An Arctic Wolf on the Prowl [Under Planning]

The figure checks the horizon, using his hand to gauge the time remaining in the day: 2 hours. Finding the remains of a hill that has since made overhead cover, he clears a patch of ground and digs a small pit about a foot and a half deep. He sits; placing the wood he’s found along the way into the pit and quickly starts a small fire, limiting visual notice of the area. He then scans the nearby area, finding some old car doors and begins to make a make a makeshift barricade. It was no motel, but it’d have to do for some place to sleep (or what could be called “sleep,” being little more than a nap in between area scans and fire tending).

He places some steel rods over the fire and sets some meat on the makeshift grill, letting it slowly roast over an open fire. The smell of roasting meat wafts out for several hundred meters, but is hard to notice amongst the background smells of the local area. He sets the rifle down, removing his face mask. His face is rugged with a noticeable laser burn scar on his face. He pulls out a small tin can with a makeshift lid and opens it, withdrawing a heavy pinch’s worth of chewing tobacco. He gently places it into his mouth and closes the can, returning it to his bag. He gently chews the tobacco, spitting occasionally to his right onto the ground. His rifle is leaning against the stone, ready to be grabbed in case of an emergency.

He sighs, thinking back to the War, seeing his scar in the reflection of the cracked side mirror of the car door. Horrible flashbacks of his friends dying, the sound of laser weapons, the smell of burned flesh…. He sees an image of his wife, Margret, through his scope, and starts to have an anxiety attack. He grabs his pistol and begins randomly firing through the side window until his senses are brought back by what seems like nothing. He reaches into his pack once more for a bottle of whiskey. He opens the top and takes a swig. The alcohol didn’t fix his “issues,” but it kept him from the nightmares.

~Near Alec’s Location~

The feral ghoul’s body lays there, its head hanging on by the muscle and skin alone, its shredded clothing being little more than rags of cloth. The body seems to be keeping the wild animals away due to its residual radiation, though less than 1 rad/sec. The footprints from the shooter head southeast, towards Rivet City, although that’s still a far trek. Considering that it’s an hour and a half from sunset, the odds that the shooter is still on the move is unlikely. More than likely, he’s holed up somewhere for the night.

~Back at the shooter’s location~

The figure begins to carve pieces of meat off the roast with his combat knife, eating them in kind, along with a half-eaten bag of potato crisps and the bottle of whiskey. The figure sits in the twilight, trying to drink away the horrors he saw. He then thinks back to the feral ghoul he killed. Who was he? Where was he from? Did that feral abomination have a family? These questions ricochet in his mind as he eats; the stillness of the winter’s dusk broken only by the soft crackle of a fire.

The figure continues his rudimentary meal, taking a gentle sip of whiskey as his ears catch the sound of footsteps and pretty darn close. He quickly retrieves the rifle and begins to scan the outlying area, his augmented eyes sharpening anything within eyesight. Sure enough, his eye tracks a figure: a helluva man, clad in power armor and carrying a rifle of some form. At this distance, it’s highly unlikely that the target could see or hear him, considering he covered his fire and….

At that moment, he remembered the casing and his tracks. Rookie mistake for sure, but he has some time until this guy gets to close. He scans the figure as it approaches and sees the insignia he dreaded…

Fuckin’ Brotherhood… he thinks to himself How in the name of Mary’s skimpy panties did they know where the fuck I was headed?! I made sure no Brotherhood guys’d know which way I went… He had a feeling the paladin’d want to kill him on sight, considering that he ran from the Brotherhood he wanted nothing to do with. He trains the scope on the power armor clad individual. From his angle, he can’t get a square bead on any soft spots: joints, mobility points, etc. Just his luck. It seems like his Brahmin may be cooked, but he quickly comes up with a plan.

He quickly adjusts his aim to over the Paladin’s shoulder. A warning shot may be in order, should he be smart. Otherwise, he’d have to kill a Paladin. Not like he hadn’t killed Brotherhood members before; just not his style. He begins to relax, his breathing becoming slow and regular, his aim ideal, his trigger squeeze perfect.

A rifle shot rings out as a round heads towards Alec, barely missing the armor, obviously a warning shot intended to discourage. The sound is exactly the same as the shot from earlier that lead you on this search.

