Fallout: New Frontier (IC|Fallout|DEAD)

by **Anowa** » Mon Oct 14, 2019 12:55 am

_{Staff Sergeant Arch Dornan II}
_{63rd Battalion, 1st Company, 1st Platoon}
_{FOB Markham, Portland Campaign}
_{Arroyo Territory}
_{10/30/2283 - 7:10 AM AST}

FOB Markham, their little rallying point before heading off to the front line. It was quaint, sandbag walls, mud and hovels as far as the eye can see. There were a few bots being repaired, but for the most part it was ammo and supplies being shoved into packs and soon to be sent to the front. The trucks they had arrived in were cramped, the space the troopers had to share was with a couple of mercenaries who hitched a ride, a cartographer, and hilariously enough a member of the Courier's own primadonna squad, a fellow named Nemo, only the one though, and he didn't speak much. The rest of the space was packed with food, ammo and medical supplies.

For the most part, their battalion was spread out all over the camp, some platoons were already heading out, having received their orders. But for the platoon that was attached to the Command unit, there was no such event. Instead, they were the last of the bunch to be given their orders, and local advice from their pants on head retarded Captain, Martin "Superboot" McLean.

Dornan wasn't surprised when the bald, pasty, noodle of a man simply stared at the paper he'd written on, all of it either orders from Hindenburg, or whatever tips and pointers the NCOs from the previous unit could give.

The Captain finally spoke, "So, I'll start with what First Sergeant Petras has advised me, er, us. Uhm. First, don't fuck the local prostitutes, you probably already knew that. Second, sleep with your primary, and your gas mask on. The reason behind this is, apparently the raider confederacy actively uses tear gas and irritant agents before skirmishing in the trench line. So, yeah. Third thing, if any of you have dreams about a glowing eyed woman, try not to think of anything important. Apparently, superstition involving ambushes and OPSEC breaches. Finally, if you're being overrun, uh... kill yourself. These raiders make the Fiends in the Mojave look like a picnic gathering, that's a direct quote from Petras." he stopped for a moment, overlooking the platoon in front of him.

Dornan spoke up, "Captain. I would've advised you to hand out copies of said advice to the SNCOs to then read to our folks, and not tell them all minutes before we move to the front line. Since it's very likely morale has already tanked."

The Captain looked the the paper before sighing, "Yeah, shit, alright. Anyways, our orders at the moment are to simply to relieve elements of 23rd Battalion, 4th Company at line 22 and prepare for a spearheading. Dismissed." the Captain promptly hurried away to wherever it was he was needed, or wanted to go.

The NCO gave a ragged sigh, looking over at the Lieutenant who stood besides him. The young officer remained still, blinking a few times before speaking up, "Dornan, real talk. We're fucked aren't we?"

Hafferton wasn't like most of the butter bars in the NCR. He was self aware, he knew he was inexperienced as all hell, and he always looked for the advice of the NCOs in the platoon before making a decision. It lead to a binding among the ranks of who exactly was in charge, but ultimately Dornan made sure to rather abruptly reaffirm exactly who had the authority to sign off on insubordination papers.

Dornan replied, "Won't be much worse than the Legion. Maybe a higher risk of being shot, but they can't have as many bodies as the Legion."

The officer nodded, "Yeah, hopefully we won't be stuck here for a generation." Dornan said nothing, but couldn't do much but agree.

After a few moments, of dissent among the ranks, a switch was flipped and the Staff Sergeant turned right around. Going from from amiable to yelling in an instant, "All right you slack jawed fuck ups, we're about a mile and a half from the front and we're walking. Get your shit in gear and don't leave anything behind, or you'll be squatting until I get tired!"

A few individuals in the platoon stood among the others. There was the Spaniard, their medic, the Ranger wash out, which itself was exemplary he even made it, the mad bastard who transferred in from the safety of an inner city posting, and well. Frank.

Among the rear of the platoon a big green motherfucker stood a few heads above the rest. Even from the front Dornan could hear the Muties' back popping a few times. The backpack loaded with shells and the missile launcher loaded on top of said pack still looked comically small. But the greenskin was pretty much the only person in the platoon who had the know-how how to turn that big old tube of death into a long range weapon. And a one man barrage was a welcome thing indeed.

"Corporal O'Connor! You have the benefit of picking our marching song! If it fucking sucks, you'll be pushing Portland to fucking Nevada!"

by **The Twelve Isles** » Mon Oct 14, 2019 5:11 am

Spc James Henry Barrow
63rd Battalion, 1st Company, 1st Platoon
FOB Markham, Portland Campaign
Arroyo Territory

Jimmy stood at attention with the rest of his platoon and watched the proceedings as the officers of their company all convened. The captain stared at a piece of paper he had been handed with a dull expression, the orders for their platoon written out on it. He stood there in the sun, his pants pulled up too high like a toddler and his head gleaming in the early morning light. Jimmy thought he looked vaguely like a cue ball attached to a hastily strapped together collection of pool noodles. He half expected him to start drooling as he blankly ran his eyes over the paper when he heard a soldier to his left whisper "fucking retard couldn't tell his asshole from his dick," earning some stifled chuckles from the other men around him. Jimmy flicked his eyes in their direction, hardly moving his head, having long ago learned not to make much of a fuss when the dumber officers were nearby. They were always the ones most likely to throw a shit fit over a stupid joke.

Finally the captain looked up and uttered some of the most obvious advice he had ever heard. Don't fuck the prostitutes, sleep with your gun, and don't let superstition get to you. Anyone who had ever been deployed before or who was even remotely worth their salt knew that. Jimmy sighed while he listened, letting his mind wander and thinking about Emma. He thought about her house, when her daddy wasn't home and the dusk light lit up her room with a soft orange light. How her hair had fallen around her shoulders when he pulled her dress over her head, and how warm and close he had felt too her. Just as his memory was reaching the good parts, the parts he often thought of when he was trying to go to sleep or when he was trying to pull one out in the latrines before patrol, suddenly a second memory burst its way in, the sight of Three Fingers laying on the floor of the diner, the other patrons screaming and yelling while the blood from his throat pooled around him like a paint bubble. Jimmy shook his head slightly, trying to cast that thought out like an old diaper to hear the captain apologizing for the awful timing in his advice. Jimmy wanted this shit to be over with. The longer he stood here, the more antsy he got. Stuck in formation while chief retard McLean made a fool of himself, sometimes Jimmy wondered if the Army was really a superior alternative to jail. He should have just shut the fuck up and done his time.

Jimmy concentrated, trying to distract himself from the bad memories with the immediate present. The LT glanced at the sergeant, seeming to pick his words. The LT was a boot Jimmy thought, but at the very least he was a smart boot. He always looked to his NCO's for advice, and that Jimmy could appreciate. Though it made deciding who was really in charge somewhat awkward, Dornan always would make it clear who was in charge of signing off on insubordination papers, and so Jimmy chose to feel that cleared most things up on that front. The LT and Dornan muttered back and forth to one another, exchanging information that Jimmy could not hear, before the Staff Sergeant whipped around in an instant, opening his mouth and bellowing like a stuck pig. "Alright you slack jawed fuck ups!" he yelled at them, his voice even louder and even shriller than Jimmy was used too, "We're about a mile and a half away from the front and we're walking! Get your in gear and don't leave anything behind, or you'll be squatting until I get tired!"

That was all the motivation Jimmy needed. In a quick, practiced motion, he leaned down and swung his pack up and onto his back, slung his rifle over his shoulder, and kissed the tattoos on his knuckles before making a brisk pace towards the gate's. Behind him he could hear the Staff Sergeant still yelling, giving Corporal O'Connor the dubious honor of picking the marching song. Jimmy was just happy it wasnt him. He was a good musician, but he hated having to pick marching songs. Inevitably it seemed like he always fucked it up, and then found himself enduring some humiliating punishment simply because the song he chose was offensive the the Staff Sergeants religion, or the LT thought it was a boot fuck choice, or some ladies they passed heard profanity and it gave the NCR military a bad name. And so, when it came to marching songs, Jimmy preferred the simple tactic of trying to not be noticed. One of the few times he would ever be like that. He reveled in the attention of others, he was a natural people person, and delighted in telling stories and making people laugh. But he was also smart enough to know when it was not a good time to be noticeable as well.

by **Arengin Union** » Mon Oct 14, 2019 9:45 pm

Medic Abel Ignacio Reinosa Parra & Rifleman John Miller (Rick Ferrier)
63rd Battalion, 1st Company, 1st Platoon
FOB Markham, Portland Campaign
Arroyo Territory

Within a very short time, shorter than he had ever imagined Abel found himself in route to the furthest he'd ever been from home, into an inhospitable and war torn city amidst a group of not very colorful individuals. He had been assigned the role of medic, had to go through a course and everything during basic but nothing of that made him feel prepare at all. Still the Latino man tried to keep positive thinking, nearly all of his monthly pay was going to his family and he had been given a vital role.

The platoon gathered, Captain McLean reading out instructions among other things happening, Abel wasn't exactly paying much attention. He could tell McLean wasn't very interested himself in what he said, nobody really was. Abels mind was in other trains of thought, They'll probably keep me at the support lines, Its good I got this role... Abels thoughts where then interrupted by the sudden and hard hitting voice of Staff Sergeant Dornan.

After a few moments, of dissent among the ranks, a switch was flipped and the Staff Sergeant turned right around. Going from from amiable to yelling in an instant, "All right you slack jawed fuck ups, we're about a mile and a half from the front and we're walking. Get your shit in gear and don't leave anything behind, or you'll be squatting until I get tired!"

With those words said, Abel got his mind into the game and picking up his backpack he was ready to move. His rifle strapped on his shoulder and looking around himself, observing the many members of the platoon. The huge super mutant got his attention very quick, but not in any negative way, Last super mutant I saw was ages ago, he thought.

"Corporal O'Connor! You have the benefit of picking our marching song! If it fucking sucks, you'll be pushing Portland to fucking Nevada!"

