`FOUND IV`
I was making my way over to this den's range; though my expectations were bleak to say the least. Usually these dens make use of the massive canyons present in between the points which connect the cart paths, practically turning the other side of the canyon into the targets.
Even then, it's better than nothing. Shooting is half the reason anyone is breathing.
There were four rooms which followed the path up until the range, the first of which was a supply closet, most certainly containing the meagre remains of whatever the denizens have left to eat, drink, and whatnot. At least they have something.
The second room was a strange mess of wiring, broken capsules, and the rummaged remains of what I assume was a filing cabinet. The whole sight is unsettling, a room in desperate need of a door no doubt- whatever occurred in there is history, and it's none of my business.
From that point onward there is an array of misplaced barrels, empty boxes, and industrial sized oxygen tanks. This den had clear intentions of expanding itself fairly rapidly, and the fact that these sort of tanks are here indicates at least some investment in the beginning.
God knows where that all went, maybe the SC wasted it on extremely valuable magazines.
The third roos from there is a simple staying room, there were more people in this place, even when I was last here there were two extra people. I can barely recall, though I believe one of them was a repairer and the other was a simple guard. An unfortunate loss of talent.
The last of the rooms was shut, but the constant humming radiating from behind the door told me that it was the generator room. Most dens have two of these, one for backup, but outskirt dens aren't afforded what most dens have.
Three shots rang out, the third enhanced by the opening of the door into the range. I am one to get disappointed incredibly easily, something I inherited from my own mentor, though even I wasn't prepared for this.
I walk up behind the runt, managing to startle him, and he turned toward me with a terribly guilty look.
"I- I've never shot a gun before." He nervously said,
"Don't worry I can tell, it's rare for someone of your age to have not shot one before." I dispassionately reply,
"I'm not that old." He murmured,
There were 6 casing spread nearby, and no discernible markings on the panelling on the other side of the canyon. The range was fairly impressive, though not intentionally, there was plenty of hanging panelling which were unfortunately not swaying.
I picked up the discarded casings, can't let free metal go to waste I say.
"Six missed shots in a row. I'm surprised you haven't thrown the weapon at the targets." I semi-sarcastically state,
"Just- Let me try more." He anxiously demanded,
"Nope, you're no natural talent runt." I calmly said,
Though few are. Those words were enough to siphon whatever confidence the runt had out of him. He turned back toward me, expecting me to rip the handgun out of his hands.
"Let me show you. You're shooting like a rust-bucket." I jokingly state,
"Really?- Ok!" He happily replied,
I swiftly take the handgun out of his hands, replacing him at the position to fire at the hanging panels. I breathe carefully, it takes a certain level of calmness- or frustration, to be able to effectively land shots on target.
"Why do you still have your filtration on? You can breathe in here you know." He asked,
"It's better for everyone, and makes my life easier in general." I boorishly reply,
"How?" He annoyingly asked,
"Wouldn't you like to know?" I dismissively answer,
He looked at me in a sustained frustration, but I didn't care.
"I'm going to do this slowly, watch, carefully." I warn,
The runt simply nodded at the sentiment, and looking intently at every move I made.
To learn by practice is simply how I live, to repeat another's actions. It's instrumental that scrappers learn via less academic methods, mostly because we can't read for a majority of our lives, otherwise due to the fact it's impossible to explain certain factors.
I slowly aimed at one of the panels, and fired three times. All three shots hit. I aimed at another panel, fired three times. Two shots hit- Well, I never said I was perfect did I?
"You missed one" The runt obnoxiously pointed out,
"Amazing observation, runt. But don't get it twisted, I land my shots when it counts." I rudely reply,
"Well, what if I only hit when it counts?" He idiotically countered,
"Then show me. You have three shots." I threateningly reply,
A bit of threat of retribution makes anyone better at aiming. I would know, I've been best at hitting shots under the threat of death to rust-buckets, raiders, and my mentor.
