Mutatis Mutandis 29
A fourth sniper shot pinged off of Narg's helmet and buried itself in the nearby concrete wall of the satellite tower.
He called out, "All I want to do is borrow your computer for a bit."
"Fuck off and die!" a raider called down in answer.
"Look," Narg said patiently, "I've had several different people tell me over the years that I should try talking instead of simply shooting my way through every problem. I'm attempting some character development here! Throw me a bone!"
A grenade landed a few meters away. He held an arm up to shield his visor cameras from the blast. A few chunks of shrapnel buried themselves in the thick abdominal plates of his armour. The force of the explosive knocked him back a step, but he regained his footing just as quickly. He waited a moment for the dust to settle, and then glared up at the jeering raiders. "That was not a bone! Not even my half-blind grandmother could have mistaken that for a bone!"
"Call the doctor, we got a bleeder!" one of the lunatics screamed out cheerfully.
"What do you mean a 'Bleeder'?" Narg replied indignantly, turning up the volume on his speakers. "I'm not even… Look! No blood. Nowhere. Not even a little bit. I'm really beginning to think that this whole 'Talk out your problems' business isn't all it's cut out to be."
In response, the band of raiders on the catwalks far above him began to rain down assault rifle fire.
Narg gave up.
Not on entering the tower, just on being diplomatic. Somewhere at the top of the enormous satellite tower was a computer which could communicate with the armed orbital strike satellites. Narg had travelled all of seven hours to get there, and he was damned if he was going to leave without finishing the job.
Feeling quite cheerful, the giant hefted his minigun and lumbered purposefully around the outside of the satellite tower, ignoring the crazed threats and insults being flung at him, not to mention the rifle fire. He found the barricaded door halfway around and proceeded to take it to pieces, using his minigun first to soften up the wall of wood and stone. He could hear shouts of alarm on the other side as a few bullets found their way into the tower itself.
The raiders on the catwalk above him redoubled their efforts, tossing down more grenades. In response, he angled the muzzle of his minigun upwards, chipping a violent path up the side of the tower until he cut the catwalk to ribbons. A few raider corpses dropped a dozen meters to splat on the ground around him, alongside smoking chunks of metal. He turned his attention back to the door. It looked weak enough; the barricade was cracked and full of holes. He could hear frightened and angry noises on the other side. The giant drew back his arm and thrust it straight through the wall. He slung the sleek white BOZAR assault rifle off of his shoulder and thrust the barrel through, emptying a blind clip into the facility. He followed it up with a plasma grenade. For good measure. The blockade disintegrated and he stepped inside, swinging his fists to and fro, wiping out the last of the raider gang. Something clanged off of his helmet. He turned, growling in frustration, to see the last raider of the bunch swinging a tire iron back and forth before him. As if it would do any good at all…
"You're fuckin dead!" the Raider snarled, waving the tire iron defensively. "Dead! Ya hear me ya fucker?"
Narg grabbed the raider's wrist and squeezed, crushing flesh and bone until the man's hand was hanging on by a few torn strands of muscle. He leaned all the way down and spoke to the stricken anarchist. "I hear you."
You had to hand it to them, the Raiders didn't give up easily. It would have been admirable were it not so damned stupid.
Jason awoke in the midafternoon. He took a moment to collect himself. The sunlight was beating down on his face, an incredibly welcome sensation. The pain in his side had gone, as were most of his pains, though at that moment he was just thankful to be breathing at all. That had been far too close. Far too close.
He grimaced in remembrance. What the muties had done down there was an atrocity. His own actions had not been all that much better. Between Sydney and Knock Knock… He felt the onset of guilt over what he'd done down there, but suppressed it quickly, reminding himself of just what was at stake.
The Wanderer rolled onto his back and sat up. He rubbed his eyes, blinking in the bright sunlight. A few flies buzzed around him, drawn by the dried blood in his clothes. He swatted at them, but stopped when he heard the noise. Dogmeat was standing a few feet away, growling at him. The canine's ears were flattened against the sides of his head, teeth bared and eyes fixed on Jason with ferocious distrust and confusion.
