Chapter 4

The Sand Khans

The early morning rays crested the edge of the vehicle, snaking their way through the haphazardly crafted frame and finding their seemingly intended target. The eyes of the softly dozing Agent slumped in the passenger seat, shades askew and failing to block the glary beam.

A soft snort and murmur of protest escaped the tired man as he sat up, spine crackling against the rough seat behind him, making him shiver and sending a shock through his body, rousing him from his dreary state.

Grunting in dissatisfaction, Lawrence stretched out his arms, blinking away sleep from his eyes and adjusting his shades back into place. A gentle rock of the vehicle stirred a reflex reaction of drawing his pistol at the roof.

Flicking aside the lock latch on the metal sunroof door, he burst up from the hatch, looking around to see what or who had rocked the heavy vehicle.

"Morning sunshine. You sleep like a corpse, thought you had died on me a day in." The aging Operative sitting on the I-beam bumper flicked him a two finger salute, eating what looked like a bar of solidified sand.

"Tch, I'm fine." Lawrence sighed, holstering his pistol and pulling himself up out of the buggy, holding his hand up to the sunlight. "What the hell are you eating?"

DJ shoved the rest of the dry bar in his mouth, pocketing the clear plastic wrapper. "Antithesis MRE. Much like grenades post war, these were both in surplus and never go bad, no matter how much radioactive matter you throw at them. Not for the faint of heart though, they taste like limestone and have the texture of road grit."

"Why do they- you know what, forget it. Better question is how you can stand being out in this sunlight." Lawrence descended from the roof, leaning in the shade of the car.

A snort came from the elder Operative, who clambered off the improvised ram and back to the campfire in the shade. "Tell me something. When were you born?"

The question took Lawrence a moment to register. "Why do you wanna know that?"

"Humor me"

A huff and a quick thought later, Lawrence plopped down in the warm sand next to the dying campfire. "About a year after the Drive War ended."

"So you were lucky enough to never gaze upon the Red Haze then."

"Red Haze?"

DJ took off his chipped shades, tapping on the lens with a sharp taloned finger. "The red glare pattern on these mimicked the sun during the so-called Red Haze period of the war. After the sun was beaten to death by Hank, the sky was totally black in Nevada for about a week. And, as per usual, the Drives had a correction to the lightless paradox."

He began annotating with his hands, waving them about in the light loosely. "A side effect of the cursed things was they would try to rectify reality being warped as much as they would skew it. This brought a red haze into the sky and a giant red glaring dot in the sky to replace the sun. The light was poor however, and as such, many in the Antithesis made that their goal to fight. All just to see the sun again."

Lawrence stared stupefied at DJ, taking off his own shades in shock. "What in the unholy fuck do you mean 'Hank beat the sun to death'."

"Long story. Look, the uncool answer is that my reptilian eyes handle high and low light far better than everyone else's."

Having to settle for the answer he received, Lawrence leaned into his knees. "So, what's the plan?"

"Right now, we need supplies to cross the Rift, which means dealing with the Sand Khans. People out here are twitchy at best, at worst they'll rip your face off because you looked at them wrong, so I don't advise you wandering too far." DJ shoved sand over the crackling embers with his boot, smothering the glowing ashes.

"The Sand Khans? Who are they?"

"A mostly nomadic group led by Vitalis in the north, and Sabutai here in the south. They have the most firepower out of any faction here in what remains of Nevada, and the most members. They were the only group interested in maintaining a regulated economy so no one price gouges out of greed. I don't know how good your old world history is, but think of them like a merchant republic."

"Alright. Since we are on the topic, what about the other factions?" Lawrence shifted to a cross legged position.

DJ smirked, taking a seat on the boulder behind him.

"So, you want to survive longer than this journey with me out here huh? Alright. The Khans we covered. There's the Alliance, which is the combination of the Agency and Antithesis as you know. Then you have the Confederation, the Technocracy, Order of Snakes and the Nightshade Lotus."

