The elevator grinded to a halt and shook violently as it reached the top of the shaft. The ground floor's entrance was regularly buried in sand, so the four snow plows parked next to the door of the massive bay were well worn and rusted from such abnormally regular use.
The bay, carved from inside the rocky outcrop haphazardly, housed the vehicle storage, firing range, mission equipment station and repair shop. Albeit the bay was quiet, on account of a small and dwindling numbers the combined Agency and Antithesis forces had left.
Lawrence stayed behind DJ during the walk from the elevator to a homespun armored buggy. A big, bulky frame covered in what appeared to be steel plates on top of concrete set into the frame, forming a very heavy but surprisingly sturdy defense against most wasteland problems from dust storms to marauders.
3 small I-beams buried into the concrete frame at the front in an inverted V formation showed offensive and utility uses at a glance, noted by the gray and crimson discoloration across the beams.
Lawrence gripped the rebar handle of the door and pulled hard, only to discover the entire thing refused to budge. A few strangled groans of effort revealed no further results.
"Having fun there?"
"I get that it's supposed to be heavy, but damn…" Letting go of the handle and shaking his weary hands, Lawrence looked to the older behind him.
"You do realize you get in on top right? The door handle is for show and to confuse those brainless marauders. Anyway, aren't you going to get your kit?"
"What kit?"
DJ breathed in deeply, sighing in feigned pain.
"Okay. How many times have you gone outside?"
"Several ti-"
"Taking a piss because the pipes are clogged and wiping off the sand from the base's sensors for the thousandth time don't count."
"Uhhh. Okay then, four or five-"
"Supervised by Han or Cass in the back of a supply truck to California also doesn't count."
Lawrence's jaw locked up. DJ took the silence as a defined answer.
"Okay… baby steps. Before you even step foot outside, you have a defined set of gear, otherwise known as a kit. I have two kits myself. A light kit, and a heavy kit."
The older Operative gestured to his matte black sword and the hip holstered handgun. "My light kit consists of my handguns, my sword, and a backup grenade or two. Simple shit that gets the job done with little weight or economic issues."
"My heavy kit by contrast has my light combat gun, my M1A1 carbine, and my heavy rifle, a rare beat up ShAK-12. The heavy kit is reserved for high priority situations like group ops or when I'm going on an extermination mission. This is a low tier delivery mission by my standards, so I'm going with the light kit."
Lawrence nodded, adjusting his tie and moving his l33t shades into his breast pocket."Okay, that makes sense. Could you help me make a kit?"
Directing for the younger to follow, DJ strode over to the cobbled together loadout station, fishing out a few small sidearms from cracked and beaten crates, placing them on the wooden workbench as Lawrence came up beside him.
"You've got that Deagle, which is kitted to you, but I suggest you leave it here."
"Wait, why would I-"
DJ put his hand up, tapping a box on the shelf above them crudely marked "AMMO" in masking tape. "I spoke of 'economy'. That's what we refer to ammunition as. In case you didn't notice, ammunition ain't in surplus, nor is it cheap. That .50 action is great for putting most shit in the wasteland down, but your long term economy is fucked. Even my .30 carbine pistol has better economy, having been a popular hunting caliber, but a very underused round. Surplus of the caliber means a good economy for very cheap."
"So, a more common round is better?"
"Find your equilibrium. For example, a particular of my old mentor." The Operative raised a very old looking handgun.
"The Makarov. A basic pistol, but the ammo is 9mm. Very cheap, and it hits hard on the most prevalent of targets out there, the fleshy ones. But, a lot of marauders and more experienced targets wear armor, and you end up wasting rounds on a target you can't just shoot."
"Okay, so what then?"
Placing the pistol down on the table again, DJ picked up a second handgun from the selection.
"A SIG P226. The workhorse of the Antithesis. This specific one is chambered in .357 SIG. It will give you more stopping power than the nine by 18 the Makarov fires, and can slam armored targets harder. Again, the issue is the economy. .357 SIG isn't exactly common. Easier to find than .50 AE, but usually made using inferior DIY methods."
"This is all fine and well, but how will I know the right gun for me?"