"Dogmeat?" Jason said, holding out a cautionary hand. He froze suddenly, staring at his limb. It was tinged forest green, muscles bulging and veins standing out, glowing slightly even in the midday sun. Panic swept through him and he immediately felt his scalp, fearing baldness. His hair was still there, thank god. All the muties were bald, so he wasn't one yet, but…
But that water had done something to him.
Jason worked quickly, shrugging off the remnants of his duster and tearing his shirt off. His entire chest was the same forest green color as his arms, and his veins were glowing beneath the skin.
"Oh… shit…" he murmured, feeling alienated from his own body. "Ooooh shiiiit…"
Dogmeat was still growling at him.
"Dogmeat, help!"
The mutt took a few steps backwards.
"Dogmeat, please!" Jason begged, gasping for breath. Shock and panic were overwhelming him. "Please don't go!"
The dog let out one last confused whine and turned tail, racing away and disappearing over the nearest bluff. Jason took a few steps after him and tripped. His legs felt larger somehow. Different. Movement had not been this clumsy and awkward since he had been a teenager. The panic increased, and he took a few deep breaths, forcing himself to calm down and think.
Dogmeat would be alright, the Wanderer told himself. Afterall, the mutt had managed to survive by himself for this long. Besides, Jason had far more pressing concerns. He had been exposed, either to the raw FEV II formula, or to that pool of tainted water Brutus had set up for him. Either way, it hadn't been enough to fully turn him. That being said, the idea of being a mutant was both horrifying and disgusting. He needed to be human, to feel human again.
There was a cure, though! Rothchild had made it work on those lab samples. How many weeks ago had that been? Too many. It felt like an age. Still, at least there was hope. Where was the cure now? Last he'd seen, it was with Narg. And Narg was headed north to set up High-Water Trousers.
So… that was a plan at least: Get armed, find the Chosen One, get the cure. And then? And then Brutus was going to die. Painfully, if the Lone Wanderer had any say in the matter, Which he would!
Besides, he needed to get his assault rifle back.
"PEOPLE OF THE CAPITAL WASTELAND, IT IS I, THREE DOG! Yes. That's right children. I'm still alive, and here to fill your lives with sweet, sweet music. Better than leaving them filled with bullets and muties, am I right? Now, I'm a little short'o tunes, courtesy of our freaky green neighbors. But I got a wonderful guest here with- and get this- a REEEEAAAAL violin. You ready to rock this Wasteland, Agatha?"
"Oh, I do hope so, Mister Three-Dog."
"Whoa! Let's hear a little more enthusi-"
Summers switched off the radio. "Where is he?"
"No idea." Jackrum told her. They were sitting in the courtyard of Evergreen Mills, watching the joint Merc-Enclave forces busy themselves sorting supplies and repositioning to take the best advantage of the humanity's latest reinforcements.
The enclave leader glared at him. "Not good enough. Where's the Lone Wanderer?"
"Dunno." Jackrum gave his cigarette an idle puff. "Aren't we supposed to be partners or something? This ain't gonna work if I feel like every conversation with you is an interrogation."
"This is not a partnership, Waster." Summers corrected. "We are saving your worthless hides from certain annihilation, and in return, you're giving us the Wasteland. Don't make the mistake of thinking you have a say here."
Footsteps approached, crunching on the rough sand. An enclave trooper halted five feet away and saluted. "Ma'am."
Summers raised an eyebrow. "There's a wastelander approaching from the east."
The lieutenant straightened up with interest. "Is it the Wanderer?"
"I don't think so, Ma'am; he's a big one." The trooper hesitated. "Can mutants wear power armour?"
"Oh, that's just what we need." Jackrum muttered.
Though summers clearly tried to suppress it, he still noticed her smirk. "No, private." She said, "mutants do not wear power armour. Just how big is this visitor?"