"Creativity on show I guess"

Snorting, DJ crossed his arms. "Somewhat. The Confederation are the remains of the United States government and its military. They are the smallest group, but their spec ops groups are no joke. Even I have to dodge 'em at times just to avoid the headache. They are not respected out here, but they are feared by the unfactioned denizens."

"The Technocracy on the other hand, are a group that went fucking wild gathering any and all working old world tech they could find. Rat scavengers, but great for getting old stuff like stereos, computers and phones that still work. Order of the Snakes are similar, but they exclusively deal in Nev-Tech stuff since the majority of members are ex N51. They don't like dealing with Alliance so I represent under the Wastelander title instead."

"Wait, there's-"

"Yes." DJ held up his hand, silencing the younger Agent. "There are sub factions. You'll learn those as you go. Anyways, the Lotus are a conglomerate of lesser oldschool Nexus Core groups. Vendi-Vice, Bandits, even a few cultists. They operate all the gambling and escort services in the wastes. If you lose your shirt, you'll never get it back. It'll be on a cultists patchwork flag by the end of the day."

A soft 'hmmm' emanated from Lawrence as he stood to lean against the concrete buggy, patting sand out of his dress pants.

"Could you at least also explain the sub faction you're part of?"

The older looked up into the grey hued sky, purring in thought. "It's like a unique minor faction. No emblem, no signature, just stories. You don't join a defined group per say, you just become one through experience and as stories about you circulate amongst the wastes. Within the Alliance for example, you may have heard about my less than flattering "Scourge" title?"

Lawrence slowly nodded. "Among other things."

"Well, out here I'm known as the "Blood Beast". Few stories of me standing amidst a tide of irradiated blood, drenched head to toe, started getting around. As such, I earned my Wastelander title."

Lawrence clicked his tongue, smirking. "So make myself known and let the rest handle itself?"

"If you don't get torn to shreds by a wandering Husk or Lander, sure." DJ retrieved a pack of cigarettes from his coat pocket, glancing up at Lawrence and frowning, before sighing in what sounded like relief at the lack of reaction.

"What?" Lawrence shrugged. The older grunted as he stuck the beaten white paper rod in his mouth, stuffing the pack back in his pocket and retrieving a beat up matchbook. "Sorry, old habit. Everyone I've ever been saddled with in the past tended to throw a fit over the fact I smoke."

"Old war thing right? Something about instant death or misfortune for everyone around the smoke."

DJ chuckled, striking a match against his battered scales on his neck and lighting up in a puff of smoke. "Yeah, it freaks out some of the denizens too that I'm not dead yet either. Tends to move things along if some factions get nit picky with me being part of the Alliance."

"Hm. So, where are we getting supplies from?"

The older chucked a beaten rifle scope to Lawrence, jerking his thumb behind his back. "Take a gander and tell me what you see."

Standing, the Agent meandered up the dune, peering over the lip at the horizon through the scope. Sure enough, plumes of smoke and several ruined buildings scraped the sky like jagged claws in the distance.

"Our goal in that place is a derelict highschool building, affectionately named 'Sunset'. It's the main trading hub of the western zone, and the only neutral ground. Though that bit is only true because no one wants to start shit with the Khans, Snakes and Technocracy all packed in there."

"From what I heard this area used to be home to the Sheriff before he threw the drive into full power."

DJ put his hand on Lawrences shoulder, making the younger jolt lightly. "Long time ago, yeah. Gods, out of all Agency leaders, Beorg was without a doubt the most useless motherfucker. Anyways, the school was alright back in the day. Spanish classes sucked on account of the rest of the students being, well teenagers. Who would have thought P-yeh would be so difficult with everyone being a total pain and saying pie instead?"

"The immature at their finest. You went to school there I take it?"

"With none other than Hank J. Wimbleton. Bright kid, bit socially useless but I can't really say much, wasn't much different. Hell, I don't think there was much more than a week or two between me being plucked out of that school and put into a squad, and Hank joining."

Lawrence lowered the scope from his sight, blinking a couple times to settle his vision back to normal. "How did that work anyway? Declassified reports suggested that you were already part of the experiments Doc Jameson was conducting from as early as twelve-"

"It's best you never mention anything to do with that. For your health."

