Mutatis Mutandis 38
Rothchild sidled up to the enclave tent as casually as he dared. There were advantages to being an old, hobbling wastelander, he had discovered. The Enclave underestimated him based on his hair color alone. The old were invisible to the young. He couldn't hurt them; they had power armour.
Their overconfidence allowed him to sidle right up to Summers' ragged brown command tent. He could hear her barking sharp orders within. "In ten minutes we're gone. I want a full tally of all remaining warfighters and materiel! Someone find that old Brotherhood scribe. He has some technology which is valuable to the Enclave!"
Rothchild tensed, and crept around the back of the tent, even as a dozen troopers exited and spread out through the camp. The old scribe clutched the FEV cure tight to his chest and paused a moment to think.
That the enclave had betrayed them was not in the least surprising to him. Though he perfectly understood what Jackrum had done and why, and there was no denying that the wasteland could never have gotten even this far through the war without their help, Rothchild had been privately skeptical about the decision. After they had first taken the purifier, oh so long ago, Jason had privately told both Rothchild and Owen Lyons President Eden's plan to poison the purified water. Any interaction with the enclave would always in the end result in war. Their entire system of beliefs and ethics was simply incompatible with the Wasteland.
However his problems were more immediate. Word that he was to be taken custody would spread shortly through the camp, and while the Wanderer might have been able to fight his way out, the aged Scribe was doomed. He had to reach the safety of Jackrum's army, and fast. He pulled his scribe's hood up over his head to hide his face, and tucked the FEV cure under one arm.
There was a path. A way underneath the Potomac. The Wanderer had used it once to transport a group of scientists including Doctor Madison Li from Project Purity over to the Citadel.
The Citadel was rubble, but the tunnel entrance remained intact. Even better, a large pile of the citadel rubble kept it hidden from the view of the Enclave camp. Unfortunately it was also being guarded by a brutish Enclave officer. He had a plasma pistol strapped to his hip. No doubt several soldiers in power armour would be by at some point to cut off the potential escape plan.
"Excuse me, young man," Rothchild began, pointing at the tunnel, "Could you tell me what's down there please?"
"Get out of here, Waster. This tunnel is sealed on the orders of Lieutenant Samantha Summers."
"Well I'm afraid that simply won't do." Rothchild swung the FEV cure suitcase as hard as he could, catching the younger man off-guard, and hitting him in the temple. The scribe rushed forward, pulling the officer's plasma pistol from his holster. The man's meaty fist clamped reflexively over Rothchild's wrist as the enclave officer tried to regain control of the weapon, but Rothchild's finger was already on the trigger. He registered a zap noise, a flash of green light and an uncomfortable heat. The man before him melted away into a puddle of green goop which soaked slowly into the dirt at Rothchild's feet.
"Oh… oh dear." Rothchild stared down at the puddle, his heart pounding in his chest. It had been a very long time since he had fired a weapon. Not an experience he particularly wished to repeat.
But there was no time to waste. He bent down and struggled against his own aging body to lift up the sewer grate. Something in his back went spring, but he managed to lift the round metal plate just over the cracked lip of its concrete seat, and push it aside. Then, clutching the FEV cure under one arm, he made his way down the ladder and into the tunnel as fast as he could.
Narg was getting tired. He stood on the drawbridge between Rivet City and the shore. Around him lay a dozen mutant bodies, heads and limbs crushed. Before him marched an endless stream of supermutants. Masters and overlords, armed to the teeth, fighting to gain entrance to Rivet City. The resistance inside were beginning to win their struggle; clearing the aircraft carrier level by level, inch by inch, but Narg knew it would do no good if the mutant army continued to hold the narrow bridge. If the fight for Rivet City was a war of attrition, the mutants would undoubtedly win. So he struggled to hold the bridge alone, giving the defenders the respite they needed to take back their home.