"Well his sidearm's a sniper rifle… the boys and I are getting a little nervous, to be honest."
Summers turned back to Jackrum, who shot her a look of cherubic innocence.
The Tribal slowed as he picked his way through the canyon. On the edges of the steep cliffs to either side, he could see Talon company mercenaries and Enclave soldiers tracking him with their various weapons. Safely encased in his armour, Narg was all but impervious to small-arms fire and lesser explosions. Energy weapons were a slightly different matter, and he kept a careful eye on the plasma-weapon wielding troopers. Too many shots from their rifles and pistols would cause his armour to overheat. Thankfully he had never been forced to test the MK II armour against grenades. It was a record he intended on keeping clean.
The Enclave… Narg hadn't seen this coming, though he respected Commander Jackrum's choice. The Talon Company's narrow victory at Fort Bannister was the result of careful planning and preparation, and it had still taken the Chosen One, the Lone Wanderer, and a fair amount of luck to snatch that victory from the jaws of defeat. Counting on that to happen twice would be irresponsible. The humans needed more firepower. The sort that only the enclave could provide.
He made his way across the central floor of the evergreen mills canyon, dodging around the parked, rusting railcars. Crowds of humans, enclave, merc, and waster alike parted for him, none of them really willing to confront him, despite the tight grip they all kept on their weapons. It was one of the perks of being a man his size; he was difficult to argue with, and if he strode with purpose, he could get practically anywhere he wanted to by walking through the front door.
He spotted Jackrum at a set of loading docks situated at the central building of the pre-war foundry. The Merc was sitting on the dock. A radio was beside him, and standing a few steps ahead of him was a stern-looking enclave officer. She had her helmet off, and her hair tied up in a tight bun at the back of her head. She took several steps forward, her arms crossed.
As he approached, she said, "That's Advanced Power Armour Mk II. No longer standard issue. That's Enclave gear."
"Sure was." Narg agreed, striding right past her. He took a seat on the dock next to Jackrum, his armour making a heavy clank as he sat down. "Enclave, huh?"
"Yep."
"Who the hell is this?"
"This here's Lieutenant Samantha Summers. Resident queen-empress of the Wasteland." Jackrum waved his hand with a flourish.
Summers scowled. "Quiet, waster!"
Jackrum threw her a sardonic salute. Narg glanced at the pair of them, smiling beneath his armoured helmet. "Well, aren't you two children are getting along like a house on fire."
Jackrum let out a puff of smoke. "Ever been in a burning house?"
Narg grinned. "Sure have. Good times. For me, at least."
"You started the fire?" the merc inquired lightly.
"Nope. Man trying to kill me did. Didn't know my armour had smoke scrubbers and heat protection. I ended up holding his head in the flames till he had no face left."
The mercernary leader grimaced. "Helluva way to go. What the hell did he do to deserve that?"
"Aint the worst thing I did to him. First fed him his fingers, sautéed in butter sauce."
"Jesus Christ." Jackrum said.
"He rallied his town and went and slaughtered another town for a bunch of piss-poor reasons." Narg shrugged. "It was my fault for taking too long to get the message back to him, but he gave the orders and pulled the trigger. And I made sure he paid for it."
They sat in silence for a moment.
"Remind me not to cross you." The Merc said.
"So long as you keep trying to keep people alive, you got nothing to worry about." Narg said.
"You're clearly not enclave." The woman said, looking thoroughly unimpressed by Narg's blasé reaction to her.
"You're a sharp one." Narg replied. "Can I ask you a question: why aren't you wearing your helmet? The rest of that armour won't do you much good if a sliver of shrapnel takes out your brain."
She gave him a dry look. "This isn't a combat zone."
"You're in the middle of a war. Everywhere's a combat zone."
"I've had just about enough of your tone, Waster." She warned.
"That being the case, I think I'll change it from helpful to sarcastic." The Tribal replied cheerfully. "For instance, you have a beautiful smile."
