Harry plongea dans la petite maison pendant qu'un couple de mutants tirait sur lui. Ils l'avaient enfin remarqué, hein? Il devrait s'en assurer. Peut-être par un petit jeu de balles. Il rampa vers l'arrière, vers le mur, et prit un léger souffle. Il regarda sa carbine, et savait intuitivement qu'elle nécessitait un rechargement. Il a rapidement et sûrement atteint pour la tige de fonctionnement, et son métal froid toucher métal légèrement gênant à ses mains un peu transpirantes. "Damn cet endroit" il chuchotait, alors qu'il tirait la tige en arrière, faisant tomber la cartouche maintenant presque vide sur le sol en bois avec un clack. Une seule ronde a cliqué sur l'impact, et est tombée sur le genou d'Harry. Il s'occuperait de ça plus tard. Il a atteint sa poche thoracique, sorti une cartouche, et l'a frappé avec une précision pratique. Il a ensuite repoussé la tige, qui a placé une autre balle dans la chambre.
Il a jeté un coup d'œil de sa position au sol. Ce n'était qu'une seconde, et déjà une balle s'est évanouie. Il y en avait eu plusieurs, peut-être une douzaine. Encore plus était plus probable. Peut-être que quitter l'équipe n'était pas le geste tactique le plus brillant, mais ce n'était pas trop mal. Il avait les munitions pour ça. Il sourit, et se souvint de son entraînement. La chance avait toujours été de son côté, et il ne s'était pas enfui aujourd'hui.
Il s'est envolé dans la porte, et était immédiatement dans un accrochage de tir. Le fusil a été levé en millisecondes, et le réticule a visé sa première cible, une autre mutie verte. "Fuck you" dit-il, alors qu'il tirait plusieurs fois, changeait de cible, et parlait à nouveau "Fuck you too, you and you" alors qu'il tirait plusieurs fois sur une cible différente. Ammo dehors, et tout n'était pas mort. "Oho, pourquoi pas, les amis?" Il a dit, en utilisant sa jambe avant pour le pousser à retourner dans la maison. Et pas trop tard non plus. Plusieurs balles l'ont à nouveau renversé, et deux l'ont même frappé. Heureusement, le premier lui a arraché son armure, et le second ne lui a arraché l'épaule. Eh bien, gratté n'était pas le bon mot, comme Harry s'est rendu compte qu'il saignait légèrement. Ce n'était pas si mal.
Il s'est à nouveau chargé, et a conclu qu'il ne pouvait pas tirer la même chose à nouveau, car il y avait maintenant un courant de feu presque continu qui traversait la porte. Il faudrait qu'il arrive à une fenêtre. Il rampait à sa droite aussi vite qu'il le pouvait, et s'approchait de ses pieds. Une fenêtre d'un mètre sur un, étonnamment grande. Il a sauté devant, cassé la fenêtre avec le canon de son fusil, et tiré sans viser. Les balles ont encore frappé, mais elles n'ont pas toutes été tuées.
"Round deux, salopes." il a dit, comme il a traversé ses munitions. Quand il a entendu le clic familier d'une cartouche s'écouler, il a tiré à nouveau la tige, et laissé la cartouche tomber. Il se détourna, courut vers la porte arrière, et sauta à travers le vieux bois pourri. Il avait perdu l'élément de surprise, certainement. Ils progressaient aussi trop vite, plus vite qu'il ne l'avait prévu. Au fur et à mesure qu'il a traversé le bois, le premier mutant a dû courir avec un club de barres d'armature, et rugir. Harry a laissé tomber son fusil, mais il n'allait pas au sol, grâce à la sangle. Il a sorti son.22 et son couteau de combat.
Il attendait que le mutant sorte de son côté, tranquillement. Il n'a pas eu à attendre trop longtemps, alors qu'un club de réservistes maniant le mutant a éclaté là où il était sorti. Il a immédiatement vidé la cartouche du pistolet dans le mutant, qui n'est toujours pas mort. "Oh non" il a traversé, mais l'émotion qu'il a montré était un griffonnement de ses dents, alors qu'il s'attaquait au mutant, et a poussé le couteau dans la blessure par balle. Ça a dû être le dernier coup, comme le mutant surpris est tombé au sol en bois, avec un toud. Il était maintenant couvert de sang de mutie. Ça n'avait pas d'importance. Il a remarqué que dans la petite bagarre, il avait largué son pistolet. Ça n'avait pas d'importance non plus.