An overlord with a supersledge charged at him. Narg moved to the side and shouldered the mutant right off the side of the bridge, into the bloody, corpse-filled waters below where it landed with a distant splash. A supermutant master took the opening, and managed to pass Narg as he recovered his footing, but he tripped it up with his supersledge and dropped his armoured foot through its ribcage. Two brutes stepped up even as he kicked his foot free. Narg hit one with his sledgehammer, crushing its skull and knocking it over the side of the bridge. Lacking the time to recover for a second swing he let go of the sledgehammer and threw a few punches which ended the second brute. Three more overlords, all bare-fisted, were charging down the bridge, mere seconds from ramming straight into him.
Narg was starting to wonder how much longer he could push things. The mutant army was not letting up. For every supermutant he killed, two more growling green abominations stepped up to take its place. Their push was strong and relentless. The jump from the vertibird had winded Narg, and he needed a break to catch his breath and rest his aching joints. A break the mutants were not willing to give him.
Across the Potomac, he saw a new division of supermutants, marching two abreast out of the Anacostia Crossing station. One line was heading up to Rivet City, the other across the bloody field towards the Wastlander-held Project Purity, bolstering the supermutants' slow-moving shield wall.
Perhaps the Enclave had read things correctly afterall. This was not a fight to the death, for Narg. He had other places to go, other things to do. This wasn't his fight anyway. The Wanderer had done his best, but it clearly hadn't quite been enough. If the mutants reached Project Purity, he decided, that would be it. He would leave the Wasteland to its fate, reconnect with Cole and find another way to hit the Legion where it hurt. Jackrum and his Wasters had put up a good fight but really, when had they ever actually stood a chance?
"Hold the line!" Jackrum ordered. All around him, his wasteland army let loose another volley which bounced harmlessly off the mutant's shield wall. The hulking green creatures were marching in a great indomitable wave across the blood-soaked field. In the concrete maze below, Wasters raced back and forth, trying to shore up the defenses which the Chosen One had so easily dismantled.
A few rockets launched from Project Purity's catwalks traced smoky paths across the battlefield and slammed into the mutants' mobile cover, opening a few gaps. The wasters took full advantage, showering the opening in hundreds of rounds and dropping close to a dozen mutants before the monsters closed up their line.
The wastelanders were losing, Jackrum knew. He knew that even before he saw the line of supermutant reinforcements racing across the battlefield to join their brethren. He knew it even before he saw the lone figure standing on Rivet City's drawbridge get pushed back by a group of overlords.
"We're done, sir." He heard Sergeant Turner's dejected pronouncement and glanced to his side. The young man was standing on the catwalk, hand in hand with his young enclave lady friend. They were both staring white-faced at the encroaching army.
Listening to the crack of rifleshots and the stutter of machinegun fire, Jackrum reached underneath his breastplate and pulled out his pack of cigarettes. He slid one out for himself and proffered the pack to his second in command.
Turner obliged. His young lady refused, saying, "Cigarettes are bad for you."
"Yeah?" Jackrum lit a match and cupped his hand. A stray bullet whizzed by his head, close enough he could feel the wind. He said, "Well it's my goddamned cancer, innit?" he held the match out to Turner, but froze as a sound echoed from behind them.
It was a low, deep, rolling noise. Almost like an enormous church bell. All around him, the wasters hesitated, glancing backwards at the half-crumbled structure. The sabotage of Project Purity had opened an enormous hole in the ground. The brotherhood's makeshift repairs had covered the pit with a series of metal plates all welded together to form a giant patchwork carapace.
It was shuddering. Vibrating.
A dent appeared in the top, producing another sonorous toll.
"What the hell?" Turner muttered, creeping slowly to the edge of the railing, and leaning out to look down on the metal construction.
With an almighty boom, the carapace burst. A hole the size of a small car opened, and a figure erupted from the darkness, bellowing with an ungodly fury. "BRUUUTTTUUUUUSSSSS!"
The call carried across the field, and the supermutant lines slowed and lurched, hearing their leader's name.
The figure landed near Jackrum on the catwalk, leaving a shallow crater in the metal grating. It was male, stark naked, and bright green. Its bulging, knotted muscles were outlined with green, glowing, pulsating veins. Short, knobbly horns protruded from its crown. Yet when it turned its green eyes on Jackrum, the mercenary recognized the hawk-like stare, and the flecks of piercing blue in its irises which had not been utterly destroyed by the glow of the supermutant injection.