Summers' eyes narrowed, her stern face twisting into a scowl.
"Speaking of combat zones," Jackrum said, trying to guide the other two back on track, "we have a map. I was wondering if you could offer us some advice."
"The Enclave can handle it." Summers said. "We don't need help from primitives."
"Well sometimes us primitives need help from one another." Jackrum said calmly. "And this guy can provide lots of help. Just let him look. Our enemies are the mutants, remember?"
Summers sighed, examining their enormous visitor. She chewed her lip thoughtfully, her eyes lingering on his BOZAR assault rifle, and the minigun hanging off of his back.
"Alright." She said. "let's see what you know, primitive."
"That nickname's really beginning to grow on me." Narg remarked, rising to his feet.
"It does, doesn't it?" Jackrum asked, falling into step behind him.
The room Jackrum lead them to was located deep within the Evergreen Mills offices. They were forced to dodge and weave through heavy foot traffic as dozens of wastelanders ferried supplies to and fro, many heading down into the Bazaar to tend to the civilians.
The Talon Company Commander dodged through them into a slightly less traveled hallway at the end of which was a large room with peeling wallpaper. It was lit by a solitary yellow gas lamp sitting on a thick solitary wooden table. A map of the wasteland had been spread across it, with various little colored flags sticking up to indicate tactically significant positions.
"Right now, with every waster, refugee, Raider, and enclave soldier at our disposal, we have eight-hundred and seventy-two armed and able-bodied men." Jackrum reported.
"One hundred and fifty of them are Enclave soldiers." Summers added as the three of them took position around the map. "Scouts report seeing mutants as far south as Tenpenny Tower."
"They've overrun the wasteland." The mercenary added.
"Anyone heard from the north or east?" Narg asked, staring down at the map. Most of the major settlements had been marked. Most of the markers were green. A few like Arefu and Megaton were black.
"There's not much up there to conquer." Summers said. "Nothing which would help us."
"Aside from Fort Constantine." The Tribal said. The other two looked up at him. he waved a hand. "Military-industrial complex almost straight north of here, deep in the mountains. They've got a giant stockpile of nukes, and an armory with plenty of heavy weapons. If you have a Vertibird, go get'em."
"Excuse me." Summers said. She stepped out the door and disappeared.
"You just handed the Enclave nukes." Jackrum said bitterly.
"You already handed them the wasteland. How much worse can it get?"
"I don't really want to find out." Jackrum murmured, staring down at the map.
"What was the price, exactly?"
"The Wasteland, the Wanderer, and GNR."
"That's a hefty pricetag."
"Thanks for pointing it out." Jackrum said dryly. "I hadn't realized."
"They'll have free reign of the wasteland."
"Better than the muties getting it."
"Not by much."
Jackrum's fist slammed into the table. He glared at Narg. "Look, you want to sit there and criticize me, you try leading this fight!"
The Tribal raised his hands submissively. "Relax. I'm here to help. Have you heard from Tenpenny Tower or Rivet City?"
"Rivet City is a holdout, so far as I know." Jackrum said. The door opened and Summers stepped back inside.
"I sent a task force to fins and retrieve what we need from Fort Constantine." She reported.
"My boys are going to need some of that gear." Jackrum said, not looking up from the table."
"You'll get your little guns, Waster. A present from the American Government. In times of strife, our constitution does allow private citizens the right to bear arms and raise a militia. But valuables in that base that aren't needed for this fight are Enclave property."
"The Talon Company thanks you for your generosity." Jackrum intoned flatly.
"As you should." Summers said, retaking her place at the table.
"Have you heard from Canterbury Commons or the Republic of Dave?"
"They're probably dead." Summers said dismissively.
"North and east haven't been tapped yet." Jackrum countered as cheerfully as he could manage. "But given the state of the Wasteland, it's… not looking good."
"It's settled, then." Narg said. "I'll go to Canterbury commons and see if there's anyone left. You guys go unlock vault 101. I'll meet you back at Project purity. I also have to find the Wanderer."