Abel let out a small snark towards the Sergeants statement. The platoon would soon begin marching at the beat of O'Connors singing, meanwhile Abel still tried to keep positive thinking, all through the far off sounds of artillery barrages, machine gun fire, and overall noises of less than pleasant atmosphere. Still Abel couldn't do much about whatever was happening in this city, he just had to follow orders, receive his pay and come home a hero to his son, that or a baby killer.

"Oh si señor," Abel spoke softly as he followed in march, trying to keep his head up and a smile through it all, though he didn't want to admit he was actually scared shitless. How could no one be, with mud and blood all around you and with war raging on without care for your life, and yet all Abel could do was put on a fake smile and try to make the best of it like he had always done.

Meanwhile, a silent soldier remained unfazed by everything around him. Rick Ferrier could give less than two shits what Dornan, or the Captain, or the LT talked about, he just had to follow orders that made sense and be done with this shit soon. First chance I get, if its sound I'll get out of this fucking hell hole... Rick thought, he couldn't bear to hear whatever shitty son would come out of O'Connors mouth.

"Can't we just go one fucking march without singing..." Came out of Rick's mouth, not out loud but anyone around him would likely hear what he just said.

by **Guuj Xaat Kil** » Tue Oct 15, 2019 1:17 am

Machine Gunner Marcus Bayern & Assistant Machine Gunner Arthur Carter
63rd Battalion, 1st Company, 1st Platoon
FOB Markham, Portland Campaign
Arroyo Territory

“Durrrrrrr...” A machine gunner made a noise, made to mock the Captain in front of them, and the reply he got from the assistant machine gunner was a stifled snigger. The man was staring at a paper with obvious orders, and he simply... Kept on staring, a dull look on his face. “Durrrrrrrr..!” The machine gunner was making the sound a bit loudly now, enough to send a couple of soldiers nearby to start chuckling quietly. "Fucking retard couldn't tell his asshole from his dick.” Another soldier had piped up quietly, and now those chuckling were chuckling a little bit louder now, still stifled, but loud enough to make a difference. The machine and assistant machine gunner simply grinned. “Morning’s pretty crisp and sharp today Marc,” the assistant machine gunner quipped at his partner partner, Marcus Bayern, “And yet its dull, wonder why...”

Marc was going to reply something, but the Captain interrupted them with another bout of retardation. Which was the attempted restatement of the obvious. Don’t: Fuck prostitutes, let superstition get to you. You could also add ‘ Don’t drop the don’t’ in there too. As for do’s, sleep with your gun and with your mask on, yadda yadda, the usual shit. “Dull as bricks Arthur, but at least bricks hurt.” Marc finally got around to making that reply, “Although this does hurt, the head that is.”. More stifled snickering, although it ended quickly when the Staff Sergeant spoke up. Morale tanking? They were wading through blood and shit now. “It couldn’t get that much worse right?” Arthur Carter thought, before grinning ironically and shaking his head, “Yep, definitely jinxed it. Oh well...”.

He wondered about how he could throw his chances further into the gutter so that it would loop to a positive, only to be interrupted by the shrill yell of the Staff Sergeant. "All right you slack jawed fuck ups, we're about a mile and a half from the front and we're walking. Get your shit in gear and don't leave anything behind, or you'll be squatting until I get tired!" He’d shouted, and without a thought, the pair quickly slung their packs on their backs, and guns to shoulders. And quickly got into formation like everyone else in the 63rd.

"Corporal O'Connor! You have the benefit of picking our marching song! If it fucking sucks, you'll be pushing Portland to fucking Nevada!" The Staff Sergeant made another shout, this time to inform their Marksman that he had the dubious benefit of choosing the marching song, dubious due to it being a dice roll, roll a one and die, roll a six and live to roll another one or six. While marching, Arthur would then start observing his fellows in the battalion, quickly noting the super mutant. But his gaze shifted elsewhere rapidly. There was a Spaniard amongst them, their medic, he’d heard him say something Spanish, probably a snark. A smile was plastered on the man’s face, “Faked” He noted, before looking elsewhere. Quiet tall guy, complaining about the singing, “Something’s off with that one.”. There were others, a wash out, Radioman Frank, and some guy named James.

“Stay low as we always do Marc,” he repeated their adage to his friend, who simply nodded before looking at something at the side, “Stay low...”. Speaking of laying low, Arthur had noticed that, that James guy too was doing the same, “For what looks to be a socialite, the guy’s awfully quiet.”. He simply shook his head to clear himself of these thoughts, focusing on marching forward.

by **Vacif** » Tue Oct 15, 2019 9:47 pm

_{Private Franklin Lang}
_{63rd Battalion, 1st Company, 1st Platoon}
_{FOB Markham, Portland Campaign}
_{Arroyo Territory}
_{10/30/2283 - 7:10 AM AST}

Franklin stood near the front of the formation, head tilted at a 50 degree angle. His gaunt face stared at the company commander, mouth slightly ajar, eyes squinting. Looking for something that would reassure him, or or clue him in on something that was missing. The man was completely unprepared for even his basic introductory speech. Presentation, awful. Advice, elementary. Confidence, null. First impressions were everything, and this did not give Frank any confidence at all.

To be fair, the life of a company commander was incredibly busy, but Frank was certain this was the first time the man had even seen the information given to him. It was well within the realm of belief that this was among the first of times he'd even given an announcement on a company level. Of course maybe he was just having an off day, maybe it was a rushed deployment. It however did not matter. It couldn't change the opinion of the enlisted men as it wasn't something they could see.

After being told their orders, the company commander left to presumably do his job. After the man left, Frank was certain that was all there was to it. They were just stuck with what they got. His heart sank a little, he'd wholeheartedly admit his eagerness to approach the front was for sure lacking after seeing their company commander speak. He gave a sigh of defeat just short of the platoon Sergeant ordering them to get on with their orders. Frank grit his teeth as he shouldered the 30-some-odd pounds of kit. He'd be fucked if he had to run, but at least the radio gave him some extra back armor if they ever had to retreat.

If there was one thing he'd pay attention to, it was that comment about dreams about glowing eyed women. He'd have to talk to the other RTOs about the issue. It had to be either some kind of joke, or an actual threat. Frank stifled a yawn as he marched with the rest of the unit. He did the most to conceal the radio because it painted a huge target on his back, but in the end he had a four foot tall pole attached to his back. He didn't know how smart these raiders were, but he had a feeling they were smart enough to shoot the guy with the big pole on his back. Then again, the big Super Mutant with a missile launcher was an equally enticing target.

The Army certainly wasn't what he was expecting. Boot camp set the bar decently high, but now that he was here in the field.... he didn't know what was going to happen. He heard that he'd gotten more training than the average trooper during the Mojave campaign, but that didn't fill him with a lot of confidence. He felt like he could rely on the officers back at Fort Collins, not so much here. Here it always rained, cold cut through their uniforms, and the men, despite being fresh to the fight clearly weren't very motivated, which negatively affected his motivation and his mindset. But if there was one thing that the DIs at Collins prepared him for, it was marching while singing. Frank was by no means a good singer, but he put care into the words he chanted and it showed. He was never one to drag his feet. He was also not about to get chewed out by the platoon sergeant on the first day of deployment for not assaulting the ears of his platoonmates with enough gusto. Only god knew what that man could think up for punishments.

by **Tayner** » Thu Oct 17, 2019 12:18 pm

Corporal Jeff "Servius" O'Connor
63rd Battalion, 1st Company, 1st Platoon
FOB Markham, Arroyo Territory
10/30/2283

McLean wasn't what Jeff would've called a particularly competent officer, but their most recent briefing was something else. The only thing he gained of value was to wear his gas mask while sleeping, as he hadn't been used to being engaged in chemical warfare. He dismissed superstitions and continued on to fall in line when they started to move out, not showing his sour mood so his fireteam couldn't look to him and be demoralized, however they were already demoralized upon their own spirits thanks to the McLean. Jeff was less demoralized and more frustrated with the chain of command than anything. At least on the Platoon level they had some good guys looking out for them, Jeff knew despite Dornan’s insults and gusto he'd be looking out for the guys under his command, and the boot-tenant had enough sense to listen to his NCOs.

"Corporal O'Connor! You have the benefit of picking our marching song! If it fucking sucks, you'll be pushing Portland to fucking Nevada!" Staff Sergeant called out after inspiring the men to get on the move with his charming demeanor.

"Too easy Staff Sergeant!" Jeff replied with a loud voice. He sighed before thinking of an old and simple call and response cadence that was called out back at BCT to keep the fresh privates in step when marching.

"Up in the mornin out in the rain,
Greeted by an early attack,
First sergeant rushes me out the chow
I don’t eat it any how
Oh hail oh hail ‘o Infantry,
Vet’tran rangers look for me
‘Oh hail ‘oh hail ‘o infantry,
‘Queen of Battle follow me
Mortar ‘n artillery
Screamin’ burstn' around me
Jagged shrapnel on the fly
Hits my buddy makes cry
‘O hail ‘o hail ‘o infantry
‘It’s a soldier’s life for me
‘O hail ‘o hail ‘o infantry
Vet’tran rangers look for me
Rifle in hand and ready to fight
Rifle in hand and ready to die
Never until the time is right
Oh hail oh hail ‘o Infantry,
Vet’tran rangers look for me
‘Oh hail ‘oh hail ‘o infantry,
‘Queen of Battle follow me
‘Oh hail ‘oh hail ‘o infantry,
‘Oh hail ‘oh hail ‘o victory,"

by **Anowa** » Fri Oct 18, 2019 10:57 pm

_{Staff Sergeant Arch Dornan II}
_{63rd Battalion, 1st Company, 1st Platoon}
_{FOB Markham, Portland Campaign}
_{Arroyo Territory}
_{10/30/2283 - 7:46 AM AST}

It took about half an hour to reach the end of the green zone. At which point standard formation broke, and everyone moved into a readied position. The reat trench came up first, where the seperate platoons of the company shuffled out further into their designated line.

