- Oui.
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Golem
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Des vents violents les avaient battus des portes ouvertes du virtibird, mais là-bas, dans le ciel, il y avait une vue à voir. De plus en plus, il semblait que l'Enclave visait une invasion à grande échelle. Il n'y aurait aucun doute de cela dans l'esprit de quiconque a vu cette démonstration de puissance du sol. C'était peut-être en partie le but de tout cela. Quoi qu'il en soit, voir ces viritibirds prendre à l'air par les centaines avait été amusant de dire le moins.
Le rugissement assourdissant de toutes les machines avait semblé encore plus fort à l'atterrissage et il avait été un peu soulagement d'être rapidement déplacé à l'intérieur de l'hôtel de ville rénové. Il n'avait pas besoin d'être dit de se tenir à côté de la table et de la carte au centre de la pièce. Il avait immédiatement attiré son attention alors qu'il était impatient d'apprendre l'aménagement de la zone, quel était le plan et quel enfer ils se heurtaient à ce genre de force militaire. La femme qui a fourni de telles informations était courte et au point de savoir comment elle l'aimait. Leurs ordres étaient simples : pousser une fois les communications coupées, prendre l'aéroport, pas de prisonniers, pas de survivants. Ce serait comme si la RCN n'était jamais là. Peut-être que les choses n'étaient pas aussi simples que ça, mais Golem comprenait son rôle à jouer et cela lui suffisait.
Maintenant, il se tenait parmi les arbres et la pluie avec les autres qui sont restés derrière avec la force d'assaut principale. Il s'est tenu immobile et tranquille, comme les autres, essayant de ne pas attirer l'attention sur lui-même. Bien que ce fût le calme avant la tempête, la tension était palpable. Les nerfs à haute tension et le sang-lust se mêlent étroitement à toutes les lignes, prêtes à entrer en action et à la violence dès que les communications de la RCN ont été sabotées et que l'ordre d'emménager a été donné. L'odeur douce et rafraîchissante de la forte pluie de forêt semblait se moquer d'eux en rendant l'humeur d'autant plus apparente. Golem a pris un moment pour examiner la petite modification qu'il avait apportée à son arme. Une section de la poignée était brillante et neuve, bordée d'un ensemble d'interrupteurs discrets, encastrés et doublés d'un ensemble de fentes mystérieuses. Aucun accident ne s'est produit jusqu'à présent, ce qui signifiait que les modules du capteur dans ses gantelets étaient branchés correctement et fonctionnaient toujours.
Pas encore de signal, bien que Winter et Whisper devraient être bien en chemin à l'intérieur maintenant. D'une certaine manière, Golem les enviait de ne pas être soumis au jeu d'attente, mais à l'époque le succès de l'Enclave était entre leurs mains. Un lourd fardeau en effet.
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Gingembre
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Le bruit de pluie qui a frappé l'ancien bâtiment de l'extérieur était de loin plus fort que le petit groupe de snipers qui s'est glissé dans ses niveaux supérieurs comme des fantômes. Cinq hommes se sont aventurés de l'autre côté du sol, restant bas, fuyant les fenêtres et se taisant comme la tombe. Même avec la couverture de pluie, ils ne pouvaient pas se permettre de se détendre, de couper n'importe quel coin, pour donner à la RCN même une intuition que quelque chose pourrait planer sur leur périmètre. Si l'un de ces tireurs d'élite sur les murs de l'aéroport les avait repérés, tout serait fini en un instant. Un sixième homme a suivi l'arrière, en vérifiant deux fois les pièges qu'ils avaient placés étaient en ordre et que les hommes étaient en position. Il a vérifié les escaliers une dernière fois. Rien. Tout ce qui arriverait de cette façon pendant l'opération serait sans doute soufflé en morceaux et alerterait les tireurs embusqués. Si quelque chose devait les compromettre, ils seraient sortis bien avant que l'ennemi n'atteigne cet endroit.
Ginger s'installa au magasin par un grand trou qui avait été percé par le mur pendant les guerres des siècles passés. Il n'était pas aussi visible qu'une fenêtre et il pouvait encore voir plusieurs entrées à l'aéroport et de grands espaces ouverts qui s'étendaient avant eux, ce qui était autrefois des parkings et des zones de chargement, ainsi que le haut des murs où les Rangers se sont bercés. Chaque lumière et chaque dispositif qui pouvait éteindre la lumière ou le son sur son armure était éteint. Il était venu préparé avec ce que l'on ne pouvait décrire que comme un suppresseur sévèrement bâtardé pour son fusil. Le Gauss était une arme qui ne serait jamais réduite au silence, mais cela a rendu un peu moins semblable à peindre une cible sur votre crâne. En plus de l'ennemi a généralement fini plus distrait par les éclats aveuglants de fusion qui ont éclaté là où les parties du corps de leur compagnon étaient auparavant que le son fait par l'arme.
"Nous sommes en position", a-t-il chuchoté à Deathstroke au-dessus de la comm.
Comme du poisson dans un tonneau, Strickland leur avait dit. Il avait tué sa juste part de personnes, mais il semblait que peu importe la situation il y avait toujours le goût le plus subtil du regret laissé. C'était quelque chose qu'il avait appris à se remettre rapidement, mais il doutait que cela n'arriverait jamais vraiment. Il s'est souvenu des sympathies d'Ours pour la fille du raideur infecté. Il n'y aurait pas d'actes de miséricorde ici aujourd'hui s'il pouvait l'aider. Ce n'était pas qu'une bataille. C'était une extermination.
À son groupe, il chuchotait : « Je me fiche de ce qui sort de cet aéroport, tu enlèves tout ce qui a un pouls et tu laisses les dieux les trier plus tard. Compris?"
Il n'a reçu que des réponses affirmatives. Tant mieux.
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.