The Tunnel Snakes appeared in a crack of displaced air as the portal opened and closed, spitting them out into the hanger bay of Mothership Zeta. Ted 'Lettersman' Strayer glanced around with interest, taking in the sudden influx of sights and sounds. All around them was the bustle of activity, robots and humans alike unloading or packing away supplies and provisions. It was a swarm, a hive of movement he was well used to from his time in D.C.
It felt like rush hour at the Waterfront outside Rivet City, when the first catch of the morning came in and it was all hands-on deck to unload and gut the bounty.
Or the Metro Station clanger as a Railcar came in and the loading crews hastened to unpack the cargo and load up for the return trip.
Some of humans he recognised. Some he did not. Paulson, one of the Lone Wanderer's men, was taking stock of the many weapons and boxes of ammunition brought abord, while Fawkes the Super Mutant loaded boxes into a corner to keep them out of the way.
Weston Lesko conversed with the Ghoul Chemist, Murphy, some distance to the right. They had a crate packed full of science equipment open and were studying the contents, obviously discussing the state of the laboratory they would be filling with the scientific tools in short order.
To the left of the new arrivals, a conversation between Stiggs and the towering power-armoured form of the Mechanist was ongoing. He had been one of the two power-armoured men accompanying the Wanderer during their confrontation with Arthur Maxson in the glade of the Oasis Forest, along with Ishmael Ashur. Now there was a name with a sordid history, he thought, but returned to his ruminations on the Mechanist. Why spoil a good mood by thinking about Ashur?
One of the most accomplished roboticists in the Capital Wasteland and a name that had spread far a wide since his humble beginnings as a backyard Roboticist in Canterbury Commons.
Now, Wollinski was the Head Engineer of the Pitt. The man who had Automated the production lines of post-war Pittsburgh and replaced the majority of the physical labour force with robotic replacements. Once upon a time, the Pitt was a hellscape on Earth. Now, it was a haven, with an artificial Vault constructed underground, that produced the most comprehensive cures for disease and genetic mutation known to Mankind.
Scott Wollinski squatted in his power armour, utilising the servo-enhanced strength of the suit to assist in moving the heavier containers. They whined with effort as he hefted a corrugated metal container under one arm and clumped over to where Stiggs was checking the contents of another container, this one the tell-tale reflective metal of salvaged Enclave storage containers. It was large, taller than a Super Mutant. Which was fortunate because it held an entire rack of robots within.
"Ohh baby," Stiggs called out to the Mechanist as he clumped over and set down his burden with a load clang, "These Mark Two Assaultrons got me feeling some type of way. You know what I mean?"
Wollinski turned his head to regard the rack of Assaultrons, tilting his head slightly as he focused on a region somewhere in the vicinity of their mechanical hips. The general shape of the robotic body, covered in smooth armoured plating. If Scott had not been of a very dark complexion, his face would have flushed slightly.
"Yeah. I know what you mean," he agreed as the Tunnel Snakes began collecting their bags from the giant accumulation of gear and necessities that had been teleported up ahead of them.
Sticky Hand Jack, their Procurement Specialist, was prattling on as they collected their gear in fair form, already half-way through another of his inane stories. They let him talk. It filled the silences.
"…and Super Dupe Dave presses the detonator! There's a colossal explosion as the building collapses sideways and buries the attacking Radscorpians beneath a hundred tons of metal and concrete. The soldiers cheer like mad and open fire on the survivors. But Joking Joe shouts in alarm, because he never saw Holy Toledo escape from the building!"
A short-haired and dark-skinned women overseeing the mass of Mr. Handy model robots she had modified and reprogramed for the job of acting as a moving, looked sideways at the two new engineers with revulsion. She had only recently been introduced to them, Letters knew, and wasn't pleased with their particular peculiarities.
"You two are disgusting, you know that?"
"Please, Somah," Stiggs waved the comment off with a dismissive air with far more familiarity than their brief acquaintance warranted, "Just because I know beauty when I see it? I can't wait to get one of these into the Workshop they're setting up for the R&D team in Engineering. I have two personal records I want to surpass," he stated with an unraised finger, "How deadly I can contrive to make a Sentry Bot and how human I can make an Assaultron look. With the resources and time we're going to have available, I think I'm going to manage both!"
"Are those real Assaultrons?" Their radio operator, Jil 'Rook' Finch, enquired eagerly as the Tunnel Snakes trooped past, each bearing somewhere between a hundred and one-fifty pounds of assorted gear bags on their person. A modified Sentry Bot trundled after them, fitted with a loading platform and stripped of most of its weaponry. It was almost entirely repurposed by Rook as a transport sledge. It too was loaded up with equipment and personal items.
The Snakes had taken Courier Six's offer of unlimited personal items incredibly seriously.
"Indeed they are," Stiggs agreed, delightedly. "Genuine Mark 2 Models, Limited Edition. You can't find these babies anywhere in the Capital Wasteland. Thankfully, I have connections in the Commonwealth. Feast your eyes!"
