Je crains que la situation ne soit tout à fait opposée à Mlle Archange. La RCN se récuse avec leurs bombardiers, a rapporté la griffe mortelle.
Un second tremblement a secoué le sol sous leurs pieds, suivi d'un faible bruit. Le long du mur à côté d'eux couraient une fraiche location, entassés à travers le mur dont l'une ou l'autre extrémité ne pouvait être vue.
« Nous devons partir immédiatement », retourna Leinhart vers l'entrée du tunnel.
Le petit groupe est à peine arrivé au train cassé avant que les bombes ci-dessus ne deviennent plus intenses et commencent à noyer la plupart des autres sons. Les tremblements sont devenus violents. Le sol s'est déstabilisé. Puis une cacophonie de pierre tombante et de fer torsadé s'est effondrée dans le tunnel. Le train a lâché et claqué dans le plafond avant de se briser. Des tonnes de décombres écrasés à l'extrémité de la voiture l'aplatissant à rien de plus que de la ferraille.
"Déplacez-vous!" Les paroles de la griffe de mort ont été entachées d'un terrible rugissement animaliste. Personne ne risquait de rester plus longtemps et les trois d'entre eux sprintaient dans les couloirs sombres et brouillaient au-dessus des débris et des traces. Golem a essayé de garder un œil sur des cibles et plus de mines, mais la scène était le chaos. "Il y a une sortie de service non loin d'ici. Je vais dégager notre chemin!" Leinhart a rappelé le bruit avant de décoller dans l'obscurité. Plus rapide et plus agile que n'importe quel humain, et peut-être plus fiable, Golem a hissé son accord et a continué à courir avec Archange dans le remorquage.
Des coups de feu ont été tirés plus haut et immédiatement suivis par des cris et puis rien. Tout ce que Golem avait le temps de faire dans ses lumières, c'était du sang et des rubans de chair qui enrobaient les murs et le sol. Il semblerait que Leinhart ait trouvé le reste de la RCN et qu'il soit passé à autre chose. Il était heureux d'avoir la créature de leur côté. Une tache minuscule d'une faible lumière brillait dans le tunnel vers l'avant. Des blocs de pierre se sont écrasés derrière eux alors que le métro s'est effondré sur lui-même. Ils étaient à une centaine de mètres. Golem sentit un bloc de béton frapper le sol juste derrière ses talons et presque perdu son pied. À 50 mètres. Rubble est tombé le long d'eux maintenant dans une série de presque miss. Dix mètres. Huit. Neuf. Leinhart est passé par la porte. Juste avant d'atteindre la sortie Golem a attrapé Archangel autour de la taille et a sauté dans le cadre de la porte frappant le mur lointain à l'atterrissage. Une énorme dalle de béton s'est abattue derrière eux et a bloqué l'évasion pour de bon.
"Allez!" Golem l'a poussée dans les escaliers et dans la lumière après elle.
De la poêle et dans le feu, ils ont traversé le tarmac, brisé et brûlé vers l'abri. L'extrémité arrière de la première vague de bombardiers est passée au-dessus maintenant et a fini de laisser tomber leurs charges utiles. Pas une de la RCN ne semblait assez stupide pour sortir dans l'inferno et les affronter, mais c'était à leur avantage. Une bombe a brisé les flammes terminales et l'acier fondu dans l'air et la fumée dans l'atmosphère. Le verre éclate de toutes les fenêtres, y compris la partie supérieure de la tour de contrôle. Les flammes du nouveau-né se léchèrent et se répandirent lentement jusqu'à tout ce qui se trouvait à leur portée. D'autres trous ont été déchirés tout au long de l'éparpillement du bâtiment, mais il semble se tenir le mieux possible. Plus de bombes sont tombées mais moins ont semblé frapper l'aéroport lui-même et plus sont tombées au-delà du mur de la RCN. Bien que ce n'était pas leur véritable cible, les bombardiers n'avaient pas à l'esprit la préservation de la base. Mieux vaut détruire que dans les mains de l'Enclave il semblerait.
Leinhart a glissé dans un bunker avec les autres jusqu'à ce que la première vague soit hors de vue, "Nous devons revenir au commandement. Il est grand temps pour nous de partir, je devrais penser. Venez, nous allons faire notre chemin là-bas à travers le niveau de stationnement. Rapidement, dans le cas où d'autres bombardiers suivront ce que je suis sûr qu'ils le feront."
-- Allons-y alors, murmura Golem, il ne reste plus rien de cet endroit. Il les conduit hors du bunker et retourne à l'endroit où l'enclave a été écrasée. Là où il espérait qu'ils étaient encore écrasés.
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.