Jackrum grinned at the Lone Wanderer, even as every other Waster including Turner slowly backed away. "Hello Fletcher," the old merc said, tilting his head to one side, "Something's different about you. Have you done something with your hair?"
"Brutus?" the mutant's tone was guttural and harsh. Yet Jackrum recognized the Wanderer's voice buried somewhere in it. There, and in control, but barely. He pointed out to the approaching mutant army.
"Somewhere's past them I figure."
With a snarl, the Wanderer leapt off the catwalk, clearing Project Purity's concrete defenses in that single bound, and landing on the field between the Wastelanders and the Supermutants.
The Supermutants reacted with lurching confusion, the outer edges of their lines bending around the mutant Wanderer. "BRUUUTUUUUUSSSS!" He roared again, flecks of spittle flying from his lips. The mutants before him took a pace backwards, sensing his rage. He stood there for a moment, lungs pumping mechanically. The Wanderer surveyed the halted horde, raking them with venomous eyes.
An enterprising mutant overlord burst from the ranks, brushing aside their makeshift shields to challenge him.
The Wanderer moved first and it wasn't even a contest. The overlord raised a supersledge, but found its arm twisted behind it. The wanderer pulled and bent the limb, and multiple cracks echoed across the battlefield as the mutant writhed in pain, dropping its weapon. With his free hand, the wanderer plunged his fingers into the monster's throat and tugged, ripping open a wide, ragged hole. The Overlord gurgled and collapsed, gripping its throat with its one good arm.
But the mutant Wanderer was already moving. He hit the shield wall, and ran right over the top, spilling into the horde of unfortunate mutants hiding behind it. His clawed hands flailed and tore at his enemies. He moved too fast to follow, too erratically to plan for. Simply a lithe, determined blur, whipping through the mutant ranks felling foe after foe.
"What the hell is that thing?" Fletcher burbled, crawling unsteadily to his feet as the mutant army roiling and churned inwards.
"The Wanderer." Jackrum said, watching as the capital wasteland's one and only savior tore bare-handed into the mutant horde. "I think we just won the war."
"The Wa- the Wanderer?" the younger merc looked stunned. "What the hell did they do to him?"
"Same mistake as everyone else: failed to kill him when they had the chance." Jackrum said, taking an idle puff from his cigarette as the Wanderer turned the mutants' carefully organized line to mush. "This is why I never felt much of an urge to be a mad scientist. When has an experiment in this world ever gone according to plan?"
Out in the field, a mutant limb emerged from the chaos and flew high into the air, spinning lazily before it disappeared back into their lines. In the dust and blood, guns began to flash. In their desperation to stop the attacking abomination, the mutants had opened fire on each other.
"Yep…" Jackrum said, taking a philosophical tone. "Hubris, young Turner. Hubris is the downfall of man and mutant alike."
On the field below, the mutant army was disintegrating. Angered by the friendly fire, mad mutants had responded in kind. Brutus' rank and file were engaged in a bloody brawl entirely their own. The Wanderer was in the midst of it, bouncing around the various clusters of green-skinned monsters and tearing his enemies limb from limb from limb.
"I mean look at this mess…" Jackrum leaned on the railing, staring out at the chaos. "This is supposed to be the next step? What the hell was Brutus thinking?" He realized that all around him his Wasteland army was quietly waiting for orders. He leaned out over the railing to address the gathered Waster army. "Mind your shots; we got a friendly out there. The battle's turned, my friends. The battle's turned!"
When the call for a Supermutant retreat came, Narg was too busy to hear it. Specifically, he was being bashed again and again into the locked portal; the only barrier keeping the mutants from entering Rivet City. The Chosen One's visor was cracked, his armour groaning and hissing in protest. His joints ached, and he could feel bruises forming across his body. He realized, as he had done many times before, that he was too old to still be doing this.
His body slammed into the dented portal once again. He bit his tongue on impact and fell to his hands and knees, tasting blood. The overlord standing over him laughed and planted a foot against his shoulder shoving him to the deck. "You die now, Human!"