"That's up to you. The four we have on hand are the two we just went through, a Beretta 92 and an M1911."
Twirling the 92 around his finger, DJ held out the 1911 to Lawrence. "Everyone knows about the 1911. The gun that won two wars then lost another. .45 is a fucking heavy round, and an exception to the rule of economy. This is America, .45 was popular as fuck so theres enough to go around. Not enough to waste, but still."
Looking over the battered framework, Lawrence aimed down the sights, only to notice that they were almost too small to use.
"Is this an imitation? A bunch of details are off."
A snort from the older left Lawrence frowning. "Okay, so you know your gun design. You are correct. It's an Argintinian imitation, the Hafdasa variant. It's a rare one, but not much different. Actual 1911's are harder to come across these days, so these WW2 era imitation ones are easier to find, often in 9mm."
"But this is in .45?"
"Yes. The Argentinians didn't want to change much." He held out his hand for the '1911', exchanging it for the 92.
"The Beretta 92S. The theoretical big brother to the 92. 9mm is an amazing economy choice, same caliber as the Makarov, but better capacity as its a double stack magazine. So it is less of an issue when penetration is an issue, as more bullets give you more options. Of course, you contend with Beretta Bite."
"It's got a weird feel to it. Did-"
"The slide is reinforced. Stops it from cracking under heavy use. Fucked with the weight a bit though."
Lawrence looked around again at the arms before him, and frowned. "Is there something a little heavier? Perhaps in 44 magnum?"
DJ raised a quizzical eyebrow. ".44 magnum? Your economy is fucked but it's your choice." he turned to the crate, bending over into it, rummaging around.
Lawrence placed the Beretta on the table, looking around at the other weapons locked behind the chain link fence.
"Okay. It's a bit of a bitch, but…" Standing up, the older presented a scratched and beaten odd looking 1911. "The Grizzly Win Mag. It's a cunt to control if you try and spam, but with a 10 inch barrel, it's gonna put a big hole in just about anything you shoot at."
"So, it's a bigger 1911 but in .44"
"Kind of, but any real gun enthusiast will punch you in the throat if you say that. Just try not to drop it in that yeti shit we call sand out there. It's not an easy gun to source."
Lawrence removed his Desert Eagle and placed it on the bench, taking the somewhat less cumbersome gun from DJ, taking the time to get his bearings with his new sightline and grabbing the two spare magazines from the table.
"With that covered, now we get you some armor." DJ remarked, shifting aside to open the gate in the fence.
"Armor?"
"You know, kevlar or metal, up to you." DJ held his jacket open, revealing a full torso suit of flat kevlar shaped like scales, heavily scarred and beaten.
"This is my set I've had since the late war days. Light kevlar over tungsten lined steel plates shaped like dragon scales. I don't actually need the armor, but it helps to not be subjected to irritating pain at the end of every day. Same thing for the jacket sleeve plating, though that gives me an edge in close quarters as well."
Gesturing to three crates behind the fence, he motioned for Lawrence to enter, closing the gate behind him. "The first crate has your standard kevlar vests, lightweight but only good for small arms fire and knives."
Dj tapped the second crate as he walked along. "Second crate there is your padded armor, full torso padding with a kevlar overlay. Softer impacts and more protection without adding too much more weight, but it'll cook you in the heat."
The older picked up a mortar pipe off the third crate as he got to it and put it aside in a pile of junk and scrap. "This third crate has what used to be the bain of the Agency, your metal armors. Heavy and slow, but you'll withstand almost anything that gets thrown at you. Pick your poison." He leaned against the jaggedly carved back wall.
Lawrence tapped a finger to his chin, before stepping over to the first crate, propping the lid up and bending inside. A snort escaped from the Operative. "You certainly know how to tease a partner but I'm a married man Lawrence."
"Wh-OW!" the younger Agent's head made full contact with the crates wooden lid, making a loud CRACK as he recoiled out of the crate, holding the back of his head and glowering at DJ, whose focus was buried into a small box he held in his hand before looking up.