Dornan amd hafferton moved with their platoon to their section, finding it rather empty. Only a single trooper sitting on a big old tire in the middle of what looked like a mortar pit at one point Cigarette barely clinging onto his lips as smoke notably pored off of it. The rifle he was issued had cracked furniture, a bent front sight, the bayonet seemed to be locked on the end and missing it's blade. His vest had punctures and slices, and blood stained a few parts. His eyes had bags, his hair was unkempt, he was unclean, and Dornan recognized the look in his eye. They were transfixed on something in an entirely position in time and space. The tag on his vest read: Cpl. MacDougall.

Dornan cleared his throat, "Corporal, you're relieved."

MacDougall didn't even move, just a simple "I know." a pause as he flicked the cigarette to the floor, standing up. "Petras tell you folks enough?"

Hafferton spoke up, "By proxy, yes."

The weary corporal continued, "Not enough, knowing him. First, have your medic ditch their armbands, everyone and their mother's gonna target them first, rank insignia too. Second if anyone in your platoon ends up being hit in the gut by a sniper and isn't immediately double tapped, he's bait, either put him down or find the sniper with haste. Third, if you see a kid with glowing eyes, a white horse, or a seemingly empty position, fucking run. Your chances will be better dodging any chance of being slapped as a deserter, than staying in that area. Fourth, if any of your squads are mortar teams, don't use them. Rampant's got some hardcore counter battery skills. We lost our mortar after 3 rounds into the first volley." the man shook his head, "They won't use it for much else, probably ammo constraints. So there's that."

Hafferton quirked a brow, "Sorry, Corporal, but Rampant?"

The man paused for a moment giving the officer an odd stare, "Right yeah, Rampant's what we call the raiders. Dehumanizes them, makes it easier to kill them... I guess."

"Them being raiders not dehumanizing enough?"

MacDougall's eyes went back to that different time, "Not when there's kids. Sir."

Hafferton and Dornan shared a look, Dornan spoke again, "Head on home, Corporal." MacDougall simply nodded, walking out of the pit and through the platoon.

Dornan turned around, "Alright troopers, we aren't in the greenzone anymore, so stay frosty. Bunks are located in alcoves along these trenches on a squad basis." The NCO pointed down two branching paths to the sides, with a notable amount of logs and retaining wood leading to what looked like small bunkers, "It won't be comfortable and it's unlikely there's showers up here, but there's ways to work around that with cloth and lye." A pause, "Dismissed!"

With that, the troopers were largely left to their own devices.

Dornan moved with Hafferton towards the actual line. Both taking a look over the edge towards the field of battle. Looking over the edge of the trench, Hafferton pulled some binoculars from his belt, setting his gaze upon the so called Lighthouse. It was a marred mass of what looked to be concrete and sheet metal, more dents and hunks of material missing from it than -what Hafferton felt- Boulder City. "God that things intimidating."

Dornan chuckled, "No Lieutenant, Miss Androulakis is intimidating. That is just an obstacle."

The officer couldn't help but shake his head, "Regardless, I sure hope to fuck that McLean's not stupid enough to throw lives at it."

"McLean isn't in charge of that." a pause, "But, knowing him, he'll probably fixate on it in some attempt at glory. God help the folks who have to climb that hill."

Hafferton raked his view across the front, looking for points of interest. There wasn't much, either the raiders of Portland were good at concealment, or they relied hevily on area denial. Knowing the massive minefield that resided to the west, the newly minted officer didn't want to think about the possibility of the hill being mined.

"Was the Mojave this bad?"

Dornan hummed, "In a direct comparison, no. It was still a cluster fuck. In the Mojave we had the Khans, Legion, Fiends, Vipers, Jackals, Highwaymen, and fucking Powder Gangers. All of them trying to thumb their dick into you when you turned to deal with one of the others. Then you all get killed by a fucking random ass cazador."

"Cazador?" came an inquisitive reply.

"Big, nasty ass bugs. Sting hurts worse than being shot, venom feels worse than being on fire, and it'll paralyze you. Then they lay eggs in you."

The was a pregnant pause before Dornan looked to Hafferton. The Lieutenant had since turned to look at Dornan, a single eyebrow raised, a sigh was given as the man looked back through his binoculars, "Guess I'm skipping leave to the Strip then."

Dornan couldn't help but chuckle.

by **Vacif** » Mon Oct 21, 2019 7:56 pm

_{Private Franklin Lang}
_{63rd Battalion, 1st Company, 1st Platoon}
_{FOB Markham, Portland Campaign}
_{Arroyo Territory}
_{10/30/2283 - 7:46 AM AST}

It didn’t feel any different, transitioning from the green to the orange, but they were indeed now in a certifiable combat zone. Frank marched in silence, more focused on watching for movement than making small talk with the rest of the platoon. No reason to let his guard down. Luckily however they didn’t see anything on the way to their line. Sitting in a rather bombed out pit was a lone Corporal. He looked incredibly haggard, his kit barely looked like it functioned. Would they all look like him by the end of their rotation?

For better or worse, Corporal MacDougall laid down some more advice for the new troopers. Frank pocketed his rank insignia but he couldn’t do anything about his radio, and the fact that his pristine kit was an obviously fresh. The thing about snipers made sense, he was glad to learn this from the veteran than from personal experience. He was sure some brave kid would run out to save his buddy. Hopefully they’d heed the warning.

What dropped his morale personally was the fact that glowing eyed children and animals were making their men desert. This seemed to reinforce that the superstition was quite strong here. Frank also very much disliked that the raiders were apparently quite competent with counter barrage fire. That took away one more reason to haul around the metal box. If they got into trouble they wouldn’t have far support. He’d be sure to pass on the info about mortars to the other RTOs if they hadn’t already been informed.

Then there was the part about the children. Kids. They were going to fight kids. He didn’t have any initial feelings, he wasn’t immediately repulsed, he didn’t feel immediate anger or disgust. It was just a kind of acceptance, another piece to the pile. He probably wouldn’t be feeling that when they got into the fight. Frank didn’t know if he could do it.

Then the Corporal left to go home. For important and understandable reasons some of this information hadn’t made it back to the HQ’s advice but it was life saving information. His expectations had sunk further than before and it left Frank with a slight feeling of helplessness. Nothing new here. The Platoon was dismissed and broke off to tend to their needs for a moment.

Frank took the path to the rightmost alcove and grabbed the cot second from the door. He gently laid down his pack before removing his sleeping bag and placing it over the cot. “There we go...” he muttered to himself, before flopping onto the cot. He was pleasantly surprised to see it didn’t collapse under his weight. Frank reached over the side of his cot and grabbed the rucksack carrying all his personal affects. There was actually more there than he expected outside of toiletries and clothes. He had tinted goggles, a book, some pencils, the division playing cards, yo-yo, wallet, watch, the wedding bands around his tags, a chessboard, cigarette tin and lighter. He didn’t smoke but a lighter was useful for other things, and smokes were nice bartering chips. There were a few pictures of home, of his family but they sat tucked away for now. He couldn’t bear to throw them away but he also couldn’t bring himself to look at them either.

By this time some other guys started to make themselves at home in the bunker too. As the men settled in he figured he should gauge the room and see what kind of people were watching his back. He sat and and pulled out the yo-yo and began playing with it. “So. You guys believe any of that glowing eyed bullshit? I’ve heard some pretty out there stuff but nothing on the scale like this. I mean, how do you suppress your thoughts? And I mean kids and horses too, like what the hell. I get wide open, empty spaces are obvious traps but what’s the deal with the other stuff MacDougall said?”

by **Tayner** » Wed Oct 23, 2019 7:28 pm

Corporal Jeff "Servius" O'Connor
63rd Battalion, 1st Company, 1st Platoon
The Front
10/30/2283

They relieved a lone soldier from their position, a corporal, a younger man but one who looked like he’d been through the shit. Jeff could only nod as he passed by, heading home. The lucky survivor, he’d live on to have nightmares and restless nights for the rest of his days. Jeff found his new home, the hut built into the trench line. He walked in, surveyed the room, and laid claim to a suitable cot nearby. He dropped his ruck and withdrew two things, a stack of cards and his caps.

Frank was the first to talk, well, the human Frank. “So. You guys believe any of that glowing eyed bullshit? I’ve heard some pretty out there stuff but nothing on the scale like this. I mean, how do you suppress your thoughts? And I mean kids and horses too, like what the hell. I get wide open, empty spaces are obvious traps but what’s the deal with the other stuff MacDougall said?”

“No one gives a shit about a glowing eyed lady, boot, and the rest of the stuff is common sense to anyone who’s ever been in the fight before.” Jeff said. It was true, he ditched his corporal patch not long after they dismounted, and he didn’t feel the need to go blindly charging in to play hero. Lives were saved with teamwork and good coordination, not by lone soldiers jumping in head first. “Quit your yammering and grab a seat.” He continued, pulling up a box to sit on besides a larger box that seemed to serve as the previous unit’s table. “Mandatory fun, motherfuckers. Games Texas hold ‘em, fifty cap buy in and that’s an order. Double time it, especially you Abel Ignacio Reinosa Parra.” He said, calling the man’s name out with a stereotypical accent, but yet annunciating every syllable correctly. “You look like you need the exercise, after you finish getting cleaned out maybe you can squeeze in some cardio.” He finished, dealing out cards for everyone in the tent.

“No wild cards, 5 caps to open.”

by **Arengin Union** » Thu Oct 24, 2019 9:29 pm

Medic Abel Ignacio Reinosa Parra & Rifleman John Miller (Rick Ferrier)
63rd Battalion, 1st Company, 1st Platoon
The Front
10/30/2283

The corporals gleam words of advice had left Abel rather shocked, he had tried to keep himself on positive thinking but the more he looked around him and the more he heard the truth began to settle in little by little until it was like a hammer hitting him right on the stomach. He was in a real war, in an area of combat and whoever these "Rampants" were they did not fight fair and they did not show any honor. Able had heard stories from veterans of the Mojave Campaign, giant mosquitoes that could wipe out an entire outpost, Caesar's Legion crucifying people from California, raiders who raped and pillaged like it was a normal activity. Nothing of it seemed to compare to what he was seeing around him, child soldiers, Raiders that used deadly accurate artillery, tales of green eyed beings.