The runt went up the the position of fire, and mimicked my exact movements. He aimed at the closest of the panels, he fired once, missed, fired again, missed. The third shot wasn't fired.
Disappointing.
"Are you going to fire the third shot, runt?" I ask,
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The runt turned back to me, and shook his head in self-loathing.
Well, potential is never obtained instantaneously is it? I guess he'll scrap later, I'll probably be dead by then. I returned the gesture to him, and began leaving the range without warning.
"Wait, what about your handgun?" He quickly asked,
"You'll need it more then me." I dishonestly answer,
I'll be able to buy another once I reach the next nearest den probably, besides he'll need it more than me if the raiders get past the choke point. I don't have too much confidence in the ability of some elderly sandbag to prevent a whole gang.
Either way, once he starts scrapping he'll need it more than me.
Out from the range I made my way across again to the left bridge, crossing it and making my way to the exit. I stop momentarily at the exit, a moment of respite, relief, or maybe even regret. But, you can't be charitable forever.
When you travel alone, there are assurances, depending on who you are they can be good or pretty damn miserable. I'm not a particularly personable partner, though no scrappers are it seems- well, the ones I've worked with before.
One of those assurances is how quiet it is, keeps the senses sharps and alert to any movement. But, the quiet itself, it's quite the unsettling companion. Once you've gone along with it long enough, you learn to hate it, and then you learn to forget it.
Until you remind yourself again of course. Most methods of such come via a bullet.
I retrace our steps, my steps, through the station. Making my way upward into the plaza, where I was greeted by the collapsing of metal tiling from the roof. There was a cascading blanket of falling ash from the upper structures.
I had to wipe a lucky piece of ash from my eye, before witnessing a collection of lights coming from the post outside in the plaza. I made sure to look downward the tunnels to my flanks, last thing I need is an ambush to kill me.
I've been in there longer than anticipated, moving in ash is- well, it's a bad idea, but I have to go.
I make my way out the cart plaza, being constantly hit with the annoying thick wind, honestly sometimes I think the acid is more bearable than ash. I find the constantly clattering and simmering metal infinitely less irritable, and no less dangerous.
I attempted to make over to the way over to the path which leads down to the next nearest den, the other pathway from the gated point into the empty heap. Not like I had any other options, the rest were too skinny- or just no longer there.
"Oi!" The elderly man shouted,
He received my attention, as I attempted to prevent further ash falling into my eyes using my mechanical hand, to little success. I walk carefully, my rifle steady to the origin of his voice.
"What the hell do you want, old dickhead?" I crassly say,
"You been in there awhile'. Tryin' to snag a podling?" He gruffly accused,
I got closer, with the ash clearing from my vision to the point where I could properly discern him completely. The old man had a steady hand, aiming his rife at me from his seat.
"None of your damn business, I got better things to do than waste anymore time here." I reply,
"Yeah? Why'd ya' help that rat then, ain't never seen a scrapper so soft. Unless he got somethin' to gain." He said,
I was half considering just shooting him there, but his finger laid on the trigger like it had been for a century. I don't have interest in trading bullets, I have little time to repair equipment.
"I've never seen an old dickhead like you so confident. What are you, a reaver?" I slyly ask,
"Do I look like a fuckin' reaver to you, boy? I was scrappin' before you were walkin' out your pod." He brashly replied,
"Looks like all you did scrapping was collect this entire heap, leaving your little shithole exposed." I assume,
"Ye' my legs don't work like they used to. Besides, we had a scrapper we could rely on, didn't we? Suppose not, he'd prefer to run than kill some raiders." He explained,
"Not like it's my problem, or my job. Didn't think you'd be short a hip replacement either." I simply reply,
He looked at my weapon, then back at me. He would then chuckle for a few seconds to my confusion, with that putting his aim off of me to the side.
