Elysia caught back up to Scott fairly quickly. It seemed that she chose not to rob the would-be robber. It didn't concern Scott what she did with the dumbass, he only mildly hoped that she had taken the chance to strangle him to death or something. It would most likely save them from a future pain in the ass. Whatever, forget about it. Scott hefted his incinerator into a better position for firing, the pistons in his armor hissing quietly. He slowly stepped out of the building and into the ruined city. The harsh, flat light of the wasteland stung his eyes, but he squinted and quickly checked the corners around the outside of the building. He signaled to Elysia by glancing back at her and flicking his head forward, and continued down the street.

It was only a short walk to the Vertibird, but Scott was on full alert. Having the girl watch his back was an immense help, but he couldn't afford to be sloppy any more. He was still tingling a bit from the realization of how close to death he had been [i]three times[/i] in the last hour, and he very strongly did not feel like bumping the count to four. Hypervigilant, he scanned the street with a measured level of scrutiny; both wary of details that could be amiss, and not overly focused as to lose his peripheral vision.

Even so, the walk was still short, and Scott made it to the building containing the crashed vertibird without incident. Waiting for Elysia to follow up behind him, he stood at the door. Once she had caught up, he ducked in through the door. He checked the corners, and then tried to track down the vertibird. Judging by the smell of burning fuel not far from here, he assumed it was close. He followed the trail of launched debris and the sound of fires up a flight of stairs and across two rooms until he found the wreck.

Destroyed. All of it, ruined. The vertibird was utterly mangled, its cockpit caved in, the cab burst open and its legs and propellers warped in random directions. That wasn't the worst thing, though. Not by far. Six bodies were strewn across the room. Power armor was cracked, burned and destroyed. Limbs and heads were missing from bodies. None were recognizable, but he could account for six persons. Plus the pilot, who presumably was in the flattened cockpit. Scott dropped his incinerator, which hit the floor loudly. His fist clenched, power armor straining with the strength of his grip. He didn't cry. Not now, not here. He bit his tongue and swallowed hard. He was still in danger, he needed to move on. Scott tried to assure himself that he already knew that this was what he was going to find. But why this? Why did this happen? He clenched his jaw even harder, so that he heard his teeth grind. Grief would come later. Action came now.

He stowed his incinerator properly, and grimly set about collecting the bodies. Most were quite heavy in power armor, but he dragged all of them into the same approximate locations. One by one he laid them next to each other, setting lost limbs and such with whomever he could best guess that they had come from. Scott collected six gun, and set them in six(ish) pairs of hands. He collected six sets of dogtags, stowing them in a pouch on his armor. He gave a silent prayer to whatever God watched over America and the Enclave, and gave them one last salute.

That was enough. He had spent a good chunk of time on this, and he needed to move on. In several meanings of the words. Scott knelt down and picked up a discarded plasma grenade. This would be useful. He turned to Elysia with a deep weariness in his voice. "Take whatever you feel like," He said quietly. "But don't touch their guns or armor. We need to get going."