"Why?" Summers asked suspiciously.
"We have our own little plot to even the odds." Narg said. "It's nothing you have to know about."
"As leader of this resistance movement, I should be informed of every tactical move our side makes."
"Jackrum's leader." Narg shot back. "I didn't see you rallying the wasteland."
"Watch your tone, Waster." Summers warned.
The Tribal planted his knuckles on the table and leaned forward. "The only tactical information you need to know is that when Jackrum's forces hit D.C., you guys will not have to tangle with Behemoths."
Jackrum smiled in relief. "That's the best news I've heard all week!"
"I bet." Narg said. He looked back up at Summers. "And don't bullshit me, you just want the Wanderer's head on a pike."
"As a matter of fact, we have a sizeable bounty on his head." Summers declared, studying Narg. "Just in case you're interested."
"You want to pay me?" the Tribal asked. "Alright, here's my price: I want your best trooper bared to his undies, blindfolded, hogtied and laid out on the floor."
"What for?" the officer inquired cautiously.
"So that I can stomp his head in." Narg explained. "Or snap his neck, or fill him so full of bullets he falls apart when you try to put him in the body bag."
Summers shook her head. "In that case, you can go straight to hell. God, you primitives are brutal."
"You're trading caps. I'm trading lives. Which one's the fairer bargain? And are you really going to do anything less to the kid if you get'im?"
"He'd get a cigarette first." Summers said. "And a wall to stand against."
"Ahh," the tribal replied. "I really see the difference now."
"The Lone Wanderer doesn't smoke." Jackrum muttered, staring down at the map.
All three of the room's occupants paused as the sound of a steam whistle echoed down the hallway outside the door.
Jackrum went pale. "Oh, shit it's him!" the Merc kicked the table over and dove behind it, struggling with his Chinese assault rifle. Noting the movement, Summers readied her plasma pistol. Her own face was pale, and her hands were shaking.
"Look, both of you calm down." Narg ordered impatiently.
Outside, there was a quite thud and a scrabbling noise, followed by an agonized groan. The door opened, and a Talon merc stumbled through. He did not make it three steps into the room before he collapsed. A bloody railroad spike was sticking out of his back, a single, thin thread of smoke rising from the hot metal. His killer stepped through after him, clad in the Wanderer's signature duster. Its face was obscured by the shadows of a long, crude hood.
"Jackrum…" The shadowy cowl hissed in cold fury. "I told you, Jackrum. No Enclave."
"Kid, take it easy." Narg recommended. "This ain't the time."
The Wanderer let out a deep, animalistic snarled. "Shut up, Narg! After I finish killing every enclave member in this canyon, you and I are going to have a very long conversation. Jackrum, stand up!"
"You'll kill me if I do." The merc explained. His voice had a panicked edge. "I think I'm good down here, thanks."
The Wanderer fired three railway spikes into the table, causing the Talon Company Commander to drop to the floor, covering his head.
"They will ruin the wasteland!"
"It's ruined already, kid." The merc shouted from behind his cover. "I ain't happy but it's the lesser of two- holy fuck!" Jackrum dove as more railway spikes slammed into the table, each impact making it shudder and tremble.
The figure reached up and lowered its hood. Summers gasped. Even the Tribal was surprised enough to raise his eyebrows, though no one caught the movement as his face was hidden. The Wanderer was a mutant. Or well on his way there. His skin was green, his face changed and bulging with the added musculature. He still had his hair, though. It was blonde, and hung down in a curly knotted mess. His eyes were speckled yellow, and glowing green. His angry gaze was fixed on the table.
"Jason Howlett?" Summers inquired formally, using her bureaucratic voice. Narg, who was standing beside her, shook his head in disbelief.
"Quiet, enclave." The mutated Wanderer ordered through gritted teeth. He surveyed her with venom-filled yellow eyes. "You're next."
"On behalf of the people of the United States of America, I hereby place you under arrest." She raised her pistol; the wrong move.