"Or maybe ye' just a liar, and there ain't no raiders." He surmised,
"Yeah, cause I'm going to lie to you for no damn reason. You lost your damn head or something, you crazy dickhead?" I asked puzzled,
"We ain't had raiders here for over 10 years, boy. Why would they come 'ere now? For the empty heaps? Give me a break." He said,
"Keep that attitude while guarding against them, and you'll die. I'm sure you know that, old scrapper." I calmly reply,
I turn to leave, my patience running ever thinner. How did this den even form? It makes no sense, an SC, an irritating amount of podlings, a single old scrapper, and some journeymen? Strange.
"How badly you want that podling?" He called out,
"You're making a lot of assumptions old timer, I don't want no podling." I rudely reply,
"I know a scrapper lookin' for a podling when I see one." He gruffly retorted,
"You're wasting my time." I dismissively state,
"Well, I guess not, since he ain't no podling." He slyly said,
That was enough to get me to turn back the old idiot. He's trying to tell me that there's a random natural-born out here, in the outskirts? What a load of shit, not even the centre has had any in- well, forever.
"Yeah, I hear that from the runt as well, doesn't make it anymore believable." I assuredly state,
"If ye' help, ye' can have 'im. I ain't got not use for him, nor do the SC. Unfortunate he's missin' a leg, but it happens." He replied,
"Thought you said there are no raiders? Why do you believe me now?" I sharply say,
"No, it ain't raiders. I know what it is." He cryptically answered,
"Convenient. How does an outskirt den get their hands on a natural-born? I know it's not yours or the SCs, got neither of your faces." I curiously ask,
The old man looked at me coldly for an uncomfortable few seconds, he seemed completely unresponsive to the cold ash smacking the left side of himself. Nor does he seem particularly worried of the threat of whatever is coming.
"An old friend of mine and a girl, that's all I can be bothered to remember." He coldly replied,
"Ok. I'm not helping you." I boorishly say,
"So the magazine ye' found was enough then, to scare ye'? Leave it up to young scrappers, fuckin' cowards the lot of ye'." He crudely stated,
"I'm not dying over some outskirt den, dickhead." I reply,
"Give me your age, and I'd be able to kill anythin'. No matter the calibre of some rifle. But I'll be waiting for death, ye' can keep runnin' from it." He spat,
"I'd need to see that to believe it." I lazily respond,
Then the gate cable twisted, before shaking a multitude of metal rods hanging above the old man in the post. Well, it's a primitive alarm system, but it works. It grabbed both of our attention, though the old man had no hesitation in him left it seemed.
He picked himself up, and quickly shuffled as fast as an old man could over to the side of the door. Though he then took the time to look at me, as I sharply turned away to get out of this situation I got myself in.
"Show it in yer'self boy. You got no choice now." He coldly said,
Asshole.
It's hard to justify my decision, but I was simply doing what was best for me. I have done my part for this den, and it's just no longer justifiable to remain. But, It's safe to say I don't regret anything.
I had neglected to run immediately, as I had naively believed that somehow this old sandbag would be able to actually utilise the extremely advantageous chokepoint to permanently hold off any threat. After all, his long gun should be no worse than any raiders.
I can grant this den one compliment, it's extremely well placed and easy to defend. If the old man just fires some shots any raider would be scrambling to get out of that situation. It's simple raider logic, if they fight back, fuck off. It's all about self-preservation to them after all.
Well, if it was any raider.
I couldn't help but turn my head to watch the old man at work, and he did as I had anticipated. He turns the corner, aiming his gun up, steady and prepared. He was certainly a scrapper, an old, outdated, out of shape scrapper- but, a scrapper nonetheless.
Except, I hear one shot. So loud you'd think it came from one of the carts falling off the tracks into the undercity. A shot which shook me to my core the moment it happened, and it only took a moment. The old mans long gun flung into the air.
A thick red mist blended into the ash almost instantaneously, his body absent of a head crashing into the ground. Any sound of bone, blood, or any bullet was overshadowed by that singular weapon firing.
This isn't any raider.
