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High Marshal Stern sat in his office, shoulders slumped and eyes heavy with despair.
His head hurt from the lingering effects of the vodka he'd been guzzling last night, throat parched and demanding the smooth touch of pure water. It was a struggle to stop trying to drown out his sorrows, but he won in the end. He finished one bottle in all that time in the office, just one, a small victory but one he took pride in.
The lab results came back three days after he'd gotten himself tested, with the doctors diagnosing him positive with late stage pancreatic cancer. The news hit him hard like a shotgun blast to the chest, throwing off all other concerns until it narrowed down to his desperate and natural desire to live. They promised him many options to prolong his life, though many of them had little to no probability for success. Chemotherapy, organ-transplants, or cybernetic augmentations.
Each were incredibly expensive procedures, but even with the incredible advancements they've made with science, he knew that his old and decrepit body will never last any more than ten years. And that was if he was lucky. Stern went through the stages of grief pretty quickly, ending up in the middle as he fought to try and reach the upward turn.
He didn't want to waste away, reduced to a shadow of himself. The Dominion looked up to him as a symbol of strength, and as a student of history he knew very well that the start of a nation's decline began with the death of its best leaders. It was not arrogance that allowed him to label himself as such, he knew he had the necessary traits to lead the Dominion.
He cannot die, not now. There was too much that had to be done.
There was a whine coming from behind the door, causing Stern to look at the monitor screen connected to the security cameras watching the corridor outside his office. Lance was standing at the door, clawing at it and barking to get his master's attention. The dog must've hitched a ride up on the elevator, perhaps aided by someone in the Cerberian Guard. Lance was a good boy and was a friend to most of the staff in the Obsidian Keep, so it was easy to assume that he had some pretty good connections to get around.
The dog barked again and sat down, unwilling to walk away unless Stern said so in person.
The High Marshal sighed, pushing a button under his desk to unlock and open the door. Lance barked happily and trotted inside, eager to brighten up his master's day.
Stern looked down at the dog as he pushed his head between the High Marshal's legs, and rubbed the thick fur under his jaw with both his hands. "It's your fault I'm not feeling very hot right now, you know." Lance stared up at him with those heart-melting brown eyes and woofed.
"And yet, it's you I have to thank for getting myself tested." He said bending down to hug the dog. Earlier that week, Lance prevented him from leaving his room by blocking his way and sniffing his stomach, as if he knew just what was going on with his master's body. Up until then, Stern had been ignoring his gradually worsening condition as he thought it was just his old age getting to him.
Lance whined, sensing his master's distress.
"Don't worry buddy." Stern rubbed the back of the dog's neck, instantly feeling better with Lance being there for him in his darkest hour. "There's always a way to beat this, I just gotta be a little bit more creative."
Lance panted and wagged his tail, happy now that his master's depression was gone.
"You know what?" Stern rubbed his temple, "Why don't we take the day off? Let's go take a walk through the city! Wouldn't that be nice, boy?"
Lance barked his approval. He loved a good walk, especially outdoors in the cool air and sunny day in the streets of Elysion.
Stern reached for his coat, got dressed for the day, and put on a pair of shades to hide his bloodshot eyes. With a careful dose of med-x to chase away the pain in his head, the High Marshal felt ready to take on the world. He'd find the solution to his problem later, right now he would devote his time to just enjoy his day.
After telling his secretary to clear his schedule for the day, Stern set off with his dog to take a stroll through the city he helped build, taking a small escort team of Cerberian Guard along for the ride.
First stop that morning was the nearest restaurant. Feeling rather famished, the High Marshal thought it a was a good idea for him and Lance to get a good breakfast at Casey's Connoisseurs, a popular establishment in the middle districts of Elysion. It had been quite a while since he'd last sampled the fine food and drinks of the place, and he felt generous enough to spoil himself and the dog for a day.
The story of the restaurant's founder, Duke Casey, could be traced back to the earliest days of Vault 115. Casey and his wife, Marina, have been but mere cooks in the Vault Mess Hall. Wishing to add some spice in what would have been a mediocre living, Casey worked with his meager resources to add some flavor to the menu. While initially their skills in the fine arts of kitchen cuisine paled in comparison to the chefs of the Old World, the Caseys were still a welcome change to the rather mundane choices offered at the Mess Hall. Soon, he started his own business within the Vault, which increased in popularity over the years as more and more vault-dwellers came to his side of the dormitories to get a taste of his works.
Stern remembered looking on with disapproval at the ambitions of the Caseys at first, and he was glad that he didn't shut down their attempts at making life in the Vault more livable. It would have been a waste of such fine chefs.
"Oh goodness, it's the High Marshal!" Someone exclaimed as Stern and Lance exited the elevator into the twentieth floor. His visit came as a surprise, for the citizens of Elysion had grown accustomed to his preference at staying in the Obsidian Keep.