"Madre mia, por favor protegenos en esta hora de adversidad..." Abel murmured as his left hand held onto the rosary around his neck and the other began to remove the white armbands near his shoulder pads with the big red crosses in the middle, right after he would also remove his rank insignia. As Corporal MacDougall made his way through the platoon and back to a more civilized place Abel simply nodded to him as a sign of gratitude for the warnings.

Gaby... what did I get myself into... Abel then thought as the platoon began to jump into the trench.

Rick for his part felt little but a fleeing sense of sympathy for the trooper as he left the trenches with eyes that spoke of things that would make even a grown man shit his pants. Still Rick didn't let any of that affect him, he remained expressionless and truly only cared for where he had stored his money and every part of him hoped it was still there. He also began to think about those that he had crossed, the Mordinos, the Van Grafts, the Yakuza, Besides looking out for fucking raiders and crypts of the grave I have to look out for whoever is a fucking hitman, can't let your guard down here Rick. Not for a second. He thought to himself as the platoon began to spread around the trench and into their given "Alcoves."

As the platoon entered the huts within the sides of the trench Abel was completely disgusted by the sight of a decrepit and foul looking den with rather fragile looking cots spread around just for anyone to claim. Abel was apprehensive to walk inside at first, up until it was the soldier behind him who basically pushed him in. Rick to his part felt right at home, it wasn't perfect by any stretch but it wasn't any different than how he had had to live back in the orphanage, he quickly got a hold of a cot near Franks and set up his bedroll within and took a much comforting lay, the cot's wood screeched for a second as Rick moved around to get more comfortable. The surface felt like rock but Rick didn't mind at all.

Abel was slower to get a hold of a space, he carefully walked inside, making sure he wouldn't step on shit or something worse. He soon found a somewhat clean cot, the Latino trooper settled his rucksack besides the bed along with his rifle as he then began setting his bedroll. He carefully began to clear off the dust off the wood only to then find a rather large spider which began to crawl away and onto the ground to somewhere unknown, Abel had remained quiet through the whole thing but was visibly distraught by it.

It was then that some small chatting began.

“So. You guys believe any of that glowing eyed bullshit? I’ve heard some pretty out there stuff but nothing on the scale like this. I mean, how do you suppress your thoughts? And I mean kids and horses too, like what the hell. I get wide open, empty spaces are obvious traps but what’s the deal with the other stuff MacDougall said?”

"It's just as you said... Nothing but bullshit made up by shellshock and nothing else..." Rick suddenly spoke up as he covered his face with his cap to block any light. Abel himself didn't say anything he was still busy getting his space settled as he brought out a photo of him and Gabriella's wedding, then his hunting trip photo with his son.

“No one gives a shit about a glowing eyed lady, boot, and the rest of the stuff is common sense to anyone who’s ever been in the fight before.” Jeff said. It was true, he ditched his corporal patch not long after they dismounted, and he didn’t feel the need to go blindly charging in to play hero.

Rick nodded and snapped his fingers in agreement to what the Corporal had said. "This guy's got the right idea," he then said with a bit of jest. Abel still remained quiet.

Lives were saved with teamwork and good coordination, not by lone soldiers jumping in head first. “Quit your yammering and grab a seat.” He continued, pulling up a box to sit on besides a larger box that seemed to serve as the previous unit’s table. “Mandatory fun, motherfuckers. Games Texas hold ‘em, fifty cap buy in and that’s an order. Double time it, especially you Abel Ignacio Reinosa Parra.” He said, calling the man’s name out with a stereotypical accent, but yet annunciating every syllable correctly. “You look like you need the exercise, after you finish getting cleaned out maybe you can squeeze in some cardio.” He finished, dealing out cards for everyone in the tent.

Abel's name being called out is what brought him out of the thoughts of home as he was handed a set of cards by the corporal. Abel stuttered a bit as he looked at himself and then back at the group as they assembled to play something. Abel wasn't exactly good at betting games and he wasn't exactly in a position to play, he had to save as much money as he could.

"Well I'm much obliged Corporal, but my current financial situation withholds me from playing," Abel chuckled a bit.

"Mine doesn't..." Rick spoke up as he rose from his cot and walked over to the table, cards on one hand and caps on the other which he set on the table almost slamming it.

“No wild cards, 5 caps to open.”

"Fine by me..." Rick said as he threw in 5 caps.

by **Empire of Donner land** » Mon Oct 28, 2019 9:04 am

_{Sergeant Carter "Buck" Bucksly}
_{63rd Battalion, 1st Company, 1st Platoon}
_{FOB Markham, Portland Campaign}
_{Arroyo Territory}
_{10/30/2283 - 7:46 AM AST}

"It can't be worse than the Mojave," Bucksly repeated to himself in his head, cursing every time as they marched up to the trenches. Just the smell alone told him he was dead wrong when he told that NCR MP Interrogating him back in Shady Sands just that. That it couldn't be worse than the Mojave. It could, and it was. He had already torn off his rank insignia on the march out of the Green Zone expecting as much, having experience directly with Legion Snipers during the 2nd Battle of the Hoover Dam. In the first hour, they maybe had already gone through 3 NCOs in his Platoon before they figured it out. Every minute marching, he thought about how he could be in the Great Khans by now, instead of being a boot for the Bear. Couldn't be helped, he reminded himself, the Great Khans were probably getting stepped all over by Six themselves.

By the description of what the tired Corporal was providing the Staff Sergeant, they were going to be fighting in something rabid. Medic killing wasn't new, the Legion did that all the time, Snipers using wounded men as bait wasn't different either. But Kids with glowing eyes and Horses, and Raiders that knew how to Counter Battery was certainly different and did not bode well. It was bad enough that Courier Six themselves and their Body Guard was in the AO. As they were dismissed to enter the rear line of the Trench, Bucksly rolled his shoulders and turned to his Squad. "Claim a bunk and get situated, if I know anything about what's going on, I'm wagering that you Scouts might get sent out to Recon the enemy position at night if they don't come in to slit our throats before then, that is. Mingle, it won't hurt," He said curtly as he entered the Trenchworks himself, looking to his right and then to his left before following after the Staff Sergeant and the Lieutenant.

As far as he could tell from eavesdropping, his squad was made up of a random Country Bumpkin from the Redwoods who could shoot for shit, and a City Kid from Shady Sands smart enough to have a silver tongue but either stupid enough or patriotic enough to re-enlist in the N.C.R Army for the Portland Campaign. Not to mention the AT Rifleman, Frank, which only gave him fear that this could only mean these glorified Raiders had some form of Armor.

As Carter followed the Staff Sergeant and the Lieutenant, he stopped to look at the massive structure that stood before them in front of the Trenches. He'd heard it was called the Lighthouse, and it may as well be one. Judging by some of the marks in it, it'd look like they'd already tried and failed to punch a hole in it via Demolitions. Multiple times, not to mention the marks from shelling or other forms of bombardment, Bucksly had seen Boulder City, and the amount of destruction brought to bear there must have equaled or been surpassed in whatever the NCR was doing trying to bring down this Fortress.

"No Lieutenant, Miss Androulakis is intimidating. That is just an obstacle." the Staff Sergeant said, and what an obstacle it was. Carter joined the edge of the Trench to the side of the Staff Sergeant as the chat moved on to reminiscing on the Mojave between the Butter Bar and the Staff Sergeant. He had a certain animosity for NCR Leadership, but at least the Lieutenant seemed to know what he was doing with the help of the Staff Sergeant.

As Dornan chuckled, Bucksly made himself known. "Staff Sergeant, Lieutenant, Sir. Sgt. Bucksly of 2nd Squad, 'case you forgot. I couldn't help but ask, and I've heard of and seen a bunch of weird shit in the Mojave, but what's up with this talk of glowing-eyed Children an-and mind-reading women? Are the guys in the line huffing and dealing something I should know of?" Bucksly asked. This talk of the supernatural ticked him more than the news of Child Soldiers did, if not for his morbid curiosity, then for genuinely tactical reasons to know what exactly was going on. Part of him felt he wasn't going to get any answers because even the Captain seemed out of the loop when giving the briefing, but at least he'd figure out if he knew about as much as the Lieutenant did.

by **The Great Swedish Empire** » Tue Oct 29, 2019 4:18 am

_{Scout Rifleman James Grey}
_{63rd Battalion, 1st Company, 1st Platoon}
_{The front, Portland Campaign}
_{Arroyo Territory}
_10/30/2283

Grey looked out into the ruins, unflinching. It was certainly something. It was like the redwood forests back home, rows upon rows of trees, except in this case it was just grey, shattered houses. Like an unending sea of rubble and ruins. Over the highway to the flank of the front, in the distance, was a large jutting structure on the side of a hill, like a concrete finger erupting out the earth. The sides were worn and cracked. The top of the structure where the lamp had once been was broken and formed a rubble pile around the base. According to his map that was the lighthouse, a strong point of raider forces that overlooked the entire damned valley. It would certainly take quite the expedition to take that strategic area.

Grey had been posted in a broken window on the second floor of the nearby warehouse from which he could see the entire camp and the buildings beyond the twenty lane highway. The highway was littered by rusted, long burnt-out cars. A truck nearly twenty meters long had been overturned and its tank was now long dry. It was somehow haunting to see all those cars. Grey had been thought about the legend of the nuclear fear that had scoured the landmass that was once home to a nation called the united states. He couldn't imagine how horrible it must have been to be in those cars, stuck in traffic that didn't move, panicking, just before fire turned you to dust.