The air seemed to chill at the abrupt change in vocal octave from the Operative, making Lawrence's spine shudder violently from the sudden presence of sharp talons digging into his shoulder.

"R-right. Point taken."

The pressure released from his shoulder, although a lingering pain still burned from where DJ's talons had dug in.

"Good. Get in, days wasting." DJ vaulted up the buggy and had slipped inside, Lawrence quickly clambering up and back inside before the Operative would leave him.

The overarching din of voices, clashing metal and flickering sparks from the compound's electrical fencing made being outside almost mind numbing for Lawrence, a small sigh of relief escaping him when they entered the old school building. A large barbed wire, corrugated iron and chain link fence attached to concrete balustrades made up a perimeter that encircled the entire block and some of the nearby ruins next to the school. Armed guards in red and yellow leathery body armor guarded the two gates, brandishing their makeshift scrap swords laced with dried blood at most who entered.

A few ramshackle buildings dotted the front of the derelict educational facility, one appeared to be a fighting arena, though empty when they arrived, with the remains of some unknowable beast left within. Other than that particular, the others were undefinable at a glance, merely cobbled together shacks gleaming in the harsh daylight that emitted less than attractive noises, violent or otherwise.

Inside the old school, it seemed to be an organized chaos. The hallways split off immediately to the admin and guard rooms, with a sign designating the lower levels to the north wing for "Khan" territory, and "Confederation Outpost" on the over in the south, hidden behind a makeshift armored door blocking the hall flanked by masked, haphazardly repaired UCP clad soldiers, M4A1 rifles nocked to their shoulders, evidently itchy on the trigger.

"We are going upstairs. Don't look at the Confed's, they're jumpy. Once we get up there, I'm gonna go talk to the Snakes over to the left here, while you head over to the Techno territory on the east side to get us the shit on that list." DJ passed him a scrawled note attached to a small, unusually heavy bag.

"They'll figure you for Alliance the moment you walk in, so just get the list items, give them the bag the list is attached to, and walk out. I'll meet you in front of the Khan station when I'm done."

Before Lawrence could ask any questions, DJ seemingly vanished into the small crowd down the corridor. Looking at the list gave no help either, it all seemed to be written in what looked like a cirilic format.

"Piss… Guess I'm doing this the hard way. How hard could it be?"

"Sergeant Nils. What is the status of the reclamation team in the Old Core?"

"Sir, they've engaged with lingering Nexus troops, but have had no further interruptions from the Annex mercenaries."

The elite Officer adjusted his beret, moving around the counter to look at the screen his sergeant was observing, and nodding. "Continue observation, send in the overwatch members if things get too heated."

It had been a rough settlement for the remnants of the N51. Though their now home was easily defended and secure, their backer dropped them for dead in Nevada after the bombs fell. The remains of the defunct Nexus program were prime for their tech collection, and only the super hardline Agency had not aligned with the Antithesis remains, but that itself presented itself as an issue. An unchecked unknown power in a hidden bunker, not one to be trusted.

At least, on the surface. The pneumatic door to their reinforced wing hissed open with a shallow grind.

"Officer Crowley. You asked to see me the next time I passed through."

DJ Anderson. If ever a strange entity that felt more at home in the wastes than the civilisation of the old world, that man was it.

Suppressing his natural draw reflex, the Officer turned to face the Operative, waving him inside as the door stuttered a little before closing behind him. "Yes, we have a matter to discuss. Tark, take the front."

The battered looking Commando behind the weapon bench saluted and came forward to watch the storespace/operations center, as the Officer led DJ to the back and into the beaten cargo elevator to the back.

Closing the gate behind them, DJ leaned on an old Nevtech Arms crate loaded with AN-2500's neatly stacked together.

"You're aware of our express distrust of the Alliance."

"Who isn't Crowley? You have your reasons though, more than most out here have."

"It's for those reasons I'm concerned. I've been made aware of a recent assignment you've been given." The Officer jerked the rusty handle up, starting the ascent to the next floor up.

"Retrieval of Mid-Nevadian War tech from the defunct Antithesis western headquarters."

