A Day's Work
Got a job shoveling brahmin manure into crop soil. Talk about a crap job. Still, with the alternatives being joining the local militia whose life expectancy is shorter than raiders', or shooting up psycho and becoming a member of said raiders, I suppose it's not too bad. At least this way I can save up and buy a gun.
I head over to the ranch I've been hired as a helping hand at. Other workers are present, their dedication to this line of work apparent with their sweat-gleaming farmer's tan. I pick up one of the shovels lined up against the fence and start working. Thirty minutes pass. I'm just about to dig into a particularly nauseating mudpie when an all-too-familiar screech of a firearm discharge catches everyone off-guard. Judging by the sound of it, I'm guessing it's a .32 revolver. Ignoring the fact I'm taking guesses at what model of gun I'm hearing, I turn to see one of the worst sights a person can lay eyes upon in this place: raiders.
Several ill-equipped men storm the ranch, dressed in makeshift armors consisting primarily of leather and scrap metals and wielding either manual-operated or repeater weapons, both of which are extremely basic. At first, I stand paralyzed by the shock of the situation, staring dumbfounded as the raiders open fire on innocent farmers. As the raiders begin making their way towards my position, however, I drop to the dirt and lay completely flat. To my surprise, it works; The raiders think everyone's dead or run off. I gradually realize this when they holster their weapons and begin looting the dead.
Seconds feel like minutes, minutes like hours. The raiders aren't very selective about who or what they loot, so long as they make off with something. As they pick through the pockets of the deceased, a sudden metallic slam in the nearby woods alerts the raiders. A few of the braver--dumber, perhaps--raiders go to investigate, weapons ready. As they move closer, I make out a confused expression on their faces. One of them turns his head to the rest of the group, when a bolt of green plasma cuts between the trees and blasts a hole in his chest. As he drops, the rest of the raiders open fire wildly, nonchalantly shredding the other investigating raider in the process. Once their firearms expend their loads, something returns the gesture and out blasts several of the bolts, simultaneously, from all different directions.
A bulky, hunch-backed figure emerges from the woods, in it's hands a plasma rifle. Looking over the bodies to ensure they're all dead, the figure performs a short gesture of his hand behind him. As he unloads and drops the plasma rifle's spent microfusion cell and loads another, several more of the hunch-backed figures emerge, following suit of the first and reloading their weapons. I crawl closer towards them, unsure of whether they're allies or enemies. As I draw closer, I realize the figures are outfitted with advanced power armor, extremely rare suits of armor that are nigh impenetrable and resistant to gamma radiation. In the Wasteland, this kind of technology is worth a fortune. My thoughts are interrupted as one of the men speaks.
"...grateful. Patrol the immediate area, I'm going to radio in our status."
The speaker reaches to his hip for a hand-held radio.
He speaks into the radio, "Echo Foxtrot, this is Sergeant Williamson, over."
A male voice responds, "Reading you Sergeant Williamson, what's your status? Over."
"Our patrol engaged and neutralized some raiders that just attacked a farm near our post, over."
"None that we know of. Over."
"Roger that, Sergeant Williamson. Return to your outpost, we're sending over a squad over to establish a presence at the area, over."
"Roger that, returning to post. Over and out."
Watching only the man on the radio, I'm startled as a voice directs itself to me from behind.
I look for an up-close sight of the advanced power armor, particularly it's menacing helmet.
"W-what?" I shakily ask.
"You aren't dead, and you aren't a raider. Get up, you're coming with me."
Not about to risk the wrath of these guys, I comply and follow him over to the clearing where the man on the radio stands. I could swear he's glaring at me, even through that nasty helmet...
< Message edited by Corruption_Vash -- 2/19/2011 0:12:48 >