Il devrait recharger le fusil immédiatement, et l'un d'entre eux a été remis. Ça prendrait plus de temps, mais il avait sorti son couteau bloddi, donc il avait confiance en lui-même. Il a pu mettre la cartouche, avant que le mutant suivant n'arrive. C'était ridicule et irréalistement semblable à un holo-game. Il a poignardé en avant, et son couteau a percé à travers la chair dure du mutant. "Luck, merde" pensait-il, puisque celui-ci ne portait pas d'armure. Il a traîné la lame à travers la chair, seulement pour être jeté à terre par la chose. Il a été blessé et enragé.
"J'ai besoin d'un salaire plus élevé si c'est le genre de choses que je dois faire." il murmura, tandis que la mutie sautait sur lui, jusqu'à l'extrémité de réception de la lame relevée. Il a traversé sa peau, et doit avoir frappé quelque chose de vital, comme la mutie s'est cognée sur la sienne, et est mort. La chose était un poids mort, un jeu de mots voulu, et saignait directement sur Harry. Il a poussé le corps, et entendu Death Strike parler des ordres. Il soupira après que l'homme eut parlé, et s'empara de son sang. "Couvert de sang muet, mais prêt à servir, monsieur. J'irai jusqu'au lieu de réunion, et je serai là......" il a regardé dehors, et a estimé la distance. "..... trois minutes." C'était tout ce qu'il a dit, et il a consommé un autre bâton de chocolat blanc pendant qu'il quittait la maison, en entrant par effraction dans un jogging vers le bâtiment où ils se réunissaient.
Quand il est arrivé, il n'a rien dit, et a espéré que personne ne l'a remarqué, couvert de sang mutant. "Travailler à fond"? Ça me va. ' il pensait, en réponse à ses ordres.
Agent Name
Tristan McBay
Agent Code Name
Ginger
Age
25
Gender
Male
Appearance
I paint my own character images. Please don't steal it or use it without my permission.
Armor:
Coyote Neural Assistance Power Armor
Clothing
Mechanic's jumpsuit, utility belt, combat boots, white t-shirt.
Weapons
He almost always carries a .44 Magnum and a trench knife for those just-in-case moments. The Gauss Rifle he takes with him into the field is meticulously cared for. The phrase, "86'd" has been painstakingly emblazoned on the side of the gun.
Miscellaneous Items
An old, wrinkled photo of him and his twin brother when they were kids. Sunglasses (only wears them if the occasion calls for it), lighter, deck of cards and a flask.
Forces of habit
He's a smoker. Not a pack-a-day habit mind you, but he'll take what he can get and it's just enough for the scent to linger.
BiographyThe old folks used to gather around and talk about how life used to be down in Vault 86 before the Enclave, but Tristan could never really remember what it was like. He had been too young and too concerned with smaller things. When did all the vault dwellers get replaced with men in uniforms? Why were he and his brother forced to sit and learn in a room full of other kids with a mean and sour old man for a teacher? What were these red, white and blue banners going up all over the place? Why were Mom and Dad gone almost all the time? Where could he get an amazing suit of armor like those? As he grew these memories faded from being new and confusing to just being his memories.
Though born to Canadian parents the twins, Tristan and Lucas, had an upbringing that molded them into the most upstanding of American citizens. From a young age they had their little imaginations filled with images of the patriotic Enclave soldiers triumphing over the devious and mutated monsters to the south and taking back what had been stolen from them. It was their right, their destiny and the American dream would see it come to fruition. All the schooling and hard labor wouldn't be for naught. Good will always triumph over evil. Often the two boys would play with finger guns, running down the vault corridors, acting out battle scenes between the Enclave and their enemies.
"BANG!" Tristan yelled, "Raaarrrhhhggg! Muah, ha, ha! I got you human!"
Lucas collapsed to his knees gripping his side, "Uhg! No! You'll never take me alive you freak! BANG!" he returned fire.
In turn Tristan would fall over in a rather comical, overly-dramatic supermutant death. The two would laugh and continue their games. Then one day someone put real guns into their hands.
Training began at an early age for the children of Vault 86 and the twins were no exception. It was hard at first. The drill sergeants were not easy on them just for being kids. They were treated like adults, like soldiers. Come rain or shine or harsh Canadian winter they were out there training like their lives depended on it. Time and time again they were reminded that soon enough their lives would indeed depend on it. As they grew under the Enclave hand it became obvious who the stronger brother was. Lucas. Where as Tristan was more focused on adolescent jokes, keeping himself amused and girls, his brother had a much more quiet and serious demeanor. He became focused in his studies and ruthless. He didn't have time for the games anymore. Not when their was a whole country left to conquer. Every time Tristan met up with him he seemed to have his eyes set south.
