A/N: I apologize for the short chapter, but the info was essential for my next couple chapters.
The Fallout of War
Chapter 6, Calm Equals Success
Being Calm is the key. Calm meant you thought clearly, which meant smart planning; it meant the right decisions, the correct actions, which meant you had the control and control of a situation meant success. Calm equals success. One might say Conrad Kellogg considered it his mantra.
Kellogg was already calm and in control the moment he left the Overseer's quarters. It was probably for the best that "the package" was ordered handed over to Merc. Just the fact of who he is would keep her off balance until delivery. He smiled wickedly knowing the torment his two words were putting her through. She was the only one he knew who could make him forget his calm and the bitch deserved the anguish. Sometimes Conrad, you're just so clever and devious. Further thoughts of the subject were turned off and stored away for now. When the time was right, he'd refocus on Tanna to exact his full revenge. Conrad Kellogg never forgot unfinished business.
His mind was already turning to his next assignment and target. This package would not be so easily obtained without careful planning. First he wanted his target to loose his calm, to plan poorly, make bad decisions and take incorrect action. A excellent idea was certainly forming, but it's initial implementation was eluding him.
He'd reached the mess hall where the two Coursers stood awaiting orders and ignored them. Pulling a cigar from his pocket, he lit it and sat down to ponder different options, throwing each one out as he considered them, when he spied something in the barracks room. Rising he strolled in and bent to pick up the discarded clothing from the floor.
The blood stains on the t-shirts neck and back were perfect and he wiped his recently bleeding nose across it for better effect. He removed his pocket knife and slit the front from neck to hem, then added a couple more slashes before tearing off one short sleeve and stuffing it in his pocket. He sliced the jeans in what he considered a few appropriate places, ripped the bottom hem off one leg, which he pocketed also. Returning the shirt and jeans to the floor haphazardly, he felt pride with the beginning phase of his plan.
Returning to the mess hall he sat leisurely smoking and examining every detail of his plan until he felt certain his calm control would lead him once more to success. Putting his cigar out in the ashtray, he rose and gave orders, it was time to leave.
Top side of vault 111, Kellogg headed west. He paused just beyond the area's western gate and removed the shirt sleeve from his pocket. Ripping it in half he dropped one half on the edge of the path and returned the other half to his pocket. He traveled on beyond the electrical wire giants of pre-war before turning south; a trail of scattered material scraps and cigar butts left in his wake throughout the night.