He stepped to the side and framed the neatly racked robots with his arms, proudly, like an artist displaying his work. Rook beamed, a fellow enthusiast. "Can you…" She asked hesitantly, before continuing on with the thought, "…I don't suppose you could make a male version?"
That was as far as she got before Sarge grabbed her by the scruff of her neck and hauled her back into formation. "You're still on duty Tunnel Snake. Work first, pleasure later," he boomed in his best drill-sergeant bellow that made itself known to all over the commotion all around. People turned to stare at the forbidding figure of the dark-skinned NCO, formerly of Talon Company, and even more formerly of the Capital Wasteland Raider clans. A hard-faced man with a religiously shaved head and a thick moustache that covered his upper lip like a small rodent.
Letters caught the slight tinge of amusement from Sergeant Doyle, as well as the rest of the squad. Rook was going to get teased mercilessly for this. Not that she would care.
He felt another burst of amusement and followed the direction of Sticky Hand Jack's grinning face as he looked back over his shoulder towards Stiggs and the Mechanist. They both stood in matching regal poses next to the rack, thumbs pointed skywards and metaphorical stars in their eyes as they acknowledged her cultured request.
Somah shook her head and returned to her own work in the background, clearly unimpressed by her fellow engineer's sense of decorum and professionalism. Or rather, the utter lack of either.
He grinned and turned his head away. He had no doubt that come hell or highwater, Rook would be getting her male Assaultron. Hopefully, the two odd Wasters wouldn't waste time on that to the detriment of more important projects.
"…As Joking Joe and Super Dupe Dave search through the rubble," Sticky Hand Jack continued, looking away from the unintentional comedy behind him, "The soldiers all stop and stare. Realising what happened, they all gather up and start to help as best they can, even though they weren't asked. Even though their mean NCO is shouting at them from the side-lines to get back into formation!"
There was a whistle and a smack as Sarge clipped Sticky around the ear for the intentional cheek. They had heard this particular story several times over, thus he knew that this was a recent and deliberate addition. Sticky grinned as he massaged the side of his head, completely unrepentant.
They had barely made it out of the hanger before another new face caught his eye. A man holding a guitar, dressed in rawhide pants, strange rawhide footwraps and not much else sat tuning the instrument under a curtain of jet-black hair. His bronzed body was heavily tattooed with tribal markings. That Letters didn't immediately recognise him probably pegged him as one of the Courier's many hangers-on.
Instantly preparing to dislike him by association, Letters was caught off-guard by the friendly, engaging smile the boyish man shot towards Latchkey Kenny who bore his own personal instrument slung over one shoulder.
"You play music?" The tribal asked, grinning with delight at the sight of another musician.
Kenny, despite being big and oftentimes acerbic as he was, instantly caught onto the latent enthusiasm and responded in kind. "Sure do. You a six-string picker, boy?"
The tribal smiled broadly and nodded. Latchkey had fallen out of formation to talk with the tribal musician and Sarge was eyeing their southern demolitions man with a wrathful eye. Letters cut into the developing conversation before Latchkey could get himself into trouble.
"Kenny! Fall back in. Sorry man," he added this last aimed towards the tribal as he himself left formation and let the rest of them go on ahead under Sarge's watchful gaze, "We're still getting situated. Kenny here needs to fall back in line."
"It is no trouble," the tribal spoke, his melodious voice pleasing to the ear. Letters felt slightly ashamed of himself. Just because the man might be one of the Courier's men didn't necessarily mean he was the same type of psychotic the grizzled warlord happened to be. Boone and Wilks seemed to get along. And the alien had been alright, as far as extra-terrestrial life went.
Matriarch Lantaya T'Rali.
Or Fishtits, as Jericho had taken to calling her.
She was nice, but he doubted the two of them would get along. He had verbally assaulted her in the middle of a standoff between her and Jericho to stop her from killing Jericho and getting herself killed in turn by Sarge, who'd known Jericho for many years. It hadn't been pretty. But he did what he had to keep their friends alive. If such a word could be applied to a man with a past as murky as Jericho's.
"You are marked with the symbol of the Snake. The same symbol the Wanderer bares on his back. Are you of the Tunnel Snakes? The tribe from the East?"
"That's us," Letters confirmed as Kenny obeyed orders and stumped away with a longing backwards glance, evidently yearning to discuss the playing of music with a fellow musician.
"Then," the tribal exclaimed as he tucked the guitar behind his back and tightened the strap to hold it in place, before reaching down and picking up what appeared to be his own possessions in an Army-issue olive green duffle bag, "Our roads lie together. My name is Follows-Chalk. I am a scout of the Dead Horses. Courier Six asked me to show you to where you will be setting up camp."
Follows-Chalk held out a hand awkwardly, clearly not used to the custom of handshaking. But the effort was what counted and the Lettersman was appreciative of the gesture. They shook hands firmly and followed after the others.
"You know the Courier well?" Letters enquired curiously.
"Yes," his new acquaintance confirmed, "Courier Six is a great man. From a tribe far across the Wide Lake some call the Ocean."
Follows-Chalk pronounced the unfamiliar word with a peculiar inflection, as if he was trying his best to make sure he made no mistake saying it correctly.