But other than that it was just all rubble. One big pile of rubble that stretched as far as the eye could see. Grey couldn't even think of a reason why the NCR would even want this city. How many would die just so that they could claim this city? Grey didn't want to end up as another number in a report back home about the death toll. No, he much preferred it if he could one day retire back to the sunny homeland. Maybe with medals on the chest, he could once more return to his home. The townspeople would likely have forgotten and if they didn't, at least he had the medals to dissuade them from causing him any more trouble.

Home.

Grey sighed and shook his head.

He had to do it. The idiot that he was had to be rash enough to do that deed. He couldn't just have waited for his chance and gutted that scum of a pig in some ditch where he would have forgotten. No, the drunk ass he was had to be silly enough to challenge the man to a duel in public where everyone would have seen. At the very least that sorry excuse of a man was gone from the world.

Grey looked at the glass around the windowsill, what was left of it anyway. He saw a face in the reflection. The man who looked back at Grey had black shaggy hair, eyes grey as rain, pale skin, and three scars that stretched down the left side of his head, just barely missing his eye. He had gotten the scars from an ill-advised fight with a mutated bear during patrol a few months before. He sighed, he was looking older every time he saw himself; this job was aging him.

After an hour another trooper took up the watch shift. Grey slid down the pile of rubble that had made a passageway to the wrought iron walkway on the second floor. The warehouse was silent, the windows long ago blasted were caked in layers of dust. The shelves that once held whatever this warehouse stored had all collapsed like dominos and had remained that way for a hundred years. Even in this silent warehouse where one could hear their heartbeat and blood flow, there was no noise as Grey made his way through the building. Not, a single, sound.

Grey found his way out of the warehouse through a shattered doorway and strolled through the camp. The soldiers of the 63rd were certainly hard workers judging by the progress they had made in only a few hours. Green tarp tents had been set up in the square just outside the warehouse. Fortifications were being raised. Lines of razor-sharp barbed wire were being set along the highway. Levees and sand-bagged walls had been dug out and raised by the troopers. Trenches and dugouts were slowly being dug but heavy weapon emplacements had already been installed around the perimeter.

Grey ducked into a trench line that was headed towards the huts. Habitually, he kept his head low and as much of his body as possible below the trench. They may not exactly be on the front itself but one could never be too sure. Rumors of elite raider snipers had slowly filtered through as they had advanced deeper and deeper into the ruins. Grey had good eyes and could easily spot anything unusual but he still wasn't going to risk it. He enjoyed being able to breathe too much, thank you very much.

The rest had billeted in huts. Grey thumped on the doorstep and knocked on the doorway just before he entered. The thump had been deliberate, a reassuring advance warning from a man who made no sound if he did not wish to. Grey had learned that startled men often made rash decisions that often ended blue on blue.

A few men were chatting and playing cards in their bunks. Grey decided to join them as his next shift was not for several hours. He made little sound as he made his way to them. He kicked an empty bottle just before he reached them, just to give them a warning to his arrival, often silent as a ghost if he made the effort.

"Hello boys," Grey said as he made his way into their midst, his voice thick with the chipped and grunted accent of the redwoods. "What we playing here?"

by **Guuj Xaat Kil** » Wed Oct 30, 2019 5:10 am

Machine Gunner Marcus Bayern & Assistant Machine Gunner Arthur Carter
63rd Battalion, 1st Company, 1st Platoon
FOB Markham, Portland Campaign
Arroyo Territory

About thirty minutes of nonstop marching and here they were in the orange zone, made obvious by the Staff Sergeant saying just that. And it looks like they relieved... Only a single soldier, a single Corporal MacDougall. Marcus could not help but quickly whisper, "Oh shit, what do they mean by this.". Then he spoke up after being told that he was being relieved by the Staff Sergeant, a simple "I know". Then he continued, and the rabbit hole seemed to grow deeper as the two spoke further, of snipers, sniper bait, glow eyes kids, white horses, and empty position bait. Oh, and that they are called Rampant and had top tier counter battery, among many things. And then there was the fact that there were children fighting. "Not gonna lie, even though we've fought kids as a gang back then," Marcus suddenly talked in a low voice to Arthur, "I don't like the sound of this, not one bit."

Then the man left as he was finally free to go, free to enjoy the deluxe edition PTSD that he undoubtedly got from this campaign. "Bunks are located in alcoves along these trenches on a squad basis." they'd been told, and the pair followed the man's pointed finger to a pair of paths branching towards opposite sides, a quick look down one of those branches showed them what appeared to be small bunkers. "It won't be comfortable and it's unlikely there's showers up here, but there's ways to work around that with cloth and lye.". "Aight, that's to be expected." Arthur told himself and sighed in self resignation, before straightening up, can't stick out like a sore thumb after all.

A pause, aaaaaand... "Dismissed!", there it was. And now they scatter.

Walking into their new home for the rest of the campaign, or life depending on how well said campaign went, the pair quickly settled into cots on opposite sides, Arthur dove on a cot located on the left, miraculously not breaking it, Marcus sat on one on the right. The latter was about to doze off before Frank interrupted his attempt at sleep, "So. You guys believe any of that glowing eyed bullshit?" the radioman began, "I’ve heard some pretty out there stuff but nothing on the scale like this. I mean, how do you suppress your thoughts? And I mean kids and horses too, like what the hell. I get wide open, empty spaces are obvious traps but what’s the deal with the other stuff MacDougall said?”. Marcus was about to say something before Jeff spoke up in response, “No one gives a shit about a glowing eyed lady, boot, and the rest of the stuff is common sense to anyone who’s ever been in the fight before.”.

He simply nodded and prepared to rest before the Corporal interrupted that by starting up a game of Texas hold em'. And then James walked in, making his presence known by kicking a bottle down, "Hello boys, what we playing here?".

"Texas hold em', fifty cap buy in, no wild cards, 5 caps opener" Arthur replied, "And feel free to dive in, I am for sure.". Arthur then dropped the needed five caps into the pile and readied his cards. "Aight fellas, this gon' be good.".

by **Vacif** » Wed Oct 30, 2019 4:56 pm

_{Private Franklin Lang}
_{63rd Battalion, 1st Company, 1st Platoon}
_{FOB Markham, Portland Campaign}
_{Arroyo Territory}
_{10/30/2283 - 7:10 AM AST}

“No one gives a shit about a glowing eyed lady, boot, and the rest of the stuff is common sense to anyone who’s ever been in the fight before.”

”Well fuck me I guess.” breathed Franklin, as he sat up from his cot. Frank held his tongue for the rest of his thoughts. Snark and being a know-it-all wouldn’t get him any favours. Instead he sat on the edge of his bed and looked at the gathering of people from first squad and the guy from second. He wasn’t exactly sure if the Corporal was allowed to order him to gamble, but he’d rather not get blasted this early into the campaign. If he lost five bucks, so be it. “Meyers, Doe, I’m not getting mugged alone, get in here.”

As he waited for everyone to get settled, he wasn’t going to just let what Corporal MacDougall slide. He wasn’t going to voice these concerns but he’d keep the information to heart. Franklin was sure that the man wasn’t the last man in his squad, but he must have stayed behind to give them those tips for a reason. Perhaps he wasn’t of the most sound mind due to what he’d seen but those superstitions were likely well developed for a reason. If the vets of this front were telling him so, he wasn’t about to learn what they learned the hard way. MacDougall did not look like he was in the state of mind to make jokes.

Now thinking about it, Franklin took out his own battalion playing cards and took out the Queen of Spades. A female silhouette with a white question mark occupied the portrait space. ”Mosaic, suspected head of PRC PsyOps.” Franklin mumbled as he read to himself. “Guess they’re doing their jobs right.” For their sakes he really hoped they were just normal mind games and not something worse.

by **Anowa** » Wed Oct 30, 2019 5:37 pm

_{PV2. William Doe}
_{63rd Battalion, 1st Company, 1st Platoon}
_{The Front, Portland Campaign}
_{Arroyo Territory}
_{10/30/2283 - 7:53 AM AST}

Vacif wrote:
_{Private Franklin Lang}
“Meyers, Doe, I’m not getting mugged alone, get in here.”

Doe approached, setting 50 caps on the makeshift table. As he did, he spoke up, "Deathclaws were once only seen as a result of imagination and mania." the voice was deep, a baritone fitting for a man who seemed as well built as he was. Burnt orange skin indicated a native ethnicity, while hair was bound into either dreads or braids, what seemed to be beads or intentional knots place here and there, a particularly perceptive individual would likely notice a pattern, as opposed to suspected randomness. "But everything has an inkling of truth. Best not to disregard superstition, the locals have been around here longer than us."

Meyers approached as well. Young, but notably weathered in a way reminiscent of New Reno blowouts, caught in a drug habit they never kicked. Despite this, he was a well kept man with a crucifix necklace hung around his neck, and a buzzcut of what one could see as black hair, and permastubble. Brilliant green eyes shone with a story of years long past. "Yeah, there was a kid out near Vegas, sat under a bridge at a trading outpost. He'd give a fortune if you paid him, I figured, 'why not' just 40 caps. Told me some diatribe about my soul giving out and missing a demon of noble fury or some shit. I laughed it off and headed back to my stomping grounds... Two weeks later I fucking wake up after ODing on Med-X and fucking everyone else was fucking dead, naked, missing all their shit, and everything in the vault that wasn't nailed down was fucking gone." a pause as he set down 50 caps, "Got the fuck out of Vegas after that. But what do I know, a lot of people wanted the Fiends dead."

_{Staff Sergeant Arch Dornan II}
_{63rd Battalion, 1st Company, 1st Platoon}
_{FOB Markham, Portland Campaign}
_{Arroyo Territory}
_{10/30/2283 - 7:46 AM AST}

Empire of Donner land wrote:As Dornan chuckled, Bucksly made himself known. "Staff Sergeant, Lieutenant, Sir. Sgt. Bucksly of 2nd Squad, 'case you forgot. I couldn't help but ask, and I've heard of and seen a bunch of weird shit in the Mojave, but what's up with this talk of glowing-eyed Children an-and mind-reading women? Are the guys in the line huffing and dealing something I should know of?" Bucksly asked.