It was graduation. The twins had made it to what the Enclave military considered adulthood, they had passed every test, overcome every challenge, and most importantly they knew what they were fighting for. At least they thought they knew. They Enclave had been pretty clear on that after all. Assignments were being handed to all the graduates.
"Where do you think we're going?" Tristan asked, his grin betraying his excitement.
"... 'We?'" Lucas cast him an incredulous glance, "They aren't going to be sending us to the same place. It doesn't work like that."
Tristan didn't even have time to look shocked before an officer, holding a clipboard, stepped in front of him and shouted his name. Sure enough, they both had different assignments. He didn't know why he hadn't thought of that. They had always been together so he just assumed it would always be that way. They would be guarding the Enclave territorial holdings along the Canadian border. Lucas was being sent east and would not be far from the ruined Ronto. Tristan was being sent west. It was only days before they were saying their farewells to their parents and to each other. Lucas told his brother to fight well, for the American dream. Tristan told his brother he bet he would get more kills than him. Lucas only smirked, shook his head and walked away.
It was quieter out west than he had expected. Sure there were raiders, mutants, ghouls and the occasional Legionary to pick off, but somehow it wasn't as fulfilling as he had imagined. His first kill was a ghoul. Feral or not it wandered too close to the perimeter. Tristan looked down the barrel of his rifle and took the shot without a second thought. The thing fell motionless. That was it. There was a small pang of excitement, a small pang of guilt, a small pang of killer instinct. As he crouched in the snow, his joints seizing up from hours in the endless, miserable cold, he realized, however, he didn't feel the pride or glory he had been promised. He decided it just wasn't a very glorious circumstance and so he waited for the next kill. There was a raider attack on one of his patrols. Two soldiers and at least fifteen raider scum were dead. By the end of the skirmish Tristan had racked up two more kills and had been close enough to become splattered in blood that was not his own. He had fought well. He still felt no pride or glory.
A month later he got a letter. It was from the Enclave and quite formal from the look of it. It was exciting to have a small break in the monotony of his post and he tore into the letter with a smirk.
We regret to inform you that on the 22nd of November... killed in action... supermutant ambush... compensation... loss... the... we... a...
Tristan couldn't get through it. He crumpled up the letter, threw it into the snow and ground it into the dirt with his foot. He couldn't move. Lucas was dead.
"It's part of life, kid," an officer grumbled at him, "Get your gun and get over it. You have a job to do."
"You still bitchin' 'bout that?" his patrol mate moaned, "Shit, you'd think nobody'd got shot the hell up 'round you before."
"That's too bad." "It happens." "What's wrong with you?" "Get over it." "Nobody cares."
It felt like everything was ablaze that night. The outpost was on the verge of falling. Men screamed and shouted all around him, but it was drowned out by the roars of the supermutants. They had skin like rawhide and skulls like steel. Tristan felt his hands shaking as more and more of the bullets from his standard issue rifle seemed to just bounce of their immense bodies. It was hopeless, but he couldn't bring himself to stop, to run away. The thought that maybe just one of those shots would strike gold and bring one of those monsters what it deserved was too good. An explosion rocked him and sent him plummeting from the wall where he once stood. The ground hit him like a kick in the guts from out of nowhere. All was silent now except for one continuous high note blasting in his ears. More fire. There was a large hole punched through the outpost wall and beyond that a huge lumbering figure. Gun. Where's my gun? He scrambled around in the mud but the rifle was long gone. Getting up right seemed impossible. He was panicking. Once, twice he lurched and fell. The third time he tripped over a corpse. A high ranked officer judging from the blood and dirt stained uniform. Clutched in the man's death grip was one of the biggest God-damned guns Tristan had ever seen. At this horrible moment it was a beautiful, perfect beacon. He wrenched it out of the dead man's arms and steadied himself on his feet, facing the wall. The lumbering figure was stepping through the breach and it saw him. Though there was still no sound in Tristan's world the beast's maw opened in a roar and it flung it's massive arms out causing thick slabs of muscle to ripple around it's frame. It charged. The ground shook under it's weight. The all too young soldier pulled the gun up and fired. The recoil was nearly enough to knock him off his feet and the electrical discharge that spiraled down the barrel was blinding. The monster's head came clean off it's shoulders.
Another kill. There was still no pride and no glory. How could there ever be in this hellish filth called a battlefield? But there was definitely something there, and it was so much better. Retribution.
Years later, while celebrating his 75th supermutant kill, Tristan was approached by a man...
Extra
Tristan tends to have a fly-boy attitude and almost never leaves home without a cocky smile. He never speaks about his brother.