerald Dawn," an Insurrectionist group dedicated to achieving independence from the UEG. The group had largely been destroyed when their planet was glassed by the Covenant, but enough records survived that Linda was able to track down exactly who he was. Miller had participated in the planning of several attempted bombing when he was just 13 years old and had only been released due to his age and the loss of his homeworld.
Normally it wouldn't take much to convince law enforcement that he was a problem, but if half of what Fred had reported was true there simply weren't enough resources to bother with a former Innie. Too much time handling minor violence, he said, and without proof they wouldn't be able to do anything anyway. Given that it was his word against Miller's, and that he was supposedly from the Inner Colonies while Miller was from an Outer Colony, the Chief had little hope in receiving official help.
What to do, then? the Master Chief asked himself, watching the group leave in defeat. There had to be some way to get Miller and his comrades to back off. Collins had said that the occasional assistance he gave his fellow prospectors was helping improve his reputation, but that clearly had not been enough for the more radical members of the community. He would have to bring this up when he regrouped with the rest of Blue Team tonight. Linda might have some ideas about manipulating them. Perhaps Kelly or Dr. Halsey would have some ideas about appealing to their human empathy. The Chief shook his head. Empathy from an Innie. Right.
Sorry for the delay. Again, Fallout 4 has consumed most of my spare time. Stupid weapon crafting and settlement building, why do you have to be so much fun?
Note: I'm a little worried that these last few chapters have been a bit heavy on exposition. I'm trying to keep the characters active and advance each of their stories, but I'm still worried I'm spending too much time on description. Any thoughts?
Note: I share much of Linda's frustration where it comes to electronic security. People are way too open about certain topics, especially stuff that relates to security questions. My advice: Lie. If your security question asks for your hometown, say "Gotham City." If it asks for your mother's maiden name, say "Voltron." If it asks who you voted for in the last election, say "Lex Luthor." Etc.
Thanks for reading. Love you guys.
Slipspace Anomaly.