Mutatis Mutandis 11
"Run!" Hannibal ordered, pushing Alejandra ahead of him. He could hear the constant clatter of Simone's assault rifle as the woman lay down covering fire. The mutants were responding in kind, with an overwhelming amount of fire. Bullets tore chunks out of the history museum wall high above his head.
Simone had taken the nearest bluff, and had good cover behind a chunk of concrete. The rising ground was actually providing what remained of the Temple with an excellent barrier, so long as they stayed low.
How they'd managed to escape the Lincoln memorial and get this close to the Museum of History was a miracle. But they'd heard the Wanderer's broadcasted warning, and started moving just before the hordes arrived. Their escape had still cost them Bill, Caleb, and Four Score.
They reached the Museum's metro station and took shelter at the narrow concrete railing. Simone followed a few moments later, limping slightly; a bullet had grazed her leg. She was waving her arms furiously, yelling at them to keep moving.
Hannibal obeyed, sprinting for the museum entrance. Alejandra followed close behind him and all three dove into the foyer, only to be confronted by an angry ghoul with a laser rifle.
"On your feet, smoothskin!" the female ordered, gesturing with her rifle.
"Please!" Hannibal begged. "Help us!"
"I know!" the ghoul said, "Get back there. Some Brotherhood soldiers are already inside!"
Hannibal gave her a grateful look. A mighty crack echoed across the Mall, making them all peek out the door. Several behemoths were hard at work, hammering away at the base of the Washington monument. Even as they watched, the cyclopean monument shuddered, and slowly began to sag, the base crumbling. Then it fell with a horrendous crash,disintegrating into a tangled mass of concrete, steel and plaster. The impact shook the ground around it, casuing Hannibal to momentarily lose his balance. The behemoths roared in triumph, standing firm as the tide of supermutants swarmed and swirled around them.
"Get moving!" the female hissed, shutting the door. "They'll be coming for us soon enough.
She lead Hannibal across the floor of the museum, past the fallen skeleton of some terrifying prehistoric creature. They were met at the gate by two more ghouls and, to Hannibal's dismay, another supermutant, though this one seemed far less violent than the savages outside.
"I think that's all the humans left!" the female ghoul reported.
"Are we sure we want this?" one of the male ghouls asked. He was wearing a faded grey jumpsuit, and Hannibal recognized him as Winthrop. He had traded with the new Temple on a fairly regular basis. "I mean… the Muties aren't after us."
"Yet." said the third ghoul, who was wearing a labcoat. "Believe me, we're more human than mutant. I doubt they'd understand the difference once the humans are gone."
"They might, Doc." Winthrop argued. "If we harbor humans, they'll come after us for sure."
"Look, I've lost two of my closest friends today!" Hannibal said. "Please don't throw us out, I beg you!"
"The mutants are going to come for us regardless." The doctor replied, ignoring him. "We need as many able hands as possible! What does it matter whether they're human or not?"
They were interrupted by a sudden pounding on the museum's outer doors. Silence smothered the entire scene.
"I do not think that will be enough." The friendly mutant said, hoisting a sledgehammer. "Is there another way out of underworld?"
"At the back of my lab there's something." The doctor said thoughtfully, "Hallways… but I've never explored it."
"Take the humans, and evacuate." The mutant ordered, stepping forward. "Go. Now. I will hold them as best I can."
"Thank you Fawkes!" Winthrop said.
"Go!" The mutant roared. Hannibal found himself pulled through the door, and into the Ghoul's city.
Fawkes stood at the entrance to underworld, pacing back and forth on the raised platform in front of the doors. He could feel the fine layer of dirt which covered the floor of the museum entrance. It was soft between his toes, comforting. The roof of the enormous chamber vaulted high over his head, and the entire room was lit with the flickering orange glow of the torches and lit barrels. He stared past the fallen skeleton and the mammoth statue, his steady gaze focused on the small doorway between the his domed chamber and the lobby.
A distant booming crash caused him to pause in mid-stride, watching the opening carefully. Another rumble shook the building and there was the sound of falling debris. A thick cloud of dust billowed through the opening, obscuring his view, but he could hear the growls and shouts of the mutant army beyond.
A shadow appeared, striding calmly through the smoke. It resolved into a single mutant. Fawkes had seen a great many mutants of a great many varieties over his years outside the vault. None of them possessed the dark hues of grey, blue, and green which colored this mutant. None of their eyes possessed that intelligence. None of them moved with the calm, steady purposeful stride.
He was smaller than the other mutants, but no less imposing. The musculature of most mutants, including Fawkes, was bulky and unwieldy, yet this mutant's physique was streamlined, toned with age and use. His body was covered by thick plate armour, and an enormous black sword was slung across his back.