The Wanderer moved with the speed of a snake, adjusting to his new target, and firing. The hot, rusty metal spike flew straight and true towards Summers' forehead, until it came to a cold, dead stop as the fingers of Narg's armoured fist closed around it.
The room froze, all eyes fixed on the smoking projectile in Narg's hand.
"Kid," said the Chosen One, "You need a time-out." he flipped the spike end for end and threw it back. The projectile barely cut an arc as it raced through the air. It plunged into one of the Wanderer's yellow eyes, throwing the younger man's head back and tossing him against the wall, where he crumpled to an immobile heap.
Summers stared down at the Wanderer's body, stunned into slack-jawed silence by the sudden turn of events. Narg took advantage of her stupefaction and grabbed her by the collar. "You're an idiot." He said, flicking her forehead hard enough to leave a bruise. "Never forget that." He pushed her to the floor and turned to Jackrum. The merc was rising to his feet and dusting himself off with as much dignity as he could manage.
"Hiding behind the table, huh?" the Tribal asked.
"Yeah, well, I don't have Power-armour like you two. We both know he woulda just killed me." Jackrum answered.
Narg thought for a moment. "You're right. Fair enough."
"You just killed the Lone Wanderer…" Summers said, with awe in her voice.
Narg ignored her. He strode forward and slung the body over his shoulder. The hallway was packed with mercenaries and enclave personnel, all curious about the commotion. Silence fell as they spotted the Wanderer's body. The Tribal brushed through them, towering over the stunned militia. He could hear Summers lagging behidn by a few meters. The woman was very quickly recovering from her shock, and by the time he had stepped out the door into the desert sun, she was once again acting as the arrogant, demanding officer she was.
"That corpse is property of the united states government and I order you to turn it over to us this instant."
Narg finally drew to a halt in the center of the Evergreen Mills crater. He could see mercs, wasters, and enclave personnel on the buildings and railcars all around him. Summers caught up and stopped, glaring at him. He turned back and took a few steps forward, closing the distance between them so that he could stare straight down into her defiant brown eyes.
He gave Jason's inert form a gentle shake. "You want the corpse?"
"It belongs to the Enclave." She insisted. "The Lone Wanderer was a dangerous terrorist criminal, and he is wanted dead or alive. I have to confirm his death with my superiors."
The tribal nodded and glanced up. Jackrum had emerged from the mill's door, blinking in the bright sunlight. The merc looked shaken, but very much alive, and back in control. His mercenaries kept glancing at him for instructions.
Narg sighed. "You're not getting the corpse, and this is not worth fighting about."
Summers scoffed, raising a hand and signaling to her enclave soldiers. "And I'm going to have to insist. Otherwise things might get decidedly…ugly." All around the facility, the Enclave troops were readying their weapons.
"I have no doubt it would." Narg replied, unfazed. "You think the kid was bad for the enclave? You clearly don't know who I am."
She raised an eyebrow. "Another damned sub-human who thinks wearing power-armour gives him the right to talk to us that way?"
"Poseidon Oil Rig." The Tribal said.
Summers' face was blank for a moment, then her brown eyes grew very wide, and she seemed to freeze in place, staring up at the giant warrior. Sensing the sudden change in atmosphere, the enclave troops seemed to tighten the grips on their weapons.
Beneath his helmet, Narg grinned.
"You…" Summers murmured, caught in an almost trance-like state of shock.
"Go ahead." the giant gently urged. "C'mon. You can say it."
"The Chosen One…" she whispered, her face pale.
"Louder." Narg urged.
"You're the Chosen One." Summers repeated, caught somewhere between fear and awed admiration.
"Louder, Summers!" the Tribal roared joyfully. "So that all your little friends can hear! Even you, and you, and you too!" he pointed at various members of the enclave, all of whom shifted uncomfortably. "Even you, hiding behind those barrels! Don't think I don't see you, you short-arse son of a drunken fuckin' monkey! The hell was your mama thinkin' the day you were conceived? You should be ashamed of yourself and your children." Like a groundhog on the first day of spring, the Hellfire Trooper's head rose into view. He straightened up awkwardly, his incinerator hanging useless at his side. A few of his companion gave him sympathetic glances.