Dornan sighed, "Wasteland's an odd fucking place kid. Seen ants that breath fire, Ghouls with plants growing out of them, people halfway between mutant and human. General rule of thumb, take it with salt. Trust the people before you that they're warning you of something, don't trust them not to be potentially traumatized."

Hafferton spoke up, "The paradox of battle fatigue. Trust them when they give warning, but distrust them for having that warning be influenced by the trauma that caused them to warn you of it. The logical fallacies of warfare are long and unending, personal biases add on to that. For instance, a few of the people back home in Arroyo seem pretty convinced that our town's founder killed some monstrosity in LA. Not too sure about that, but people know a nuke went off there around a 120 years ago, so... Keep the advice in mind sergeant, just don't rely on having to need it."

Dornan nodded, "Well put." the NCO turned to Bucksly, "You should probably regroup with your squad. See how they're working in to their abode."

by **Arengin Union** » Thu Oct 31, 2019 12:13 am

Medic Abel Ignacio Reinosa Parra & Rifleman John Miller (Rick Ferrier)
63rd Battalion, 1st Company, 1st Platoon
The Front
10/30/2283

"Bien arreglado como se debe!" Abel spoke to himself as he was done setting everything up within his space, rifle strapped underneath the bedding, rucksack set on the underneath as well. The combat medic sat down on his bedroll, stretching his muscles as he then removed one of his boots. His feet had been killing him for a while now, he wore two socks on his foot due to both of them having holes in them but when put on together they covered each's quite nicely and they were warm enough to ignore the utter cold within the bunker. The Latino listened from afar to the conversation within the game of Texas hold em, the dread haired man expressed a more serious taking to the many rumors of glowing eyed children and horses.

"Deathclaws were once only seen as a result of imagination and mania."

Abel nodded in agreement, he remembered back when he was a kid and hearing the tales of giant sized lizards from hell that would slaughter entire towns. All children would be amazed at the stories from travelers and traders about suck tales.

"But everything has an inkling of truth. Best not to disregard superstition, the locals have been around here longer than us."

"You know I once heard tales back at the Hub about Deathclaws that could talk!" Abel said with a tone of amusement, "You imagine that? As if they weren't frightening enough they give you a fucking monologue while they cut open your belly... Back when I ran a trading shop I once got a guy who wanted to sell me an actual Deathclaw Gauntlet, said it belonged to some guy back in the so fabled Capitol Wasteland. The story went that this guy goes to a place called 'The Pit' and battles in some gladiator arena like those that the Legion would use on their prisoners, he kills each fighter including one named John Beer I think? Strange name but yeah he gets the Gauntlet and then some guy named Arthur rewarded him with fame and glory, or I think that he led some slave revolt? I really don't remember but it was a crazy story."

Abel's rambling was more annoying than interesting to Rick as he inspected his cards, with care. King of spades... and a four of spades, how about that... Rick thought to himself as he bit the wooden toothpick on his mouth. He had set 10 caps on the pot and had some 25 left to spare.

"Yeah, there was a kid out near Vegas, sat under a bridge at a trading outpost. He'd give a fortune if you paid him, I figured, 'why not' just 40 caps. Told me some diatribe about my soul giving out and missing a demon of noble fury or some shit. I laughed it off and headed back to my stomping grounds... Two weeks later I fucking wake up after ODing on Med-X and fucking everyone else was fucking dead, naked, missing all their shit, and everything in the vault that wasn't nailed down was fucking gone." a pause as he set down 50 caps, "Got the fuck out of Vegas after that. But what do I know, a lot of people wanted the Fiends dead."

Abel let out an audible, "wow" before then speaking, "There was this guy back at the Hub who fell on a bath filled with some virus shit okay. So this guy becomes a green ghouls, nothing special aight, but then guess what!" Abel left only a few seconds before answering, "He starts growing a tree on his head!"

Wow, what a fucking shocker... A bush on a ghouls head, someone call the press! Rick thought to himself with obvious sarcasm.

"And so it's said that this guy, Harold was his name, roamed the wasteland for years on end. Some trader caravans that came from Texas say they same him there and the same guy with the Deathclaw glove who tells me that there was tales of a ghoul with like a huge ass tree on his head that is like several meters tall at this point. No one knows what happened to him if I'm honest, but shit's crazy..." Abel finished with a bewildered smile on his face, the wasteland held so many stories that he had heard from his years at the Hub.

"Are you done then?" Rick suddenly spoke up, with an aggressive tone as he looked right at Parra. "Or you got any stupid stories to tell?"

Abel was silent a few moments, he shrugged, "Hey man we're just trying to lighten up the mood..."

"We're in the middle of a fucking war fighting for who knows what, with a savant fuck and a hardass as out mighty leaders in the battlefield. Now if you don't mind, either of you two we're trying to play a game here..." Rick went back to his cards with a stern face.

Abel simply chuckled at he looked over to the others with an expression mixed with surprise and complete disbelief.

by **Anowa** » Wed Nov 06, 2019 1:03 am

_{Private William Doe}
_{63rd Battalion, 1st Company, 1st Platoon}
_{FOB Markham, Portland Campaign}
_{Arroyo Territory}
_{10/31/2283 - 1:08 AM AST}

Lights out was called nearly 4 hours ago. The boys had finished their game, As expected, O'Connor won, The man was as smart as he was lucky. Doe had a hard time remembering anyone with as stony a face when he was in the Legion. Regardless, he was on the first firewatch, keeping an eye out from outside their little hovel, yelling out for any trouble to alert his squad, or really anyone else in the trench.

Doe's head swiveled as he heard a whisper in the wind. He knew wind, he knew the patterns it could make. Wind rushing through a trench didn't make a noise like that a narrow rock formation, maybe, but not a trench. Doe stood from his position leaning against the wall, rifle in his hands. he raised it a bit, not able to really find his voice to call for help. He walked past the entrance to the bunker and towards where everything opened up into the concourse. He didn't see what he expected, instead seeing a massive pit, back and as dark as could be going for... forever, as far as he could see.

He felt a rough shove from behind and started falling. Picking up speed, falling for what felt like hours, days even, before landing with a deceptive softness one would expect more from sinking in water than falling down a massive shaft.

Standing up he looked around, in a trench much like the one he was in moments ago, but it was daytime as far as he could tell. A thick fog filling every nook and crannie, making it impossible to see further than a few yards. More whispers in the wind. Doe could recognize it was a dream at this point, but rather than become a lucid event he could shape, or simply waking up... he felt more anxious. As if eyes were pressing down further on him, watching him with further scrutiny. He walked along the trenchline further before it started becoming... familiar. It was the support line, where he Meyers went to round up lavatory supplies. Something clicked in Doe's mind, and he immediately started brute forcing his mind to think of other things closing his eyes, thinking of days long past, his desertion of the Legion, crossing the Colorado, surrendering to Rangers, being sent to prison for a time being.

Then he heard a chainsaw revving.

He opened his eyes, and saw that his suspicions had been proven right. A woman, black hair, heavily scarred, wearing clothing that only a raider would be caught dead wearing, and a massive chainsaw within her grip. Her eyes were a sickly red, irises glowing an ungodly sheen of radiation green. She was already making a swing, face devoid of any emotion.

And then Doe woke up. There was an empty click from Doe's rifle as he regained an awareness of his surroundings. Looking down, he noticed the magazine of his rifle was gone and the bolt locked open. His finger had looped around and depressed the trigger.

A voice spoke, "Doe, you good man?"

Looking up from his seated position, Doe saw Meyers, a concerned look on his face, a single magazine and loose round in hand. Doe, really felt lucky it was Meyers, and not someone else in the squad, or Dornan. Doe simply nodded, "Yes... I think I know what MacDougall meant."

Meyers offered the ammo back to Doe, as the tribal man stood, "About?"

"The dreams of the glowing eyes."

Meyers chuckled a bit, "Yeah, sure." his smile was slowly replace with a look of shock, "Wait, you're not fucking kidding?"

Doe shook his head.

"Fuck." a pause, "Uhh, you should hit the sack, just, try not to tell anyone, don't need people thinking we're fucking crazy."

Doe simply nodded, entering the bunker, moving to his bunk. He didn't bother taking off his LBV, he could deal with the discomfort in the morning.

_{Staff Sergeant Arch Dornan II}
_{63rd Battalion, 1st Company, 1st Platoon}
_{FOB Markham, Portland Campaign}
_{Arroyo Territory}
_{11/01/2283 - 11:22 AM AST}

Orders had just come down the grapevine, the 9th Offensive of Hamburger Hill had been authorized, and soon enough the 63rd Battalion would be faced with conquering the hill which already had multiple company's worth of bodies stack along it.

But not for their platoon. Their platoon's job was going to be that much harder. Pretty much everyone was mulling about the concourse after being woken up by the horns to the rear. 1st Platoon was present, sans Hafferton, who was currently discussing a more detailed list of what was happening with the rest of the offensive, to paint a better picture of how things had to be handled. But Arch? He had to break the news. "Alright everyone quiet the fuck down, this is actually important this time!"

"I know you lot come from different backgrounds, in our platoon alone, we have a Supermutant, two ghouls, a former Legion slave, and a Fiend. Along with all manner of NCR citizens from all walks of life, but we're all Californians. Back home, a few of you may face discrimination, for who you are, or by what name you call God. But for us, every single man and woman in this very trench, that no longer matters. At 1600 Hours today, " he turned and pointed at the dreaded Lighthouse, "We will be moving on that structure." silence filled the air. "In these coming hours, you will watch the back of the person next to you, as they will do the very same in return. You will forget to see them as anything more than a brother or sister in arms."

"Know that we are going into battle against an enemy, that has repelled our forces from climbing that hill eight previous times. Regardless of what you call them, or how legitimate of a government you believe they are. That does not change the fact that they are as determined to stay rooted as our redwoods back home." a pause from the man, "I cannot make the promise that all of you will make it out of this battle alive. But know, that regardless of who falls, and who makes it... It has been my honor to serve alongside every single one of you. make your peace troopers. Write to your loved ones. I regret to say this may be your last chance."