The mutant halted ten heavy paces from the steps, and with a curious expression, he surveyed Fawkes. "I seek humans."
"There are none here." Fawkes replied. "Leave now."
"What is your name, my brother? Why are you not attacking?"
The mutant's voice was smooth; as controlled as his steady movements. Fawkes envied him that ability.
"I am not your brother."
The mutant's expression grew more confused. "We are all brothers. We have all been reborn. Baptized in the green glow."
"It doesn't matter where we came from." Fawkes responded. "Our actions define us, and you want to slaughter innocents."
"Innocents…?"
"The ghouls and humans behind these doors."
The mutant looked shocked and horrified. "You stand with them?"
"I do."
"What is your name?"
"Fawkes."
"Mine is Brutus." The mutant told him. "I have no wish to harm you, Brother. But I will see the humans, and anyone protecting them, dead."
"You will not pass while I draw breath." Fawkes replied evenly. "These humans have done nothing to you."
"Humans have done everything to us!" the mutant named Brutus snarled. "You would betray your own species?"
"The worst hardships I've ever endured, I endured at the hands of my own kind." Fawkes countered. "These ghouls and humans have been kind in comparison."
"Kindness?" Brutus spat. "I know much of human 'kindness'! Human kindness resulted in the death of our Master, and the slaughter of thousands of mutants."
"The first human I ever met chose not to kill me. He chose to trust me, confide in me, and set me free. He has treated me with nothing but kindness and dignity."
"Who was this human?"
"The Lone Wanderer."
Brutus' eyes narrowed. "You'd side with a Wanderer? They are the worst of their kind."
"Wrong." Fawkes barked, his denial echoing throughout the chamber. "He is the best of their kind, and you, the worst of ours." He palmed the head of his hammer, feeling its weight. "And if I die on these steps today, then I die knowing I've repaid my debt to him, and defended his people from you."
"You wish to die, traitor?" the king demanded, stepping forward and drawing his sword. "Then I will oblige!"
Brutus stabbed forward with his sword, aiming for the upper abdomen. Fawkes dodged sideways, lightly batting away the thrust. He shuffled forward and rammed the head of his hammer into Brutus' face, knocking the mutant king backwards. Fawkes followed through with an underhanded swing. It caught Brutus in the sternum, knocking him backwards, and sending him sliding across the smooth museum floor. He left long streaks in the thick layer of dust, marking his trail.
Fawkes turned and marched back to the Underworld entrance. He retook his protective stance, and watched as the mutant king tried to rise. It took a few attempts, and when Brutus finally made it to his feet, he was glaring at Fawkes with newfound respect. A small amount of blood was trickling from the corner of Brutus' mouth, and he wiped it away.
"Yield." Brutus ordered.
"No."
The mutant king moved forward again, this time much more cautiously. He used the superior length of his blade to swipe and thrust at Fawkes with precise strikes, but each blow was calmly deflected. The length of his weapon was offset by Fawkes' superior height, and calm determination. Fawkes could tell that his opponent was getting increasingly frustrated; every second the two of them sparred was another second the fugitives had to flee Underworld.
Behind Brutus, more mutants began to file in, watching the fight unfold. There were more than Fawkes could count, and he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that even if he managed to kill their leader, he would not survive the lead and energy storm of retribution.
The king whipped the tip of his blade around in a fast arc designed to slit Fawkes' throat, forcing the mutant to block with his hammer. As the blade bounced off, the king stepped around to the opposite side and rammed the hilt of his blade into Fawkes' jaw, knocking the mutant backwards. He acted immediately and rammed the blade at his opponent's head.
Fawkes dodged at the last second and felt the rough blade scratch his cheek as its tip skittered across the marble floor. He kicked out, hitting Brutus in the stomach and knocking the king backwards. He followed through, picking up his hammer and raining blow after blow on the smaller, armoured opponent. It was all Brutus could do to keep his skull from getting smashed in. He kept his enormous sword up, gripping it by the hilt and the length, the flat of his blade blocking blow after furious blow until it began to buckle and bend under the repeated stress.
Brutus tilted his sword, suddenly removing his hand from the blade and causing Fawkes' powerful blow to slide down the length of it. As his opponent's hammer fell away, the king spun around, gripping the hilt in reverse, tucking the blade beneath his armpit, and plunging it into the green mutant's midriff.
The hammer clattered to the floor. Brutus turned and watched as Fawkes stared down at the fresh blood trickling down the king's bent blade. The traitor's gaze traveled up Brutus' arm, and Fawkes met his eyes with calm acceptance, and determination.