Narg grunted, grabbing the mutant's kneecap and gave it a power-armoured squeeze. He felt the bones crack and shatter under the pressure. The overlord cried out in shock and stepped back, collapsing onto one knee. Narg launched himself from the prone position, ramming his shoulder into the mutant's face, nearly knocking them both into the blood-red water below.
Panting with the exertion, he straddled the stunned supermutant and brought both of his hands down in a hammer stroke on the creature's face. Then he raised his arms defensively, preparing to meet the next attack, but it didn't come. The horde was running, retreating across the drawbridge. Even as he watched, snipers standing on the flight deck of rivet city were taking potshots, hurrying their retreat along, and cheering cries of victory.
"That's right you… you sons of bitches…" Narg yelled, his voice ragged. "Keep running! …please." He tried to rise to his feet, but tripped over a body and collapsed amongst the corpses. He slid off his helmet and lay there, head rested snugly atop a mutant's elbow, staring at the sky. He was so bloody done with the Capital Wasteland.
Deep in the bowels of Project Purity, Glade collected the last dogtag from his dead brothers. Water dripped from a broken pipe somewhere, and the only source of light shone down form the hole in the ceiling the Wanderer had made upon his exit.
Kodiak was still breathing, and Glade was thankful for that. He held his battle-brother's hand and hung his head, resting against a steel girder. "You can't die, Kodiak." He said, watching his friend's chest rise and fall. "We've been through so much, and we're so close! We're so close… And there's no one else left…"
Melancholy and exhaustion overtook him, and he leaned back against the girder, letting his eyes slip closed. He slid his hand into Kodiak's, feeling its reassuring warmth. The Brotherhood, was finished, he knew. His way of life, everything he was trained for, everything he was raised to believe… it was all gone. They were the last Brotherhood soldiers in the wasteland. The last of the East Coast Chapter. Sure, there were still recruits, and a few knights left, fighting in the battle above, but they were all born wasters. Inducted. Of the many, many scribes and soldiers who had made the journey east, who had razed the Pitt, and fought for so many years for Project Purity, only Kodiak and Glade were left. The others had died, a few of them right there. He had their dogtags gripped tightly in his hand. Their chapter had finally closed, and it had ended with them sacrificing everything for the wastelanders, just as the Outcasts had warned.
Glade sank gratefully into a hazy sort of disconnection which could have passed for sleep. Time seemed to fade, as did the light, and the sound of the guns above.
A muffled thump caused him to crack an eye open. He heard the faint sounds of energy weapons, and a cry for help. A harsh realization cut through his foggy mind: that voice sounded like Elder Rothchild!
Glade scrambled to his feet, operating more on instinct and years of training than on conscious thought and intention. He let go of Kodiak and grabbed his assault rifle, moving through the darkness, towards the source of the noise.
It grew louder as he pounded up flights of stairs towards the lobby area, most of which had survived the explosive sabotage, and the mutant occupation. He burst through the basement door, and took less than a second to scan the junk-filled, dusty atrium.
Rothchild was cowering on his right, clutching an important-looking briefcase. Straight ahead, aiming a laser pistol at the Elder was an Enclave Hellfire Trooper. More armoured troopers were emerging from another door on Glade's right.
Glade roared like a bull and charged straight at the surprised enclave soldier, knocking them both to the ground in an impact which rattled teeth. Running on rage and adrenaline, he poured his entire assault rifle clip into the chin of the hellfire trooper's helmet, obliterating the head of the woman inside.
"Hostile acquired. Engaging!" A laser shot scorched his shoulder, burning through the pauldron of his combat armour. Glade rolled off the dead soldier, taking up her plasma pistol sidearm and firing it blindly at the enclave squadron. They dove for cover, but Glade knew that at most his appearance was a minor delay. He sprinted to Rothchild and dragged them both behind the cover of a fallen Nuka-cola machine just as the enclave squadron opened fire.
"Paladin." Rothchild greeted, looking relatively calm, despite his dire situation.
"Elder." Glade blind-fired over the top of his cover.
"Where's your team?"