The figure keeps the sight trained on this Alec fella, his finger outside the trigger well. This guy’s pretty good and knows how to move. Odd for a Brotherhood of Steel to be calling for a peaceful resolution; then again, it had been ten years and he was in the East, not the Midwest…

“My name is Coyote Sparks. Set your nine millimeter and your rifle on the ground and walk towards me slowly with your hands in the air!”

Coyote sets his sights on Alec’s cover, knowing full well that a shot to his visor’d drop him cold if he tried to return fire.

Seeing the muties, Coyote quickly moved his crosshairs from Alec to the trio. They were armed lightly, likely a scout patrol, so if he could line up some headshots, this’d be over quick. He also notes Alec’s agility in that armor. Coyote quickly scans the outcroppings in case his hunch was wrong, and then began to squeeze off shots.

With his first shot, he drilled the center mutie with a perfect headshot right at the brow line, then swung the rifle plugging the second with a shot square in the heart. The third opened fire at Alec, the shots going way wide, nailing the outcropping. The third shot hit where it counted, relieving the mutie of his automatic rifle, followed by a fourth through his eye. Coyote did a secondary scan and caught a few more trying to flank the position. They were coming from his right, and had heavy weapons trained on Alec’s position.

“Alec! Three more! 3 O’Clock!”

Coyote aimed as one hurled a hand grenade at Alec, but Coyote had shot smaller targets moving far faster and popped the grenade in midair. He tried to squeeze off another shot, but the sickening click of an empty chamber made his stomach turn.

“Give me some cover! I need to reload!”

Coyote takes a knee, kneeling to spot for any more targets. None. He slings his rifle down and slides down the outcropping towards Alec.

“Sorry for putting you in that shit situation. I have a hammer and a shaping stone if you need your armor patched up.”

His scar is very noticeable to Alec’s war-torn eyes. The laser burn from his mouth to his earlobe looks utterly disgusting, and without a shadow of a doubt had to hurt in a way no man could ever imagine. His eyes are like balls of ice, and yet at this distance, Alec can see the very fine wires in his iris as well as the clearly mechanical augmentation as his eyes quickly adapt to the lowering light levels.

“Damn mutie scum. I’ve faced their kind before. I prefer to stay at a distance rather than try and outpower them. Usually ends with them on the dirt rather than me. Look. I’m sorry I planned on putting a round in your head. Take their gear and some meat as a consolation prize for taking a sledge to the body for me. I may have been able to take them, but you made my life easier. Forgot what it was like to have someone covering your ass.”

Coyote laughs a strained and calloused laugh, as if he’s wholly unused to companionship. He heads to one of the light scouts and grabs some .30-06 rounds, then kicks the corpse in the head, then grabs more for his weapon, which from your position appears to be a low-production Old World rifle with quite a few custom modifications added to make distance shots easier to handle. Also, the sidearm he carries is a modified .45 chambered in the far more common 10mm. With the way he was shooting, it’s a blessing he didn’t make a go for your armor, because he’d’ve likely either critically wounded or killed you.

The rumors started a decade ago that the Midwest has a falling out between Western Loyalists and Eastern Separatists, however theirs didn’t end with words; it ended in blood. Last call was 110 out of 250 dead from a civil war with no clear victor. Coyote was a member of this war, and records show he was forced to kill his own wife when she tried to kill him during this conflict.

“So how about it? I give you some grub and a majority of their gear, and we’re square.”

“Fine by me. I’m new to the area, and already dealt with everything from Raiders to Ferals and now Muties. What’s next? Mutant Bees? Little Green Men from Mars?”

Another strained laugh from Coyote, as he leads Alec to his hideaway. For something that was fashioned from scrap in under an hour, it’s very well defended and quite secure. No wonder he had so much of a tactical advantage when you walked up. His fire is still burning pretty well: a godsend during the winters here. Coyote takes a section of the area and lays out a military bed mat and a sleeping bag, then takes a chunk of what was once a car door and sets it near the fire as a seat for Alec.

“Go ahead and help yourself to some meat. I know it’s not great, but it’ll fill yer belly.”

Coyote returns to his whiskey bottle, as the distinctive clatter of Brotherhood Holotags rattle behind you as he ditches his armored vest and jacket. With how this shelter is built, it could be thirty below and you could sit naked by the fire and not be cold in the slightest. His body is covered in scars. Shrapnel, Bullet, Blade; his body shows what happens when brother faces brother in war. He puts another wad of tobacco in his mouth and offers some to Alec, as he takes a stiff swig from the whiskey bottle.