Seule une poignée d'expériences de toute sa vie, la plupart ayant eu lieu au cours des six derniers mois, avaient été plus inconfortables que cela. Il a passé les cinq premières minutes du vol à essayer de tailler ses compagnons d'escouade sans faire de contact visuel et le reste du vol à essayer de ne pas faire de contact visuel. (Non pas qu'il puisse en voir plusieurs grâce à l'énorme Golem assis à côté de lui. Il ne se rappelait pas avoir senti ce petit avant.) C'était une blague? Est-ce vraiment le peuple que l'Enclave avait déclaré le meilleur des meilleurs? Des experts, des génies, des prodiges, des monstres et des assassins de sang-froid ou un pédé de tueurs aux haches qui ont besoin d'une psychothérapie? Il a pris une profonde respiration, essayant de garder le silence afin de ne pas perturber l'atmosphère tendue plus que la fille murmurant pour elle-même.
L'interphone crépitait et la voix d'une femme dispersait le silence. Enfin. Alors qu'il écoutait un sourire, il traversa le visage et put se concentrer. Passez par les hordes mutantes et neutralisez les cuves de la FEV. Compris. Il ne pouvait pas nier que l'anxiété cède la place à l'excitation. Il ne pourrait pas y avoir de meilleur sentiment que d'assassiner des mutants et Dieu dammit si la perspective de faire tomber un Béhémoth ne faisait pas son doigt de gâchette démangeaisons. Il semblait qu'il n'était pas le seul à partager les sentiments alors que l'escouade s'est amusée à préparer leur équipement.
Après un dernier contrôle de ses armes (un contrôle légitime cette fois-ci), il a roulé ses épaules, incliné la tête de côté en côté pour lui sauter le cou et glisser son casque. C'était certainement la partie la plus inconfortable de mettre sur sa marque particulière d'armure de puissance. Le casque a initié un "sync" de l'esprit et du corps au costume via un module à peine exposé à la base du crâne. Le module a puisé dans le système nerveux central de l'utilisateur et, sans lui, l'armure de puissance prototype serait complètement impraticable et, dans certains cas, complètement inutilisable. Avec un sifflement silencieux et cliquez sur le casque, armure et chair à l'intérieur est devenu une seule entité. Les lumières sombres sur la visière s'éclairaient en ressemblant à un ensemble grotesque d'yeux arachnides. Ses sens se sont aiguisés. Ses muscles étaient tendus. Le virtibird s'est effondré. Il était sur ses pieds, fusil de gauss chargé.
Bonne chance, Eagle Squad! Tuez quelques muties pour moi!" leur beau pilote leur a donné un adieu.
"Ce sera plus que quelques-uns pour toi, ma chérie!" Ginger a appelé au cockpit avec un sourire sous son casque.
Une brise humide et légèrement balayée par l'ouverture des portes. Ils étaient partis et il était trop reconnaissant de mettre un peu plus d'espace entre lui et le reste de l'équipe.
Peu de temps après, il a passé Deathstroke, le chef de l'escouade, avant qu'une balle ricochete sur l'épaule de son armure. C'était assez près pour ses goûts et il trouva une couverture accrochée derrière l'un des nombreux rochers qui jonchaient la région. Il entendait les voix et les rugissements des mutants d'ici. Petits cheveux croisés dansaient sur sa vision où la visière ramassait des figures en mouvement pressant à travers le paysage. Il a aligné ses yeux.
Un son comme un autre marteau du monde frappant une enclume rebondit sur les rochers et les falaises. Simultanément, un supermutant s'est trouvé englouti dans la décharge électrique avec un trou de taille balle de soccer poinçonné dans sa poitrine. Le chaos a éclaté. Ginger pouvait entendre le reste de l'équipe prendre contact. Des coups de feu, des cris de mort de brutes inhumaines, des lamentations de créatures dégoûtantes, des corps qui frappent le sol. Et au-dessus de tout cela à travers son oreillette, il pouvait entendre le sniper chanter avec une phrase tout à fait trop appropriée. Ça lui a ramené le sourire au visage.
Une autre charge à travers le canon de son arme et un autre mutant a rencontré son destin moins une jambe et un bon morceau de sa hanche. Après qu'il est tombé Ginger a remarqué une distorsion qui a déformé le tronc d'un arbre mort long seulement pour une seconde. Il suffisait que sa visière y mette un cheveux croisés, mais que trop vite disparaisse.
"Regardez-vous," il parlait calmement et calmement sur les communications, "J'ai un petit fils de pute avec un garçon furtif par ici."
Pendant un moment, il a repensé à sa nouvelle équipe. Ces étranges personnes sur le virtibird étaient maintenant une équipe qui comptait l'une sur l'autre pour mener à bien la mission et garder chaque membre en vie. Ce serait l'extermination supermutante du siècle...
...ou ils mourraient tous horriblement.
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.