The NCO looked over his troopers, and with a slight choke he called out, "Dismissed."

by **Empire of Donner land** » Thu Nov 07, 2019 10:53 pm

_{Sergeant Carter "Buck" Bucksly}
_{63rd Battalion, 1st Company, 1st Platoon}
_{FOB Markham, Portland Campaign}
_{Arroyo Territory}
_{11/01/2283 - 11:22 AM AST}

Bucksly scoffed. He had already thrown away that things would be easy long ago upon seeing the massive raider monument that was the Lighthouse and hearing of the status of the campaign so far from the various talk around the Trench. Through binoculars, he could already see that many of them wouldn't even make it back to the trench if the attack failed. What did lie between them and that concrete gem that the commanding officers wanted so badly? Ruins, craters and bodies, no hardcover. They would see the attack coming before shots were even hitting the Lighthouse. What good was a speech if none of them would be alive later to remember it. And if Dornan really knew who Sergeant Carter Bucksly was, Bucksly felt he would probably be just fine leaving Carter in the dirt to writhe.

Once again he was in a rough spot, like Bitter Springs, the Dam and now this. Truly he was sick of it, but he would survive like all the other times. Hopefully, but he wasn't going to do it all himself. Bucksly looked around to find O'Connor and went after him after the formation was dismissed, Dornan lead 1st Squad, but Corporal O'Connor was essentially the Second in Command, and Dornan would be busy for much of the assault hand holding the Lieutenant. "Corporal O'Connor! Wait up!" Bucksly shouted, mimicking his best 'I'm a Sergeant, listen to my authority" voice. Bucksly tapped his shoulder with his hand and walking alongside him, facing him as they navigated the trench.

"I know I just got to this place a week ago and you probably don't know me but listen, alright?" Bucksly asked, gesturing with his hands as he looked at and away from O'Connor to see where he was going. "None of us are gonna make it out if we don't coordinate the assault on the Lighthouse and just go waltzing up to it. There isn't any cover to bound to on the way up to that Giant and my explosives are the only thing that can make a hole in that to walk in through, so Squad Two'll be behind yours, I need your squad to cover mine when we get to the foot of the Lighthouse." Bucksly explained as he took off his backpack to retrieve a high explosive charge. What he pulled out was exactly that, a large rectangular block covered in some kind of black plastic material reading the words "Charge Demolition M112" in yellow lettering.

"Then I'll use these, C4 blocks. I've got three of them and wiring them together to detonate at once shouldn't take too long. We get these up to their walls, we get in, we win. I just need time and, y' know, not get shot. That's the game plan, but getting there is the hard part, we just need cover fire," Bucksly finished, placing the charge back in his backpack and throwing the backpack back on. "I don't know if it'll work, but really, it's the only way I see us being able to survive but think about it, we might just get a medal or a citation or whatever it is they hand out alongside living," Bucksly joked, he probably wouldn't get anything, if anything Dornan might, but given that they really haven't gotten any progress in dislodging that mess of a concrete structure, they might just give 1st Platoon a pat on the back if anything. As for Bucksly, the only reward he wanted was getting to live for another day.

"As far as I can tell, no one has a better idea other than just running at the fucking thing and hoping for the best, so, what do you say?" Bucksly asked.

by **Solisian Union** » Fri Nov 08, 2019 7:27 pm

Bella, Corporal, Rifleman

She always kept her mouth shut. And for good reason; after getting out of the Mojave, whatever words came out of her mouth told everyone around her that she wasn't the same sweet Latina she was when her big sister was around. Without her, it seemed that the Arroyo girl couldn't keep a handle on her lips...until she finally tasted discipline at the hands of her family.

The good and the bad results of that combined so that it contributed to her eventual motivation and decision to head on back to the army. And in the army, she found it easy to speak only when she was spoken to. Yes sir, this. No sir, that. It was easy, and it was a steady reminder to keep her lips closed, to keep away from creating any shit that would end with her in a body bag back home or in a ditch full of mud, blood, water, and maggots. Maggots.

She wondered how it would be like to watch yourself from heaven as your body decayed rapidly in any battlefield that was constantly getting worse and worse. And she liked to think about how it would feel like to have hungry little maggots crawling all over your corpse, watching some of them invade through your nostrils or your eyeholes or your ears or your mouth or any other places in your body that normally wouldn't lead to turning you into food for life that depends on death.

Bella found it easy to roll through what the Captain said and what the Staff Sergeant said and what everyone else said. She didn't want to think about what they said too much; overthinking orders and battle chat was what brought you to trouble. Better to act as a dumb grunt than to call attention to yourself by being a smartass.

In the words of her mother: chingona. And just like what her mother and her mother's mother and her mother's mother's mother said over and over again, that means two things: you're smart, and you're intimidating.

Well, Bella told herself, I'm not that intimidating. Maybe.
Fortunately, she was drawn away from her thoughts and her memories as they were given orders to get the hell out of Dodge and hoof it over to the front. Finally. Something to do.

And once they got there, after a hard march, the first thing that came to her mind was to search for her squad and get some sleep. But first, she had to look for her squad leader. She wouldn't dare to mess with them through bypassing them just for a few useless minutes of darkness on something people know wasn't a real bed. So, at once, she spent herself, and her time awake, looking for her superior. But seeing the rest of the boys, especially that guy she thought was called Franklin, heading into one of the bunkers, well, she decided to do what came naturally.

"Fuck it."

She pulled on her pack and hoofed it over the ground with her head down until she made it inside the rightmost alcove, grabbing the cot somewhere around the middle of things. The Arroyo girl kept every bit of her mouth shut as she dropped everything she had and finally rolled into her cot, ignoring the fact that it was uncomfortable as sleeping on a rotten log. Don't say a word. It's natural. It's just like the fucking Mojave.

And the maggots.

The Arroyo girl didn't mind the rest of the guys. She didn't mind the boys and the rest of the platoon playing. That was natural. It really was just like the Mojave. She only hoped though, in some corner of her mind, that it wouldn't end with all of them and her in a ditch, covered by maggots, and incoming buzzing flies, eager to lay their disgusting eggs on their broken bodies, bloating organs, and rotting fluids.

Maggots. And then she fell into darkness, soundly sleeping before lights out.

Then she awoke, and she went through the motions, and she gave her ears to what the good Staff Sergeant had to say, and once he was done, she tasted bile reaching up from her stomach. She didn't like it, but she knew that it was an order that must be met. And she feared for once that she'd die.

But the Arroyo girl wasn't easy to bend over and force towards any kind of vomiting. And she wasn't keen on either writing back home nor on doing anything like griping about the whole thing. The Arroyo girl just wanted to get it over with. And it would be useless, despite her wish, to make friends here. She probably was right. As she bowed her head silently, she realized that they'd all probably get turned to literal human stew lying somewhere beneath the radiated grounds of the former United States.

An ugly lullaby played behind her ears, and only Sergeant Bucksly's idea gave her a tiny shred of hope. And just like before, she kept her mouth shut. For now.

by **Tayner** » Mon Nov 11, 2019 9:58 pm

Corporal Jeff "Servius" O'Connor
63rd Battalion, 1st Company, 1st Platoon
The Front
10/30/2283

The game was easy, Jeff kept pulling the right cards, and kept his face stone. It was easy seeing through his opponents, people new to fighting, or at least to being in organized fighting. Their nerves made it easy for them to show the strength of their hand without even knowing. His wallet was lined with some extra cash, and his bag of caps was fuller. He placed both in the bottom of his ruck, safe and secure, before hitting the cot. He slept comfortably, despite the sleeping conditions, although his dreams would be less than comfortable.

It was the same dream as always, whenever he knew trouble was coming, whenever he knew tomorrow wasn't guaranteed. His eyes opened, although he wasn't in the bunker he fell asleep in, and he wasn't in his cot. He was tied to a cross, on a cliff edge in Nevada. His skin was burned red, he was bleeding from wounds he'd sustained, he was dehydrated, hungry, and in pain. Columns of smoke and the sounds of beating drums could be heard over the horizon.

"Jeff" A feminine voice called from behind him.

"Mom?" He replied, recognizing the voice instinctively. He hadn't seen her since they'd been separated many years ago when they were captured. "Y-you're alive? I thought-"

"Don't worry sunshine, I'm here." She spoke, caring.

"I- I... this isn't real."

"No, it isn't." She said, walking around the front of him, looking at him with kind eyes. "You never ended up on this cross." She said, turning around and looking at the sunset on the edge of the horizon. "You kept living, you escaped, you made a life, free." She continued.

"Then why am I here?" He asked.

"You tell me, sunshine." His mother asked, as if she knew the answer.

"I- I don't know." He said, not knowing why he kept being brought back to this place, know knowing what it meant. "I don't-"

"You'll learn some day, Jeff. Until then, just know that I love you, sunshine." She said, before walking away, behind him and out of his sight.

"M-mom, don't leave..." He pleaded, but it was no use, she was gone, and the sun had soon set. He wept, but shed no tears, his body having no water to spare.

Corporal Jeff "Servius" O'Connor
63rd Battalion, 1st Company, 1st Platoon
The Front
11/01/2283

So, it was death then. They would be the ninth wave on the Hill, the tenth was no doubt being mobilized to fill their section of the trench. As soon as the news was broke, he lit a cigarette. By the time Bucksly started speaking to him, he had lit his second.

"As far as I can tell, no one has a better idea other than just running at the fucking thing and hoping for the best, so, what do you say?" He finished speaking.

"Well," Jeff started. "It the closest thing I've heard that resembled a functional plan so far. Unless Dornan has something, that'll do." He said, before turning around to holler to the members of his squad before they dispersed too far. "First squad, on me, and hurry the fuck up, I don't have all day to be waiting on your fat asses." He spoke, as if he were the sergeant all along. Once the squad had grouped around him, he spoke evenly.