"I am sorry, brother," Brutus began, the blade squelching as it slid further in. The amount of blood pouring from the grievous wound seemed to double. "But you are a traitor to our cause, and we-"
He didn't get to finish his sentence. To his amazement, the mutant named Fawkes tackled him, ignoring the injury completely, and Brutus found his face being repeatedly and ruthlessly smashed into the unyielding marble steps. Fawkes let out a roar of unrelenting rage, a lament that he couldn't cause enough pain. It was cut short as an overlord tore the mutant away, leaving Brutus gasping for air and spitting blood.
The line of overlords slowly advanced on Fawkes, who fought unsteadily to his feet. He winced, pulled Brutus' blade out, and held it in front of him, preparing to meet the first attack. One aggressive mutant bellowed and threw a punch at him. He lopped the offender's arm off at the elbow, and followed through with a thrust into the mutant's throat, killing it. He pulled the blade out and shuffled back in time to meet a second strike, the overlord assaulting him with an enormous sledgehammer in much the same manner he had used on Brutus. He blocked, and slid the blade down the length of the hammer's grip, severing the mutant's fingers. As the beast howled in pain he chopped it off at the knees and planted Brutus' sword in its back, his fresh blood being washed away with the mutant's own ichor.
However, he was slowing down, he knew. The wound was taking its toll, and every movement was becoming more difficult.
A supermutant master stepped forward, making to tackled him. Fawkes dodged clumsily and scored a deep gash across the mutant's abdomen. It landed on the ground and he wasted no time in cutting its head off, the enormous blade kicking up sparks as it hit the floor.
Fawkes heard a roar behind him, and was knocked to the floor, the wind blasted from his lungs. Brutus' sword skittered away and buried itself in a pile of detritus, lying in one of the museums shadowed corners. Rough hands, enormous even by Fawkes' standards, gripped him by the back of his neck and dragged him to his knees. He could make out the distinct bulk of another overlord as it gripped his shoulders, keeping him down despite his struggles.
His enemies gathered around him and began to land heavy blows on his head and shoulders, forcing him on all fours, then eventually to his stomach, their ferocity and bloodlust unmatched. Eventually he stopped feeling the pain, and as his vision began to fade, Fawkes could see Brutus, their king, seated upon the steps, watching the proceedings with a regretful expression. The king gently removed his helmet and ran his palm across his bare head. Behind him, his army streamed into the ghoul city unopposed, and Fawkes hoped that the innocents had managed to escape. Cries of terror and gunfire showed him otherwise, and his last sight before an overlord's heel crushed him was of the museum's ceiling being ripped apart by an enormous behemoth.
Glade shifted slightly, trying to make himself comfortable on the oddly-shaped rock. For the fourth time in as many minutes, he looked up at Rothchild. The Scribe was locked in quiet conversation with Megaton's Sheriff. Glade was part of the ragged band of twenty or so Brotherhood soldiers who were gathered around the city's gate. They were armed with a strange collection of weaponry including hunting rifles and 10mm pistols, scavenged from dead Muties. The luckier ones had picked up weapons from the armoured savior's weapons cache, but for the most part, they'd been entirely set on the singular goal of making out of the D.C. ruins alive. Not a single soldier had power armour, and all semblance of rank and order seemed to have faded, leaving a group of tired, defeated human beings in place of the armoured knights.
"What the hell are the talking about?" Kodiak asked, taking a seat beside him. The Paladin stretched out on the gritty sand, resting his hunting rifle on his chest.
"I don't know." Glade shrugged. "Don't much care. I just want to…" he died away into silence. He didn't have an answer, nor a goal. The shock of their sudden defeat had left him reeling. A large part of him was still not convinced the citadel had fallen. Every time he replayed the sequence of events in his head, he felt as if he were watching a dream, or a pre-war movie. Some nightmarish fantasy rather than reality. But then he'd open his eyes and see the pitiful remnants gathered around him, and realize again and again that it had all really happened. He was there; tired, hopelessly depressed, and utterly directionless.
The Brotherhood in the capital wasteland was over. That much was certain to all the survivors. And if it hadn't been for their mysterious benefactor, the mutant triumph would have been complete. Suddenly the wasteland which for so long had been theirs to protect and uphold, was completely beyond their control and understanding.
"Who do you think he was?" Kodiak asked.
"Who?"
"The Armoured Man."
"I don't know." Glade said, his voice an acoustic tableau of indifference. "I just hope he has better luck than we did."
"Was it the Wanderer?"