"He has done much for my tribe and for my people."
"What'd he do?" Letters continued gathering information as they caught up with the rest of the team. He silently communicated with Jack through their mental link, who without looking around, surreptitiously fell back in line to join them near the back. The Procurement Specialist would want to listen in. Gear and supplies weren't the only thing he 'Procured' on behalf of their squad. Information was highly sought after as well.
"He fought alongside our tribe's Warriors, against the White Legs of the Great Salt Lake. He and Joshua Graham are two of our most respected War Leaders."
"Your two most respected War Leaders aren't even from your tribe?" Letters asked bluntly. He knew Joshua and the Courier, having met them just recently. Joshua Graham had left a good impression, though the man had spent much of his time preaching in D.C. and spreading his faith. The Courier was another matter.
Follows-Chalk didn't seem to take offense, however.
"The Dead Horses were not a warlike people. Joshua and Six taught us much about War, helped us and the Sorrows stand against the Legion and the White Legs. Through them, our peoples no longer fear any other tribe. And after setting the Giants of the Divide loose upon Flagstaff, we shall finally know peace in Zion again."
Letters considered this. He didn't know where Zion or Flagstaff were, nor did he understand much of what the tribal told him, mired as it was in archaic tribal lingo. He thought he understood the general gist of it, nevertheless. Flagstaff was a name he had heard during the conversation with Elder Arthur Maxson of the Brotherhood of Steel.
As he understood, Flagstaff had been the place destroyed by a nuke the Brotherhood had been so up-in-arms at the Wanderer and Courier for launching. Sticky seemed to have come to his own conclusion with a faint burst of satisfaction.
Catching Sarge's attention with a thought, Letters nodded his head towards the tribal beside them and conveyed that the tribal was of interest and that Sarge should probably talk with him.
As Sarge fell out from the front of the line, Letters swapped places with him, throwing Follows-Chalk one last nod. "My Sarge is coming down the line. Best that you talk with him directly. It was nice to meet you, Follows-Chalk."
"I feel the same. But please, call me Chalk. All who know me well call me this. And what do others call you, Tunnel Snake?"
"Ted Strayer," the Lettersman replied, "But people call me the Lettersman. Or just Letters."
A burst of emotion broke into his thoughts from further up the line and Letters added an additional message onto the end of his late introduction. "Stop by our quarters anytime, Chalk. Kenny wants to talk with you about that guitar; maybe play a few songs together. You in?"
Chalk flushed with pleasure at the invitation and nodded his agreement, focusing his sharp eyes up the line towards Latchkey Kenny's retreating back. Then Sarge settled in at the back of the line beside him, and the two men began exchanging introductions and the bare essentials of which directions they would need to take in order to get to their quarters and the Mess area.
The Lettersman took point, passing Wilks, Silver, Rook, Kenny and the squat trundling form of their gear-sledge to get to the front of the line. They all nodded to him or acknowledged his presence through the link, comfortable in each other's company. Letters smiled privately to himself.
Looks like the company on this trip would be pleasant, at least. It was important to focus on the silver-linings. Not on how he would be away from Earth for upwards of a year, during which his son Luke would be living yet more years of his young life with an absent father. His mood suddenly plummeted down to the depths of his stomach.
He had visited his ex-wife's house in D.C. before he left. Said goodbye to Luke.
Visited Old Man Lopez's grave in Arlington, too. The least he could do for the man who'd one day decided to teach a worthless, drugged-out young man how to read and write. Who'd picked him up, cleaned him up, and changed his life forever. Despite struggling with his own demons along the way.
He wondered if the Old Man would be proud of him?
An absentee divorced father, who couldn't put his marriage back together to give little Luke the advantage of a proper dad. What excuses did he have? Old Man Lopez had given him a future whilst struggling with suicidal depression and the loss of his old family. And he couldn't even make things right with Angela.
His spirits dropped further still.
Then a fist hit him in the back of the shoulder and he turned his head to regard Wilks. The sniper set his hand down on the Seconds shoulder, a comforting weight, and a balm upon his soul. Silver eyed him from over Wilks' shoulder, giving him reassurance through their link. Letters straightened his back, hardened his heart, and threw Wilks and Silver a business-like nod of recognition.
It wouldn't do to get too mushy. He was Second, after all. It was his job to set them straight, not the other way around. Wilks removed the hand and returned the nod.
"The soldiers and Joking Joe pull Holy Toledo from the rubble," Sticky Hand Jack said through his ever-present grin, giving Letters a significant look from further back in the marching line, "He looks at Super Dupe Dave and says, 'Don't worry, Dave. I know you always have my back'."
The message was unmistakable, even without their mental link to share the emotional content underlying the words. "I know you always have my back."
The situation wouldn't be made better by his dwelling on it. He faced front and continued to march with purpose. He had a job to do, a duty to fulfil. And the squad Second led by example. They were going to space to explore the wide unknown. A grand adventure like in the storybooks. Face front, into the Dark, with the rest of them at his back.
"Womb to tomb, cradle to grave. But mostly because Tunnel Snakes Rule."