"Oh don't look like that. It's a compliment if anything. Pick your armor already, can't be scraping parts of you off the wastes or I'll get in the shit with cyclops."
An irritated grunt and another check later, Lawrence retrieved a lightly worn kevlar vest sporting two extra magazine pouches on the right side. Sliding it on over his head he shifted it around, trying to settle it into place as it seemed uncomfortably tight.
DJ stepped over and reached around the struggling Agent, unhooking a clasp from the back and pulling it out at the seam slightly before reattaching the buckle. "Never worn Nevmax Tacwear have you? They always made their shit tight as the grip of death. Best throw those mags in the carriers before we get going."
"Wait, a single gun and a few magazines only?"
"If it were up to me, I'd still leave you here and do it myself in all honesty. But, we also don't have time to get you two kits together completely. Grab a knife you fancy from Briar's shop, we're burning daylight." DJ slid a grey card into Lawrence's breast pocket, before opening the gate and briskly walking back to the wasteland buggy.
Shifting a little more, the Agent removed the card from his pocket and looked it over, finding nothing of note about the plastic card besides a tiny barcode in the center.
The gate was unexpectedly heavy open, making him shove it with some effort. Lawrence followed the chainlink barrier towards the main door, coming to a stop outside a ramshackle shed.
The small shed itself appeared entirely made from scrap sheet metal and building beams, with several crude blades hung about like decorations. The front had a serving port and a selection of surprisingly well kept bladed weapons and bayonets behind a thick plastic sheet, but was otherwise fully enclosed behind the sheet metal.
The door the serving port was on opened up at Lawrence's presence, with a very short black haired woman in seemingly singed and soot coated clothing stepping out to meet him.
"I watched him give you the card, pick a knife from the window you want, I've got work to do so make it quick kiddo." she leaned against the wall, arms folded and seemingly in a hurry.
Lawrence, sensing the irritability of the shorter woman, stepped aside to the window and after a few seconds, found a bayonet knife that he pointed out. The woman rolled her eyes and stepped back inside, sliding a hidden panel open and pulling out the pristine blade.
"Course you pick one of the most expensive and rarest ones. Tell Wank Man he owes me. Again. AK-47 bayonets are harder to find than irradiated pussy in the wastes." She stepped back out mid sentence, plucking the card from the Agent's hand and sliding the bayonet into his belt, slamming the door behind her. Shaking his head to try clear his mind of the experience, he turned and wandered over to the vehicle.
DJ was back to fiddling with the box again when Lawrence slid in from the top, sliding into the barebones interior.
"So, Briar as lovely as always?" The older jested, smirking as he put the box away.
"Apparently you owe her."
"Motherfucker what? That card has 20,000 credits on it. The fuck did you pick that spear that stabbed christ?"
Lawrence fished the bayonet from his belt, twirling it around in his hand.
"Ah. Right, that one. Fuck she's right. Well, best we go now before she tries to call it in." DJ twisted the key and somewhat loosely slapped a button on the dashboard, sparking the disheveled vehicle to life with a deep roar of the engine.
A harsh alarm sounded as the heavy metal groaning of the base door scraping the top of the ramp deafened the entire bay, sand overflowing into the bay and running down the ramp as the buggy fired up in the opposite direction, catching air as it crested the flowing sand.
The harsh grinding came again as the behemoth blast door slammed shut behind them, causing a small tremor as it slotted into place, leaving the buggy sitting in the heat baked expanse outside.
Quickly fashioning a head covering out of the thick rough cloth behind the seats, DJ passed another cloth to Lawrence, pointing to his shades. "The desert will sand blast your face off, put that on and your shades unless you want one hell of a face lift."
Following suit, the younger covered what he could, sliding his spacs on in the remaining gap, as DJ donned his own aging shades, a pair of phase two L33T "Red Glare" glasses.
A mild recoil from Lawrence was met with a side glance from the aged mutant. "Times were different, and field acquisition was key. Let's get going."
Planting his foot into the accelerator pedal, the buggy began ripping across the grainy wastes, carrying them towards their objective to the west.
But rarely do plans go smoothly in the wastelands of post-burn Nevada.