Like most buildings in Elysion, Casey's Connoisseurs retained the same themes from Vault 115's inner esthetics. From the symmetrical, steel architecture to the simplistic practicality of the furniture arrangement, the lightning...it felt like no one actually left the Vault.
115 would forever remain engraved in their culture as a people.
"Carry on, folks." Stern said, "Lance and I are just here to start our day with a hearty meal, just like you." He turned to the Cerberian Guard tailing them, "Boys, why don't you go get something to eat while we settle in?"
"No thank you, sir." One of the guardsmen replied, "We ate in advance, as per protocol."
"A drink then? My treat."
"Sorry sir. Can't drink on the job."
Any other person would've been exasperated or offended by their refusal to accept such generosity, but not Stern. He admired their strict adherence to protocol, an outstanding trait for any loyal servant of the Dominion, especially the guardsmen. "I'm proud of you, gentlemen. You just earned your monetary bonus for today."
The guardsmen stomped their feet and saluted the High Marshal, "Thank you sir."
As Stern took his seat near the balcony to bask in the warm sunlight and fresh air, a waiter approached his table with a server offering a nice pillow for Lance to lie down on. "Good morning, High Marshal." The waiter took out his pen and booklet, smiling as he began to take down his leader's orders. "How can we serve you today?"
He was sucking up, Stern could tell, and it made him smile. He left his order vague and open to interpretation, just to see if they would remember how he liked his breakfast. "It's gonna be just waffles for me today, and some coffee."
The waiter was good at his job. He didn't break his composure, "Excellent, now what would be the preference of Lance?"
At the mention of his name, the dog sat up and looked at his master, who then spoke on his behalf. "Just steak, medium done. He likes it that way."
There was a faint scratching as the pen scribbled on paper, "Very good, sir. Wait for five minutes, and we shall have your meals ready and served." The waiter left in a hurry, probably so he could double-check on the High Marshal's exact preference for his coffee and waffles.
"Gotta love our cloning technology, eh boy?" Stern said to Lance as he patted his head, "Once, we had to get by with half-stale Cram, mutated ants and other critters to provide for our meat. These days, we can grow our own cattle out of fucking test tubes."
Five minutes later, just as the waiter predicted, the food arrived on time and everything was just at the perfect warmth. Fine golden brown waffles soaked in steamy hot syrup, and some good old fashioned cappuccino. Then, there was the treat for his dog. Staring fondly at the freshly cooked steak, Lance's mouth was practically frothing and he could barely control himself as he waited for his master to give his consent to begin. When he did, the dog tore into the steak, relishing the salty and savory feeling of meat between his teeth.
"Bon Appetit." Stern said, breathing in the sweet scent of his coffee.
They got his order right. He knew then that it was going to be a good day.
Kentis Spire pulled the poncho over his chest to add the finishing touches to his disguise.
The sniper wore a desert-camo pattern uniform instead of the standard nightmare-black that all Dominion Rooks wore on the field, and a lightweight bulletproof vest underneath the poncho. The lieutenant assigned him as overwatch detail on the recon team she put together recently. Their mission was to infiltrate the Lexxers, gather intelligence and report back to base with their findings.
Spire wasn't one to question the motives of his commanding officer, he knew exactly why she was so eager to get things underway. The expedition wasn't just in the region for the exploitation of its resources, it was there to destabilize the local regimes to plant a firm foothold of the Dominion in the area. Which in other words meant one thing- conquest.
To pull off a successful campaign, information was key to winning.
"Geist, you done preening in front of the mirror?" Sgt. Sterling poked his head through the door. "Let's go! The sooner we leave, the better."
Spire snatched up his gauss rifle at the mention of his nickname, "Yes sir."
Their change in attire was done to prevent the cause of unwanted attention. Although lacking in the authenticity of tribal wear, the desert-camo uniforms were the closest they could get to pass for locals, and so they went with it. The matching ponchos certainly helped nail the look.
Spire, or better known to the team as 'Geist', was part of a team of five Rooks. Lt. Hope wanted to keep the team small, as the bigger the group meant the bigger the target. Led by Sterling, the group had one linguistics expert, two assault-specialists in case they ran into trouble, and Geist as overwatch detail. They would embark on a captured Badlander vehicle and travel to the Lexxers' main base of operations, as indicated from the intel extracted from their latest captured slaver, and make note of the terrain, the layout of the enemy base and the state of their defenses to properly gauge the Lexxer threat.
That same slaver found himself joining the rest of the Badlander raiders swinging from the telephone poles outside of Outpost Seven.
It was about 6 in the morning when they began boarding the old rusty pre-war vehicle. The lieutenant passed by the gate to see them off, relaying one last bit of information before they left for their mission.
"While you're there, I want you all to keep an eye out for a certain female tribal, a captive from one of the Badlander raids. I've got reason to believe she's most likely being held within the Lexxer base. Description's as follows; medium height, auburn hair and blue eyes. She's got a tattoo of a barbed wire around her thigh, answers to the name Autumn."