DJ stiffened up, standing up from the crate as he squinted at the back of Crowley's head. "And how exactly would you know that?"

"Would you really expect me to be honest?"

"No, but I figure out of respect you might give me a heads up on potential leaks."

Crowley shifted against the railing, the elevator shuddering every now and again. "It's isolated to one scout of ours. The 51 Snakes might not shed tears for the Alliance, but we aren't going to needlessly put others at risk unless they present a threat."

DJ snorted. "Fine, you've made your point. What is it that you really wanted to talk about then?"

"This tech that you're picking up. I want to offer a deal." He cleared his throat, turning back to the panel and stopping the lift, opening the gate.

The Operative swirled his hand around the air, encouraging Crowley to carry on.

"As it stands, we have access to some of the more refined and high end tech out here. Not to mention the high grade bullets that are used as currency out here. I want to see what you get before you take it back to the Alliance." He gestured for DJ to follow as they exited.

"I want to be sure of what is being obtained so I can assess what our moves may be going forward. That is all I ask."

He pulled an old beat up camera from his hip satchel. "Take a photo of whatever you get, and bring the film back to me for development."

DJ mulled over the idea, before snapping his fingers and clicking his tongue. "I can tell you half of it now for an upfront payment of my choice."

"Hm. Shrewd as ever. And what might your payment be?"

"I have to drag a newbie right through the middle of the old Red Zone and get within a mile of the Nevadian G-Zero. I need a radiation shield, an M60, and about two thousand rounds."

"That's…" Crowley paused for a moment, leaning against the dusty desk stacked with inventory papers. "Surprisingly low for what your usual standard is."

"I did say half. We can discuss the other half payment once I come back from the assignment."

The Officer nodded, glancing back to a weapons locker behind him. "So, what's this half?"

DJ gestured at the man's coat and vest. "That spidersilk ripoff you're wearing under your vest. I'm getting the original version to hopefully clone and recreate, because finding quality armor in this day and age is aids."

Snorting in response, Crowley nodded. "No kidding. Well, that doesn't present much of a threat, so I won't bother asking more about it. You'll have your shield and arms ready at the Khan office downstairs when you're ready to head out."

"Thank you Crowley. You're always more helpful than my own employers, I'll give you that."

"Could always come work for us Mr. Anderson"

A faint smile crossed the grizzled mutant's features, eyes to the floor. "A tempting notion, but I've made promises I must keep."

"Can't become a miserable untrustful git just because I'm old and complain about people. Keep your eyes on the horizon Crowley." He gave a short two finger salute before dipping through the one way door into the hallway.

A wave goodbye as the two parted was all that hung in the room as DJ exited. "You too, DJ."

"What in the fuck is this place…"

Lawrence had spent the last ten minutes perpetually confused by the odds and ends in the Technocracy's storefront, all manner of technology, appliances and 'stuff' was just haphazardly strewn about, organized only just barely into working and junk sections.

The storefront worker returned with the bag, now far more packed than it originally was. The worker had several bolts and nails jammed into their helmet and face plate, with the back chunked out revealing thick, graying hair. The icon of the Technocracy, a gear with a wrench and sword crossed in front of it, was clearly pounded into his metal body plate, which itself seemed to be jagged and almost intentionally designed to hinder the wearer, or at the very least cause great pain.

"Traveling with the Scourge will get you killed, new blood."

Lawrence looked to the haphazard worker as they put the bag on the counter, shifting off the crate and approaching. "What's that supposed to mean? His reputation is horrible sure, but he can't really be that bad."

The worker shrugged. "When your limbs are strewn across the sands and entrails from here to Texas and back, you might think differently. The Bloody Beast cares little for any but himself and his interests."

Taking the bag from the counter and hefting the now vastly heavier bag over his shoulder with some effort, he frowned at the man behind the counter.

"Rumors build falsehoods. Little thought for the man beneath the rumors."

"And ideals get people killed out here. Ideals and morals alike. A word of advice-"

The worker lifted the plate off his face, revealing a poorly sewn together nightmare of patchy skin, exposed flesh and parched dry lips exposing the man's poorly teeth.