"Now, there's one direction on that hill, and it's up. We've got a job to do, and we've got a plan. We just need to get our man, Sergeant Bucksley to the enemy perimeter. He's got the explosives to punch through, we just need to get him there." He spoke. "Use whatever cover that you can find to move forward, but don't fucking stop. If the trooper beside you gets shot, don't fucking stop. If I get shot, don't fucking stop. No heroics, heroics won't save the tenth wave. Us punching through and taking that hill will. Now, if I have it my way, I'll be the first motherfucker over the trench, you sandbaggers and goldbrickers better not fucking leave me out to dry. If the're is anything the army can do, it's take a fucking hill. Let's make sure we're fucking ready, yeah? Alright, that's all I got, get back to it." He said, finishing his speech, and dismissing those of first squad who bothered to listen to him.

Once they had dispersed, he lit his third cigarette before turning to look at the lighthouse. He might as well smoke them while he could. "Fuck." He muttered as he took in the sight before turning back to get his shit together. This would be one of the longest days of his life, unless he got his head taken off by a go-lucky raider with a rifle.

by **The Great Swedish Empire** » Sun Nov 17, 2019 6:04 am

_{Scout Rifleman James Grey and Sergeant Carter "Buck" Bucksly}
_{63rd Battalion, 1st Company, 1st Platoon}
_{The front, Portland Campaign}
_{Arroyo Territory}
_10/30/2283

He will die here. He will die in this city. This sorry excuse for a city. Grey decided as he heard the briefing. He would die here. Probably cut down in the suicide charge or impaled at the end of a bayonet.

Strangely enough, he didn't care. The impending specter of doom seemed like it was just a shadow. And all shadows eventually pass. He would have preferred to have come back to the redwood forest in glory. Maybe settle down back with his mother. Take up his father's job for good this time. Maybe have a peaceful, uneventful life. But Grey had known there was little chance he would return the moment he had left those redwood forests. It had been the last time since he had gazed upon their soft red bark, sniffed in the pungent smell that hung around them like a perfume, and heard the rare but satisfying crack of the branches when he stepped upon them.

He really would have preferred to go back home.

As the briefing ended, Grey looked at the shuffling masses of a soldier preparing for what they thought would be their deaths. They thought they would be walking to their graves. What can men do against near-certain death?

It was like the townspeople all over again, knowing that thousands of raiders were about to fall upon their small peaceful town. He could remember their face now. The faces that were full of fear. He could hear the roar of the cobbled-together raider craft from which flamers swept the town, immolating dozens still in their home. A physical memory of the tension and fatigue ran down his spine, the superhuman effort that they had held the pass against all odds. He could see Harkin leading a charge right into the scrum of the raiders, cutting his way through the horde until he reached their mortars and took them with him in a fiery explosion. He saw Jiki driving a wedge of lead and grenade bursts through the ranks. He saw Brostin at the heavy machine gun cutting down a hundred of their number on main street, screaming at the top of his lines as scything lines of tracer fire cut through the raiders like wheat. He heard Ike telling them to fall back, taking six of the foe with his bayonet when his last ammo-clip ran dry and a rocket blew him apart. He saw Urden desperately try to save the life of his brother, only to have him dying while on a makeshift surgeon table, with Urden's hand still inside him.

He could still feel the rifle shake in his hand, the head in the crosshairs, the final exhale, pulling the trigger tighter, tighter, and tighter until he felt the rifle kick back in his shoulder. He saw the raider warlord fall on his knees, his head remaining attached to his head only by a sliver of skin.

It had seemed impossible to win back then but they were wrong. Who's not to say they wouldn't get it wrong again?

Well, Grey certainly wasn't going to wait around and die. They would need to know the fire points, the strongholds, the hidden traps, the bunkers, and any cover they could possibly use.

He knew what to do. Grey walked out of the tent and into the trenches. He found Sergeant Buck in the trench.

"Sir," He said suddenly, as if from nowhere. "I think that we might stand a better chance of surviving the next operation if I can go forward and scout the enemy positions. We would be able to know their fortifications and strengths before the offensive begins."

Buckley turned, letting the Corporal go his own way and inform his team. He nodded, "Don't go too far, take a look and head back before the attack starts. Need all the rifles."

"Shouldn't take too long." Grey smiled. "They won't even know I'm there."

"Alright. Good Hunting."

by **Vacif** » Thu Nov 21, 2019 8:52 am

_{Private Franklin Lang}
_{63rd Battalion, 1st Company, 1st Platoon}
_{FOB Markham, Portland Campaign}
_{Arroyo Territory}
_{11/01/2283 - 11:22 AM AST}

‘1600 hours’ Frank thought to himself. He checked his watch. ‘Well shit, that’s a good four and a half hours away. Sun sets at around 1700 hours.’ He wasn’t sure what he was feeling right now. It wasn’t defeat, anxiety, or denial. But it came with being told he probably had so many hours left, not 100% but more than likely. It was similar to the previous day when he tried making conversation. “Well fuck me I guess.” He muttered. Frank didn’t know much about The Hill but he could infer enough from what he did know.

Scratching the back of his head, he turned on his heel when they were dismissed. Not much could be done but he wasn’t going to go over the top without some kind of concealment. The area around the hill was pockmarked with craters and destroyed buildings. Slippery rubble, loose earth, and half decent cover. He was going to the quartermasters to requisition some smoke grenades. Nothing fancy but he was going to do it sooner rather than later.

As he walked towards the QM’s tent, he thought to himself what he was doing here. He joined because it was better than wasting away in a cell, to find a reason to live, to show he wanted to live again. Now here he was doing it. Mission accomplished but this really wasn’t the best way to go about it. In the cell he wanted nothing more than to throw his life away and give up, and now he was fighting for his supposedly worthless life.

Frank ducked into the supply shack where the QM was and curtly stated his business. He was sure that with the orders the company was given, reqs were going to be coming in fast, and the QM was going to be one busy trooper. The Quartermaster handed Frank some papers to fill out and the proper form for the smoke grenades before turning back to tend to his business. Frank took a seat, clicked the pen he was given and began to fill out the forms. After that, Frank was now the holder of several smoke grenades. After a brief thanks, Frank made his way back towards the others.

He returned in time to hear what their plan was. It wasn’t much, but simple plans were hard to fuck up, and they weren’t doing something that requires incredible finesse. He however would wait on what the Staff Sergeant and the LT would have to say. Standing there, it donned in him that he’d never ever really been at risk of dying before. He lived a good life, away from danger, hell he’d never even been in a verbal fight, let alone a fist fight. And here he was now.

Frank marched back to his cot and sat down. He opened his journal and began to write. He didn’t know who would read it or why, if ever, but if he was going to die today he didn’t want to live with anything still on his chest. If he survived, then he could just burn the page. He had no next of kin, and his friends were long gone, either due to barons buying up their land or when Frank decided to isolate himself. He was sure maybe someone still considered him a friend but he didn’t have a way to reach them.

So he wrote to his wife.

Ursula

I don’t know why I’ve chosen the probably the worst way to find a will to live but I have, and it worked. I don’t want to die, but I still don’t know what to live for. If I survive my contract, do I retire from the army and open up a soup kitchen in Shady Sands? Start up a radio shack in the frontier? I don’t know. And I know you’ll never read this but I need to do this because you’re what I’ve been avoiding this entire time. Everyday I carry something that connects me to you, our rings for example, but I can’t bring myself to say your name or even think about you. I can’t seem to let go or accept the grief so I’m stuck here on the emotional equivalent of where I sit in reality. Quite apt actually. Now that I think about it I’ve been a fool. I’ve been clouded by my emotions and threw so many opportunities and connections away. I still have people in this world that care for me but I don’t even know if they’re still alive. They don’t know if I’m still alive.

I’m writing to say that I’m sorry I couldn’t spend more time with you, that we couldn’t have the family we wished for. Honestly I should have gone for the adoption route after the first ~~time~~ miscarriage. It was a miscarriage and I have to address it. I can’t run from it. I should have just been happy. And I’m sorry. I’m not sure if there’s an afterlife or some kind of reincarnation but I hope you can forgive me and love me in the next life.

Love,

Frank

The paper was marred with erase marks and smudges as he tried to compose the letter. Frank wasn’t exactly good at writing these things. Feelings weren’t his forte. It was short, and he felt like he was missing something, like there was more to say but at the moment he was emotionally drained from the writing. It took a lot of time to write the message, barely two-thirds a page. He slumped back against the wall of the bunker and breathed. He hands shook as it took a lot to face at least some of his inner thoughts. Maybe keeping it short was a way to avoid facing the full truth? Or maybe it was just because it was a difficult matter for him to write about and that he’d need time to ease into his feelings.

“Well, not like that matters now.” He huffed. Those feelings could only be fixed if he survived the next day. He felt like there were still things bottled up inside but he was ready to go. Frank tucked away the journal, picked up his pack and walked back outside. The com checks and briefing from the Lieutenant would come later, they still had about four hours. He wasn’t going to spend the last few hours outside of combat being miserable. He’d been doing that for far too long now.

Frank slapped himself, quite hard at that. “Fuck are you talking about? Dying? Fuck that, Mac made it out, and you will too you morose bastard!” He growled to himself. It wasn’t impossible. He was suddenly invigorated with a new energy. None of that sullen person remained as he strode back to the others. He began to strike up conversation with the men of first platoon, cracking jokes as if there current situation wasn’t dire. As he did this he grabbed one of the men from third squad for a game of chess. They used all manner of miscellaneous objects for pieces. 9mm shells for Pawns, .308 for Knights, 5.56 for Rooks, a .50 for the King, a .45-70 for the Queen and 12 gauge for Bishops. Not the most intense of games like poker but it got their minds off of the fight. Frank grinned as he played, and those around him felt a little better about their day.

Fallout: New Frontier (IC|Fallout|DEAD)

Fallout: New Frontier (IC|Fallout|DEAD)

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