"No." That much, glade was absolutely sure of. He'd been around the Lone Wanderer for four years, and as much as the man was a mystery, a few facts about his methods had remained constant; the Wanderer used a minimalistic approach to combat. He always chose whichever method got the job done most efficiently with the least amount of waste, and the least chance of failure. From what little Sarah had shared about her time in the Pitt, he used stealth, distractions, silence and darkness, and Glade knew his signature: three rounds forming a neat triangle in the heads of every single one of his victims. Strict trigger discipline.
The Armoured Man, as impressive and effective as his display had been, had merely overpowered his opponents, cutting them down with a wall of lead. A different method entirely. Besides, the Lone Wanderer did not use Power Armour. And he certainly wasn't that enormous.
"Holy shit…" Kodiak sat up suddenly, staring in shock at the top of the nearest dune. Glade followed his gaze, and met the angry, wild eyes of Sarah Lyons.
She looked half dead; thin as a rail, and her skin, so pale it was almost alabaster, seemed to glow slightly, reflecting the moonlight. Her eyes were half-crazed, and the scar on the side of her head seemed to glow slightly brighter than anywhere else, bringing out that horrible feral side of her that he had seen when she'd first arrived from Point Lookout.
He found his gaze couldn't linger on her eyes and face too long, though. Whenever it did, he got a strange ringing in his ears, like the toll of buoy bells. A combat knife was gripped so tightly in her right hand that her knuckles had turned white, and in her left was a vaguely spherical object, brown and leathery.
"What the hell?" Kodiak muttered to himself.
As the woman approached, the object's exact nature became clear. It was the head of a feral ghoul, detached from the body. A few strands of flesh were still dangling, along with a small amount of spine.
The survivors grew quiet as she limped down the hill, their eyes following her every move. Whispers chased her, and when they looked upon her, Glade noticed the fear, distrust, and accusations in their eyes. yet she held her head high, and kept her gaze steady. The woman came to a halt in front of them, as if in a trance.
"…Sarah?" glade asked.
She blinked myopically and glanced down at the ghoul's head, which was attracting the attentions of her disheartened comrades. She held the head up in a Shakespearian pose, examining it in the blue moonlight. Then she lowered it, disinterested.
"Sewers." She murmured, trudging past them towards Rothchild, who had also stopped to watch. "Ghoul attacked me. Things shouldn't attack me… think they'd all just fucking learn… it's not healthy for them…"
Glade rose to his feet and followed her, shouldering his assault rifle. She came to a halt four paces from the scribe, her feverish gaze oscillating between the old scribe and Lucas Simms, both of whom were looking shocked and more than a little wary.
She addressed Rothchild first. "My father?"
His expression should have told her everything she needed to know, but to Glade's surprise, she didn't seem to react at all. Instead she turned to Simms. "The Brotherhood is staying in Megaton to rearm and get supplied."
"Yes, we were just discussing it." Rothchild told her calmly.
"NO!" she threw the ghoul's head down. It bounced off a small rock and rolled into the night. "You don't discuss it! You do it! We don't have time to discuss! We're out of time!" Her voice was growing more frantic by the second, and Glade reached out a hand to steady her.
The moment the tips of his fingers touched her shoulder, she spun around. He found himself flat on the dirt with her combat boot on his neck. Not taking the pressure off, she bent down and glared at him with those crazed eyes. "Get your division fallen in, Star Paladin!"
She stood and took a step back to glare at the crowd of sitting soldiers. She began to move from knight to knight, kicking each of them as hard as she could, rousing them out of their stupor. "Get up! Get up! Rise and shine! Get the fuck up!"
Her boot landed in the teeth of one of the unfortunate knights, but she didn't lay off the poor woman, instead driving closer with the knife held threateningly in front of her. "Get up or I swear by Ug-Qualtoth's frilly polka-dot hat, I will slice you to pieces!"
The poor knight scrambled to her feet, terrified. Her comrades were following her example, dusting themselves off and picking up their weapons.
"I want you fallen in right here!" Sarah barked, gesturing with her knife. The knights obeyed, standing to attention and watching her fearfully.
"Eyes front!" the Star-Paladin continued, stomping angrily down the line. She halted in the center. "You are Brotherhood soldiers! Squad right turn!"
As one, the division spun ninety degrees and faced Megaton's entrance. The gates whined and clicked, slowly opening to reveal the interior of the post-apocalyptic city.
"Squad, quick march! Double time!" Sarah hollered. The startled knights obeyed, and she followed, using a manically determined stride to keep pace with them. Kodiak helped Glade to his feet, and the two of them fell in behind her, with a stunned Rothchild and bemused Simms bringing up the rear.
Updated Pro Posterus, too. Busy wrestling with The Fourth Option, but neither are as important as this one. Be careful when asking for companion cameos. But I hope you enjoyed. :)
Keep on Chooglin'
-CC out.