"When you speak from experience, others' opinions lose merit, Agent. Heed the warning."

The display gave Lawrence a moment of pause, as well as a sudden moment of clarity. Behind the faceplate was an old ATP Engineer mask, still softly glowing green in the lens.

"You-"

"Once, long ago. I survived an attack back when he was merely the Scourge. Lucky some said, having survived a blow to the face like I did. A curse really, Agency doctors were as much into experimenting as they were healing. Never forget Agent, somethings never change. I wager he's already thought of killing you several different ways." Shifting the plate back down over his face again, the worker turned and disappeared into the rest of the wing behind some haphazardly stacked dryers.

The metallic grinding out of view did not help settle the uneasy quiet surrounding the young Agent, as he turned to leave pondering what he had witnessed.

How long did he really have till he kicked the bucket from following the man of terror? What did he have planned for him? How would he escape, what would he do if-

"I told you the first time, the gun is legit. What would the Lotus have to gain by trying to bring in faulty equipment. You assholes always do this."

The man in Lawrence's path, dressed in a pinstripe suit and hat, gritted his teeth at the heavily armored Massive before him. In return the giant man, patting down the rough furs on his left pauldron, leaned down to the mafia looking one, univisor shifting from its grey metallic colour to a harsh red.

"You sold seven faulty firearms today to both the Technocracy and Confederacy. One legitimate firearm does not exonerate you nor your side hussle group trying to cut into the Snakes business. Begone."

The gangster stood his ground as the Massive straightened back up, reflexively going for his pistol, only to be on the ground in front of Lawrence with his gun sliding away across the cracked linoleum floor.

Observing the incident idly, Lawrence took a step back from the man on the floor, who barely had time to turn around as his cranial cavity split and his brain became one with the floor beneath a heavy boot.

The mild splatter of grey matter on the Agent's suit and pants froze him in place, the owner of the boot wiping the viscera off on the deceased's jacket. "Lotus are getting complacent Sabutai. I warned you last time I was here they would try return to their underhanded shit if you didn't metaphorically put your foot down."

The voice snapped Lawrence from his trance state. The killer was of course DJ, who was still trying to clean the mess from his boot on the jacket. He spoke so openly towards the towering armored man, eliciting a minor concern from the Agent.

The Massive grunted, folding his arms. "Doesn't take a genius to figure that out. You seem to kill someone every time you come here, Vitalis is becoming concerned you might turn on us."

"Pfft, of course he would. He's a manic worrier at best. But if you think I'm intentionally going to take on this many fuckers at the same time, you overestimate my abilities." He sighed, adjusting his coat and turning to face Sabutai. "I have business elsewhere, if you don't mind." He threw a small brown bag at the massive.

"Put 50 on Nils. I'll be back in a few days."

Sabutai nodded slowly, putting the bag under his cape. DJ turned to Lawrence, cigarette hanging out the side of his mouth half burned with a tired expression.

"Time to go. I'll Introduce you to the Khans when we come back through or something."

He patted the Agent's shoulder, passing by him to the door. Lawrence looked up to the Massive Khan, who simply waved at him. "Anderson can be a bit boorish. Watch you don't get in his way once the fighting starts."

Lawrence nodded, turning slowly to follow the Operative on his way out, trying to process all he had just witnessed.

Staring at the back of his elder's armored jacket, smoldering cigarette in hand, ejecting smoke into the air and causing a few factionless folk to scamper off behind the ramshackle sheds in fear.

A terrifying man, with a mortifying reputation and a seemingly endless bloodlust. Who just casually walks around as if the apocalypse never happened.

"What happened during the war?"

The question made DJ pause, taking the last drag from his carcinogenic addiction and grinding the butt into the chipped, busted up pavement below him.

"I'll tell you when we make camp later tonight." He started towards the buggy, stopping at the outpost beside the gate and picking up a large crate, fistbumping the Khan guard and carrying the wooden vessel over to the vehicle as Lawrence caught up.

Answers, whatever they may be. Answers will be nice.