"Dead. And Kodiak's badly wounded." Glade said shortly, driving an enclave soldier back behind a pillar. The enemy squad responded by bathing their meager cover with plasma and lasers, blackening the wall in front of them. He was delaying the inevitable, he knew. He and Rothchild would be flanked in mere seconds. Then it would all be over.
"This is Enclave Sergeant Benjamin St. Paul." A gruff, yet tinny voice echoed across the Atrium. "It doesn't have to end like this, old man. You've stolen American Government Property, but we can be reasonable. Surrender. Give up the package and we'll let you live."
"The Enclave's made false promises before!" Rothchild shot back.
"Hey Waster, give the old man up and we'll give you more caps than you could carry!"
Glade eyed the suitcase. "What's in there?"
"The FEV Cure. They want it back." Rothchild explained.
"I have a grenade!" Glade called out. "You take one step closer, and I'll blow up the suitcase!"
The enclave soldiers paused in their slow advance. "You're bluffing." That was St. Paul's voice.
"Try me!" Glade challenged.
"Ain't you guys gone yet? Jesus!" A third voice joined in, and Glade was overcome with relief when he recognized Commander Jackrum's dry sarcasm.
"Lieutenant Summers ordered a full tactical retreat from open combat." St. Paul replied carefully. "I'm just here to collect a package. This isn't your business, Commander."
"Looks to me like you're goon squad is pointing weapons at Wastelanders." Jackrum's voice took on a menacing edge. "That makes it my business."
Glade risked a peek over the fallen cola dispenser. The Enclave squad numbered around a half-dozen men and women, some exposed, and some behind cover. The Hellfire commando St. Paul, recognizable through the special red highlights on his armour, had a plasma rifle levelled at Glade's exposed head.
Jackrum was there as well, standing at the door to the Atrium's entrance. Gathered at his side, bloodied and angry, were two-dozen hardened Talon Company mercenaries, carrying a vicious array of weaponry, from Chinese assault rifles to combat shotguns, to rocket launchers.
Jackrum himself had a mininuke launcher over his shoulder, and a smoldering cigarette between his lips. He raised it and pointed it straight at the enclave troopers. "You pull the trigger, so do I."
The Enclave commando's rifle lowered a fraction. "You can't fire that in this enclosed space! You could kill us all!"
"True. I could." Jackrum said lightly, waving the mininuke launcher in a way which made everyone extremely nervous, "but I've had a pretty lucky day so far. What about you? How has your day been? Lucky?"
The commando glanced one last time at Glade, and then lowered his weapons. His squad followed suit.
"Good boy." Jackrum congratulated, the way one would speak to a trained dog.
"That fugitive is in possession of stolen government property."
Jackrum took a quick stock of Elder Rothchild, and the suitcase nestled in his arms. "Nu-uh. I found the FEV cure. It's mine. Finders keepers."
"Due respect, sir, the Law trumps finders keepers. Those chemicals belong to the American Government."
"Funny thing about the Government," Jackrum said idly, "It's meant to serve the people. So either get me and my boys some coffee, or crawl back to whatever hole you slithered out of, and go fuck yourself." The mercenaries around him cheered.
"There will be a formal complaint, sir." The commando warned as he slowly backed away from Rothchild and Glade. "There will be consequences!"
Jackrum said, "Tell Summers the Wasteland is ours. We beat it without her, and she can pack up all her toys and get the hell out! This is the capital wasteland! And it's ours!"
More cheering. Talon company troops were pouring into Project Purity. The enclave soldiers were terribly aware of how outgunned they were, and they could read anger, betrayal, and a hunger for vengeance in the faces of every mercenary who stood against them. The Wasters were itching for payback.
St. Paul held up a hand, and motioned for his squad to leave. One by one they filed out, toward the tunnel which lead across the river.
The Talon Mercenaries moved in, creating a safe path from the burned cola machine, to Jackrum and the doorway. Glade rose to his feet and grasped Rothchild's elbow, helping him up.
"Oh, thank god!" the Elder kept saying. "Thank god. Thank god."
"Yeah yeah yeah we're big damned heroes." Jackrum waved him over.