"What exactly do you want us to do with this tribal if we find her?" The sergeant asked.
"Get her free in the most discreet way, if you can."
"This a favor from one of the wasters, LT?" Sterling said, clearly not liking having to do favors for one of the tribal refugees living next to Outpost One.
"It doesn't hurt to scratch someone's back every now and then, Sterling. Their gratitude would be useful in the future when we're done here." She needn't say it, but she knew as much as they did that this might compromise the mission. "Yes, even for wasters. You're resourceful, sergeant. I trust you."
"Roger that, LT." Sterling muttered, "Alright, let's get this show on the road."
The sergeant hoisted himself up to the driver seat and yanked the door shut behind him. The old truck had a bad transmission, and it showed with each loud groan that came with the shifting of gears. Still, Sterling made it work. The truck engine coughed twice, curiously still operating under the pre-war fossil fuels instead of a fusion core.
The recon team steeled themselves for a long and uncomfortable trip, having to make do with such an ancient piece of junk just to keep from having their cover blown.
Hope turned her gaze about, catching sight of Scribe Karter watching from edge of the refugee compound. Since the Brotherhood took up their offer of hospitality, Hope sent them to live outside the military compound and among the tribal refugees. They've managed to build a livable collection of shelters in the compound, made out of wooden tents and old trailers. It wasn't anything fancy, but it was acceptable.
"You got something you wanna say?"
Scribe Karter didn't answer, so Hope walked back inside Outpost Seven to write another report to send back home.
Dex showed up, carrying a sack of bloodied beartraps in one hand and a large mutated lizard carcass hanging by a hook in its mouth in the other. He noticed the brief exchange between his sister and the woman, and decided to try and bridge the growing gap between their people. "Don't judge her too harshly for any lingering hostility."
Karter turned around and sized the man up. She wasn't comfortable yet with connecting with anyone from the Dominion, especially with the way they were treating them. But this man was friendly enough, and she was tired of having to keep her guard up all the time. Deciding on giving him this one chance, Karter humored him. "It's kind of hard not to."
"True, but given the kind of place we're in..." Dex said with a shrug, setting the carcass to hang near his shelter. He dumped the bloody traps onto the ground and fetched a bucket to draw some water from the pump so he could clean up for the day. "...you'd be pretty suspicious of anyone you meet out here."
"But you're not."
Dex invited her to walk with him, which she accepted. They lined up at the short queue at the camp water pump so the merc could get his share, "Well, so far, you and your people haven't done anything to make me feel otherwise. You can say that I'm one of the more trusting sort around here."
He looked at her seriously as his turn came up and he started pumping the water into the bucket. "Am I wrong to assume that much?"
Karter looked back, answering only after a few minutes had passed. "No."
Dex smiled, "Good."
"I'm Scribe Magney Karter, of the Brotherhood of Steel, Order of the Sword." She said as she offered her hand.
The man's grip was strong as he took her hand and shook it, "Dexter Weiss, Dominion citizen, bounty-hunter and mercenary."
"What is this Dominion, and how come we've never heard of you?" Karter asked as she followed him back to his tent.
"Really? Never?" Dex said as he set the bucket down, pausing to take some of the water to wash his face and neck. The heat of the early morning sun was strong, and it felt good to cool off. "Ah! Sorry, I'm just surprised. How far out of Texas are you guys supposed to be?"
Karter, while avoiding unnecessary divulgement of her people's secrets, proudly stated. "Farther than you think. Our Chapter may be relatively new in this part of the continent, but rest assured, soon we'll be quite familiar with every local faction in the Texan Wasteland."
"Okay, at least that's one goal we both can share." Dex shrugged.
"So what is the Dominion?" Karter asked again.
"It's the only vestige of order and stability in the Texan Wasteland, don't let anyone tell you different." Dex answered, "We might look like just another bunch of people, with fancy guns and fancy armor, looking to start trouble. That's only half the truth, because we start trouble to end all troubles. You follow?"
Karter found it admirable that the Dominion had that slight similarity to the Brotherhood's guiding philosophy. "I'm getting there."
"So what's all this about you guys protecting and preserving technology?"
"Man created the atom bomb, the atom bomb created the Wastelands." Karter replied, "Mankind always likes to push the boundaries of science unchecked. We're trying to make sure that doesn't happen again."
Dex nodded, "That's noble of you guys." He added with a nervous chuckle as he thought of the many wondrous and often dangerous things the Bishops were creating in their laboratories back home. "But I hope you'll keep in mind, sometimes pushing the boundaries is the only way to keep humanity going."
"Yeah right." Karter scoffed, "Straight into extinction."
Dex shrugged and moved to skin the lizard he killed and prepare his breakfast. "Fancy some gecko stew?"
"Eh, why not?"
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