"Better, but not perfect. Alright, listen up!" Narg called out. "All'o you! My name is Narg, and I am the Chosen One. After you stole my village, I blew up your bases, and killed your president, not to mention Frank fucking Horrigan. Meanest son of a bitch you civilized heathans ever puked out. I kept Broken Hills at peace, killed the leader of the New Khans, and found a goddamned G.E.C.K.. All that was just warm-up. I'm also known as Johnson Long, so ladies, don't be shy." He looked back at Summers. "Especially you."
"That was forty years ago…" she said.
"And I've only gotten better at everything I do." Narg replied proudly. "Now, this little fleshy sack here-" he gave the Wanderer's limp body a quick shake, "This belongs to me. It is my property. Now, I can either walk out of here with everything I own, or-" Despite the railroad spike sticking out of his eye, the Wanderer moaned unintelligibly, and started to twitch. Summers' eyes grew even wider.
"You kidding me?" Narg stared down at him. "I was on a roll, kid." He dropped the Wanderer on the ground and put his foot through the kid's chest. The entire camp, enclave, Talon, and waster alike, all shuddered at the slimy, crunching echo of the Wanderer's ribs breaking. Narg continued, oblivious. "Rude of him to interrupt. Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah." He grinned beneath his helmet and hefted his minigun. "Either you let me go, or we do this the ever-so-slightly-less easy way. Now, what's it gonna be?"
The Tribal stared at the body of Jason, watching it reform. Every so often he would stick his hands in to help a bone reset itself, helping all the little ways he could to insure that the Lone Wanderer grew back as quickly as possible. Even so, the damage was extensive. Hours passed by uneventfully. The sun had already risen into the stark, cloudless sky and begun its slow descent into evening before the Wanderer's body appeared to have healed. No doubt the brain took a little longer to recover. The railway spike had pierced deep.
Cole had been right when he had recruited Narg. For someone of Narg's unique skillset- and young Jason's too for that matter- fighting on the front lines of a war was almost useless. Even these days wars were enormous events, covering vast areas of terrain, and involving hundreds or sometimes even thousands of people. Sure, every individual battle he participated in would be won, but that was no guarantee of overall victory. The trick, Cole had said, was to find that Perfect Moment. To be there for that special turning point. The intersections which truly decided the outcomes of conflict, and the direction the human race chose to take. Sometimes they occurred on blood-soaked battlefields, sometimes in boardrooms. Location did not matter. The trick was to be there. To watch and, if necessary, to adjust the course a little.
Cole had a gift for predicting such moments. It was nothing supernatural. The old man had just seen enough of life to spot the little patterns, hidden in the chaos. To be at the right place, at the right time. That was the trick. That was the point of their little partnership. As Narg stared at the Wanderer's slowly regenerating body, he hoped the kid would one day see the point as well.
HONEY I'm HOOOOOME! Or at least, back with fanfiction.
In the game, the relevant satellite tower is being held by the Talon Company. I forgot, and kinda had to Chang (my apologies. Guess what comedy series I'm currently marathoning!) it up for the story. It's actually a pity. I might have been able to do something interesting with that fact back in Aqua Vitae when the Talons were still evil. Shows what you lose when you don't pay attention, I guess. I try to keep the details in the fic right, but every so often something slips by that just makes me cringe later.
I love writing Narg. He's so much fun. Whomever can guess which Fallout 2 quest he references gets ten internet points.
I also want to thank all of those generous readers who contributed to our TVtropes page, Children of the Atom. I really appreciate it. It provides a lot of motivation. Also, many thanks to Geraldford and everyone else who keeps sending me messages and reminders to update. Krow Blood and I are working. Slowly, I'll grant you, but hard to bring you this story.