Forward*
This is slightly alternate universe, your feedback is not only welcome but valued.
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Chapter 1: Genesis*
February 2278, local time: 21:12*
My gaze fixed upon the distant silhouette of a lone horse and its rider as they crested a distant hill, the desert sun inching towards its final descent. The soft glow of day slowly surrendered to the night's embrace. With deliberate precision, I adjusted my stance, my rifle's stock nestled into my shoulder and my finger poised within the trigger guard. My breath became a metronome, regulating my hands trembling.
Minutes passed as I scrutinized the solitary figure, committing every movement to memory. In moments, they would cross the seven-hundred-yard threshold I had marked. At this range, I discerned the fine details: a leather duster cloaked their form, a dark gray suit and tie peeking from underneath. The unmistakable shape of an R91 holstered on the saddle. A voice, steady and deep, sounded to my right.
"Winds at fifteen knots, South, South-West," I acknowledged my spotter, making slight adjustments to my prized Calico H7 scope. "Set and ready," my voice, unfamiliar even to me, croaked. No response came, only the sound of shifting sands carried by the wind. A minute passed, the wind abated, and the sand ceased its dance.
My breathing was measured, my focus unwavering. Each second stretched into an eternity, a realm where time had slowed to a crawl. VATS wasn't like the games; there were no percentages and no user interface. Only a frozen moment in time that moved at my will. It was a challenge, but today, it wouldn't be a problem. With a subtle squeeze of my index finger, I released the 7mm round, and my trusty Browning BAR recoiled in my grip. As I settled, another shot followed a second after the first, their echoes fading into the night.
"Good kill," my spotter's gruff voice broke the silence again, a brief and direct acknowledgment I valued in the field. I surveyed my handiwork.
The startled horse galloped into the night, riderless. The man lay lifeless on the ground, eyes gazing into the dark sky. Yet, I waited and observed. As the last glimmers of daylight surrendered to the night, my partner emitted a satisfied grunt, and we descended from our perch, an old billboard, its advertisements fading into obscurity. Our steeds, a dark brown Mustang named Mercy and my own dusty brown Morgan, Arthur, awaited below. In moments, we were mounted and in motion.
The howls of coyotes pierced the night, urging our horses to greater speed. "Hey John, take one of these," my partner handed me a clear bottle with a faded "Cateye" logo and the tagline, "It's Swell! Kid-tested, mother-approved." I mumbled thanks and swallowed the pill, immediately granting us enhanced night vision. With ease, we located the target exactly where we had left him.
To our surprise, the target still gripped his rifle with one hand. Boone, my partner, observed, "The bastard had quick reflexes; taking him at range was a smart move." His gaze shifted from the body to our surroundings. I dismounted and approached the body. "You say that every time we work a job that's not in caves or sewers," I replied evenly, attempting to banish thoughts of those dank tunnels. The cool night air was a balm.
Typically, caution would accompany the approach to an enemy's corpse, but not this time. Very few survive two headshots... almost no one. I rummaged through his coat pocket, discovering a stash of papers and a notebook, which I pocketed. "I've got what we need," I declared as I started to rise, but my eyes were drawn to his assault rifle. It was a fine piece of machinery, bearing the marks of countless battles. I plucked it from his lifeless hand.
"Let's go; the coyotes are getting unruly," Boone advised. We departed in an instant. Nipton, the nearest town, held no love for me, given my growing influence in the region. The Mojave outpost would be our destination instead.
The ride to the outpost was quiet, allowing ample time for reflection on the bizarre situation I found myself in. Tomorrow marked the anniversary of my arrival in the once-fictional Mojave wasteland. Looking back, I found a hint of nostalgia for those early days.
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Author's Notes*
- Yes, horses survived the Great War.
- The protagonist, John, is an OC/SI who had played the Fallout games before they became a reality for him.
- I'm new to this, so I greatly appreciate constructive feedback.
Thank you for reading! More will be coming soon.