"There's wounded soldiers down at the bottom level." Glade reported, thinking of Kodiak. A few medics were immediately dispatched to search for him. Jackrum's mercenaries closed ranks protectively around the last members of the Brotherhood of Steel, and guided them to safety.
"The hell's in that case?" Jackrum asked Rothchild as he led the Elder away.
"The FEV cure." Rothchild responded faintly. "I can't believe we all died for it… I'm not sure it was worth it."
"It was." Jackrum eyed the case, recognizing the faint blue glow emanating from its sees. God… that mission seemed a lifetime ago… "I know a kid who could really use it."
Narg found The Wanderer at Anacostia Crossing Station, amidst heaps of dead supermutants. He was pounding relentlessly on a concrete barricade the retreating army had left behind, blocking the station's entrance. Each time his fists landed, a web of dusty cracks spread further through the concrete barrier.
"Brutus!" the Wanderer cried with each furious blow, "Brutus! Brutus! Brutus!"
"I doubt he can hear you." Narg said, standing some distance behind him, "but I can't blame you for trying."
The lithe figure turned, regarding him with angry green eyes. Narg took in his protégé's mutated body, and the boney crenellations which had erupted through his skin. "Jesus, they did a number on you, kid."
"Hhhhwant… kill Brutus!" the Wanderer managed in slurred, disjointed speech.
Narg sank wearily onto a nearby car, his heavy armour leaving the metal dented and torn. "This ain't you, kid."
"Kill!" the Wanderer barked pacing back and forth before the barricade. "Kill! Now! Kill Brutus now!"
"Just hold on, now…"
"No! Kill!"
"Look, I know you're angry, and probably hurting like a bitch, but you're not a mutie yet. You're still in there, Jason."
At the sound of his name, the Wanderer's frantic movements slowed, and he seemed to calm by a small fraction.
"It's time to step back, kid." Narg advised, feeling his joints creak.
The Wanderer growled in protest.
"I'm no good at speeches, and I ain't gonna pretend otherwise. But just listen." The Chosen One held a finger up to the smoke-filled air. Noise filtered through: crying and cheering from the ramparts of Rivet City, the triumphant battle cries of Jackrum's mercenaries at Project Purity as they cut down the remaining mutants and cut a path nearer to Narg and Jason.
"You're one of them, kid. Always have been, same as me. It doesn't matter what kind of perks wandering through the radiation gave you. It doesn't matter what the bad guys inject you with, you're one of them, and this is their victory, just like yours, and they need this. You already know it, or you'd be attacking me right now, I figure."
"Brutus!" The Wanderer pointed angrily at the cracked barricade.
"You already beat him, Jason. You're still you. After all he did, you're still you. You haven't gone feral or anything. You're still the Lone Wanderer. Just… greener than usual."
The Wanderer stared down at his clawed hands, ridged brow furrowed as he worked to comprehend Narg's point.
"You're the Wanderer from Vault 101, kid, but you're not alone. Narg hurt more than you. Everyone else in the Wasteland, he made all of them suffer too. All the people you're protecting. When you take him down, it should be all of you doing it. Not just you. Brutus can wait for one more battle."
The Wanderer looked back towards the smoking ruins of Project Purity, and the blue in his glowing green eyes shone a little more brightly. He started back towards the battlefield, throwing one last glowering look towards the ruins of D.C., where their enemy waited.
"Also you should put on some pants." Narg advised as the Wanderer brushed past him. In response Jason punched out with a lanky green arm, knocking Narg off of his perch, and putting another deep dent in his armour.
Two hours had passed. A pale, threadbare tent had been set up in the courtyard at Project Purity, right in the center of the concrete maze the Mutants had constructed. It was there that Jackrum was waiting. More accurately, he was waiting on a chair just outside of it.
For the last hour, the relative post-battle peace had been disrupted by horrid screams, and the sound of crunching flesh. Every wastelander who passed by the tent gave it a worried look, but they saw their commander and were reassured.
The wounded were lined up on the ramparts, being tended to by medics. Supplies were being towed up the ramps into Rivet City to relieve the beleaguered inhabitants. The occasional gunshots could be heard deep in the bowels of the city as the last mutant remnants were found and dealt with.
