August Newman
May 2nd, 2013, 07:08:57 PM
Somewhere above the Mojave
He could not remember or imagine a more terrifying place, and for someone who had endured the life that August Newman had lived, that was really saying something. Legion slave camps, explosion-rocked battlefields, and deathclaw-infested wastelands had nothing on the terror potential of a flying contraption that had spent three hundred years rusting at the bottom of a lake before being hammered back together by people best known for their ability to make things explode. The flying part didn't alarm him; he just didn't have all that much confidence that this thing would stay in one piece.
The Boomers on the other hand were ecstatic, and that was equally unsettling. The tribe disgourged from Vault 34 had spent the last fifty years being howitzer levels of isolationist, and until a few days ago August hadn't so much as met one. Now he was stuck in a steel tube with nearly a dozen, all of whom were consumed with a weird staring unto the face of God kind of joy and contentment. Rumour had it that taking to the skies was some kind of almost religious experience; and pretty much the only thing that would convince them to venture out from Nellis.
August chose not to dwell too much. Working with Boomers was a pretty strange state of affairs, but these were strange times, and anyone willing to pitch in with handing the Legion's asses to them had earned the benefit of the doubt as far as the Captain was concerned. Besides, this whole expedition was under orders from the brass, so to hell with what he thought.
And of course, flying sure as hell beat hoofing it up the I-95. Highly probable death in the air was marginally preferable to almost certain death on the ground.
Their destination was an old civilian airstrip outside of Tonopah. The brass had sent troops from the local garrison to clear most of the crap off the old runway, and it was supposedly safe enough for them to make it back to the ground intact. The reason for their trip was somewhat complicated, riddled with suppositions, unspoken details, and suspected facts that August didn't have a fancy enough title to be clued in on. The long and the short of it was that the Boomers had unearthed records at Nellis that spoke of all manner of shiny advanced flying machines for them to play with, and had asked the NCR to scope things out for them. After their help at Hoover Dam the NCR was inclined to agree, even if that did involve sending men into part of the Mojave where pretty much everyone feared to tread.
No one was really sure why people were afraid to cross the barriers and wander that part of the wastes: they just knew deep in their bones that doing so meant death. That didn't stop people guessing, of course. Ghouls, mutants, monsters, robots, aliens, demons, vengeful spirits - pretty much everything had been suggested as the terror that stalked those forbidden lands.
August wasn't phased. He'd yet to meet anything in the wastelands that wouldn't die if you put enough bullets in it.
His attention was caught by the click and screech of the cockpit door opening, barely audible over the cacophonous roar of the plane's engines. A Boomer shuffled through, no doubt the unfortunate recipient of the short straw, condemned to go talk to the outsiders. "Ten minutes out," they relayed with a grunt. August's response was a silent nod.
Only ten more minutes, his mind echoed, as the plane offered an entirely unreassuring series of rattles and clunks. Thank fuck for that.
He could not remember or imagine a more terrifying place, and for someone who had endured the life that August Newman had lived, that was really saying something. Legion slave camps, explosion-rocked battlefields, and deathclaw-infested wastelands had nothing on the terror potential of a flying contraption that had spent three hundred years rusting at the bottom of a lake before being hammered back together by people best known for their ability to make things explode. The flying part didn't alarm him; he just didn't have all that much confidence that this thing would stay in one piece.
The Boomers on the other hand were ecstatic, and that was equally unsettling. The tribe disgourged from Vault 34 had spent the last fifty years being howitzer levels of isolationist, and until a few days ago August hadn't so much as met one. Now he was stuck in a steel tube with nearly a dozen, all of whom were consumed with a weird staring unto the face of God kind of joy and contentment. Rumour had it that taking to the skies was some kind of almost religious experience; and pretty much the only thing that would convince them to venture out from Nellis.
August chose not to dwell too much. Working with Boomers was a pretty strange state of affairs, but these were strange times, and anyone willing to pitch in with handing the Legion's asses to them had earned the benefit of the doubt as far as the Captain was concerned. Besides, this whole expedition was under orders from the brass, so to hell with what he thought.
And of course, flying sure as hell beat hoofing it up the I-95. Highly probable death in the air was marginally preferable to almost certain death on the ground.
Their destination was an old civilian airstrip outside of Tonopah. The brass had sent troops from the local garrison to clear most of the crap off the old runway, and it was supposedly safe enough for them to make it back to the ground intact. The reason for their trip was somewhat complicated, riddled with suppositions, unspoken details, and suspected facts that August didn't have a fancy enough title to be clued in on. The long and the short of it was that the Boomers had unearthed records at Nellis that spoke of all manner of shiny advanced flying machines for them to play with, and had asked the NCR to scope things out for them. After their help at Hoover Dam the NCR was inclined to agree, even if that did involve sending men into part of the Mojave where pretty much everyone feared to tread.
No one was really sure why people were afraid to cross the barriers and wander that part of the wastes: they just knew deep in their bones that doing so meant death. That didn't stop people guessing, of course. Ghouls, mutants, monsters, robots, aliens, demons, vengeful spirits - pretty much everything had been suggested as the terror that stalked those forbidden lands.
August wasn't phased. He'd yet to meet anything in the wastelands that wouldn't die if you put enough bullets in it.
His attention was caught by the click and screech of the cockpit door opening, barely audible over the cacophonous roar of the plane's engines. A Boomer shuffled through, no doubt the unfortunate recipient of the short straw, condemned to go talk to the outsiders. "Ten minutes out," they relayed with a grunt. August's response was a silent nod.
Only ten more minutes, his mind echoed, as the plane offered an entirely unreassuring series of rattles and clunks. Thank fuck for that.