The fight was far from over, despite the momentary peace. Everyone understood that the final battle was yet to come; Brutus still held the Mall, the center of downtown D.C. With all of its fortifications, it was going to be a long, hard fight.
To Jackrum's left, seated on a wooden stool, was the bear-like Lucas Simms, mayor of Megaton. He was bleeding from a dozen wounds, but still sat straight and tall, Chinese assault rifle at his knee, and shining star upon his chest. To Jackrum's right was Star-Paladin Glade, the last knight of the Brotherhood of Steel. He was slouched against the back of his chair, looking utterly exhausted. Yet all three of them kept their vigil, occasionally nodding to each other in stalwart comradery. No one spoke.
The tent flap opened, and Rothchild stepped out, followed by Narg, clad in his creaking, dented armour.
"It's done." Rothchild said, as all three of the Watchers looked up to him for news. "He's asleep now. Or hibernating. To be honest I have no idea what's going to happen next. There's nothing left to do but pray."
"We could have injected it into the water supply." Glade murmured. "Made all the water in the wasteland poisonous to Mutants."
"No." Simms leaned forward and shook his head. "He took care of us. It's about damned time we returned the favour."
"Bastard put up a fight," Narg told them. "Kicked like a crazed Brahmin when we injected him."
"He's the Wanderer. What did you expect?" Jackrum asked. "Of course he put up a fight."
"Sir! Commander Jackrum!" Sergeant Taylor sprinted over and slid to a halt, panting. "Sir, there's enclave Vertibirds coming in from the west!"
"Are there?" Jackrum eyed his protégé. "How many?"
"Three, sir."
"Right." The old merc rose to his feet. "I want rocket launchers and sniper rifles on the ramparts. Everyone else take up position inside the maze. But hold your fire. Let's see what they want."
Engines whirring, the Vertibirds passed overhead at high altitude and swooped around to land in the killing fields between Project Purity and Rivet City, coming to rest just outside the concrete fortifications.
Jackrum tromped down to the outer perimeter of the fort, followed by Glade, Rothchild, Simms, Narg, and a few other wasters. A door opened with a hiss, and a ramp extended, coming to rest in the blood-soaked soil. Lieutenant Samantha Summers emerged blinking into the sunlight, her armour well-polished and unmarred by the battle. The other two vertibirds opened as well, pouring out Hellfire soldiers, two dozen in total.
"Summers!" Jackrum threew his arms open cheerfully, even as every Waster in his army tensed for a fight. "How's your day been? Would you like a cup of tea?"
"Save it, Jackrum," She snapped shortly, "Where is it?"
"Where's what?"
"Don't get coy with me!" she ordered. "The FEV cure. You have it. I want it. You have five minutes to produce it."
The two lines stared each other down. The Hellfire troopers were better armed, and held in their hands devastating weaponry, but the wastelanders were more numerous, and very, very, angry. The fight would be an even one.
Summers stepped out of her line to stand between the two factions. Jackrum did the same, planting his feet and crossing his arms. He said, "I thought you cowards had tucked tail and run."
"We'll discuss that later. I'm only here for the FEV cure."
"It's been used." Rothchild broke from the crowd and joined Jackrum.
"Used?" Summers glanced at Jackrum. "Used how?"
Jackrum shrugged nonchalantly and scratched the back of his head. "Well… you know… for the common good and all that…"
A murmur was spreading through the Waster fort. Without a word, Jackrum's army parted to reveal Jason Howlett, armed with a Chinese assault rifle and shrugging on Simms' Sheriff's duster. The silver star of justice glinted brightly in the mid-afternoon sun as he marched down to Jackrum, in clear view of the suddenly nervous Enclave soldiers. The young man's skin was back to its natural tan, but his veins glowed with the Supermutant virus, and his muscles were bulging to an unnatural extent. He carefully folded his red bandana into a long strip, and tied it around his bald head.
The moment the bandana was fastened, a change overtook the crowd of wastelanders, like a ripple through a pond, they all stood a little straighter, smiled a little brighter. Uncertainty transformed to cockiness, exhaustion to aggression. Their messiah was amongst them. The supermutant army was still waiting in D.C., and the Enclave had returned, but now, with the return of the Lone Wanderer from Vault 101, the wasteland had hope once again.
The small group of enclave soldiers gathered there sensed the shifting winds. They huddled together a little closer than their training dictated. The Wanderer broke from the Waster lines and stepped silently up to Jackrum, mere meters from the Hellfire troopers.
It was the first time in years any enclave personnel had seen the Wanderer and lived.
Jason's eyes, back to their cold, predatory blue, locked with Summers' gaze, and held her spellbound. Without breaking eye contact he reached down and pulled back the bolt on his assault rifle, chambering a round. In the sudden silence, the clicking sound of the weapon's hardware sliding slickly back into place reached every ear. The enclave huddled closer still, as the waster forces seemed to grow in both size and ferocity.
0"Ah..." said Summers, staring at the Lone Wanderer, the way a desert mouse stares at a hungry snake.
"Here's how things are going to go." Jackrum said, pulling out a cigarette, "You're going to turn around, you're going to get back on your Vertibirds, and then you're going to leave, or else."
With the Wanderer at his shoulder, it was hardly an idle threat.
"We can …negotiate, Jackrum. You promised to turn the Wanderer over to me when this was all over." Summers reminded him.
"Right…" Jackrum and the Wanderer glanced at each other. The old merc was grimacing, still fearing the Wanderer's wrath himself… until he saw Jason's slight nod. "Right…well then… here he is, Summers. Go ahead and take him." Jackrum stepped away, leaving the Wanderer exposed.
None of the enclave soldiers moved. Too many of their friends and allies had died at the Wanderer's hands, and it was unnerving, the way he was standing there, still as a statue, staring straight at Summers.
"What… what are you doing?"
The Wanderer's voice was hoarse, but he spoke clearly enough. "Memorizing your face, Lieutenant."
The Enclave officer opened and shut her mouth several times. She swallowed hard and glanced at Jackrum, who dug out a cigarette and gave her an encouraging nod. "Go on, then."
"The FEV cure is in my blood now." The Wanderer told her. "Try and take it. Please. I've had a bad day so far."
"Ma'am, we're under orders..." one trooper reminded her.
Lieutenant Summers held up a hand to silence the man. The Wanderer's eyebrow rose as he gave the trooper a look approaching disbelief.
"We'll settle this later, Jackrum." The officer promised.
"When I have no backup." Jackrum replied, puffing on his cigarette. He turned away and treaded back towards Project Purity, shaking his head. "Fuckin' typical."
The Wanderer watched as Summers' team retreated into their vertibirds and lifted off. There were still accounts to settle with the enclave, as there always would be, but at that moment, he had bigger issues to deal with. He looked down at his own hand, flexing it carefully and feeling the way his nerves seemed alight with a cold fire.
Brutus… the mutant king had tried to take everything from him. The settlements, his allies, his father's work, his own humanity, and the Capital Wasteland itself.
He turned his angry gaze upon the heart of D.C.. It was time to put the Supermutant problem to rest. Once and for all.
So… It's been like a year and a half.
…yeah.
I would call it writer's block , but there's more to it than that.
Here's the thing, guys. I got big into Mass Effect, and then into other games, and then into things other than games. During the nearly half a decade that I've been writing this trilogy, I've had relatives die, seen the world change, and grown up myself. War never changes, but Life outside Fallout never stops. My own interests have grown and changed.
I still love Fallout 3. I always will. Hell, I was playing it tonight before I finally finished this chapter. When I saved my game and closed down I was standing outside Rivet City in almost the exact same spot I image Jason standing at the end of this very chapter. But the game just does not hold that all-encompassing sway it did when I first started this trilogy. It will be done, and the sequels will come. But time is scarce, and there's plenty of other things I have to devote it to.
For those who stuck with it, I thank you so much for your patience. For those who gave up, I'm sorry to disappoint.
Either way, here's the chapter. Take it or leave it.
And Krow… we'll play together yet. Just as soon as my PC stops blowing breakers in my condo.