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TheMushroomLord
Fading Memory
Cleveraptor
mickilennialAlan Fouren
It’s ugly.
That was the first thought Alan Fouren had when he saw the Wild Wolf being carried in via a rusted loader. The armor was discolored and looked heavier on the right side. He’d later learn that they’d scavenged some of the armor off of old tanks left behind in the prewar. The town had wasted nearly all its funds to get the Wild Wolf running and battle ready; and even then they couldn’t afford to completely outfit it with surplus armor. The fact that it ran at all was miraculous.
Dead Springs was a part of a group of towns in the north border of Neo-Atlanta. Built in a sweet spot between two very hazardous dead zones—to the west and to the north. It also helped that the area had been home to several military installations; allowing for many junkers to leave the safety of the citadel for a chance to carve out a new life.
Dead Springs. Dry River. The Mound. These little junker towns made up a very helpful route between the megacity and the dead zones—which kept the southeast separated from some of the nicer cities in the north. A buffer zone between the danger that came with the radiation and the mutants. Dry River had been the major trading area; The Mound had carved itself a little niche in housing caravan companies between the big cities. Dead Springs was the odd man out, and it suffered. It was too small of a community to provide a helpful service, and many of the residents just eked out a living collecting scrap to sell at the Dry River market.
That’s when Alan had met the testers—in Dry River. He was one of three men tested from the Springs, and the only one that passed. But that was his chance—he could risk it all and provide for his family and his home. Something better than selling old scrap for the rest of their lives, anyways.
His first crew he met up with were boys from Dry River and The Mound. Dicer, Elicott and Janus. He’d known Elicott from Dry River; his parents ran a little bakery in the town and they got on well enough. Dicer was the oldest of the boys at 19, and he’d been running in his NC for close to a year. He was the closest thing to a commander the four had, even if they were untrained, unskilled and basically acting as extra muscle or guards for most caravan trips. Those days were the best in Alan’s mind, helping protect armorer transports with gear from Maneater Salamanders or from Acid Flies. Heavy armaments tore through thick hides and carapace like a hot knife through butter; and it made them all feel powerful. The money they brought home was what made it worthwhile, and Alan wanted to pay his home back for what they’d done for him.
Beasts he could face any day of the week. But other humans…
They were—
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BANG
Alan sat up in his bunk, his face covered in sweat. He assumed that something had broken or fallen in the barracks; it was nicer than some of the bunks he’d slept on in the wastes; by far it was so much better--but he knew that things broke all the time. This was a military operation after all. Gunfire changed that groggy half awake attitude into fear.
It’s an attack.
He’d seen night raids in the past; hell, he’d fought off countless ones when guarding caravans. Raiders were the kind of guys who snuck into camp at late night armed with knives and machetes. Cutting down anyone asleep and foolish enough not to hold a night watch; and then the phosphorous or the flares came and the NC attack hit. Sleeping Man’s Noose. The lights were out. He felt the stale air permeate through the room. The ventilation systems were off. No emergency lights were on either.
This isn’t like a normal raider attack.
He heard the voices from the other side of the barracks. Stein. Ryn. Ray. He counted them as at least alive in this situation, which meant that the barracks room hadn’t been breached yet. It meant that they still had time to arm themselves and get ready for a fight.
“Alright, everyone get the fuck up!” Alan jumped from his top bunk and slammed onto the floor. “If you’ve got a gun or a knife stashed away, fill your hands now. He moved deeper into the darkness, groping around the corner of the room, feeling for something. Where was it? He’d seen the staff in the barracks the day earlier, dismantling one of the beds…
Clang! Clang! Clang!
Nervous glances followed Alan to the corner of the room. He approached the gathering group, groping metal posts in his arm. Alloy bedposts. Not easily bent but lightweight and with enough heft to shatter a skull. Alan was used to weapons like that in the wastes; you didn’t get to prepare or arm yourself out in the shit. No, you had to make do with what you had or what you found out in the junk. He’d split enough skulls with shovels, water pipes and the sort in the past. Bedposts were new, but he figured he could do some damage.
“We won’t win a straight up fight with the heat they’re packing outside,” he said. “Automatic fire, and it sounds high caliber. I’d rather not open that door and become a bloody hunk of swiss.” He placed the extra metal rods on a free mattress, for anyone without a gun to arm themselves. “We pry off the vents. Move where they don’t expect us. Don’t attack unless we know we can win a fight with ‘em. And get to that fuckin’ armory.”
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7 Days Ago // Graham’s Office, New Anchorage CC
[[ Around 1400 Hours]]
[[ Around 1400 Hours]]
He’d been called into the Commander’s office. Why the fuck Graham wanted to see him was completely unknown to him. Maybe it’d been about the tests. Alan wondered if Graham had caught on to his actions during the test; purposefully holding back, missing shots, running slower and doing things wrong to keep his score in the low rung. He kept himself from failing; he knew he could easily get by without. But keeping expectations low was the purpose. He realized how low the stakes Graham had with pilots like Moore and Callaway being seriously considered. An Ace was more likely to get put on the front lines, special missions--missions where you could easily be torn the fuck apart. Those weren’t the missions Alan wanted. He’d seen enough of that.
"You wanted to see me, commander?" Alan noticed that the Commander was busy studying a datapad, barely acknowledging the other man’s entrance in the room.
"Yes. Congratulations, Fouren— I'm assigning you as Beta Squadron Commander."
Alan's heart dropped. "Are...you joking, commander? Why me?" He looked at his listing. "Come on, Sedgwick's military. Why not him?" What the fuck made a waster capable of leading a squad of soldiers. Graham was DV military. Sedgwick was a DV military brat. Hell, even Agatha flew for DV, even if she wasn’t a decorated officer. Any of them should have had the experience to outrank him all day long.
“Sedgwick never took down a whole raider contingent by himself with a compromised sniper as back-up.” Graham's face kept to his monitor screen. “Nor did he plan out an elaborate ambush of five raider settlements in the greater northern Georgia territory in the course of only a month.”
Alan sighed. "I was hoping my test scores and my trial time would make all that look fabricated."
“You have a habit of proving to be a good tactician and leader. Tell me something, Fouren. How is it that you have made a career out of outsmarting and outgunning more equipped enemies when they outnumber you? Why do you think that is?”
"I mean..." Alan looked down. "I just do what I have to in order to survive commander. I'm no military man. I just kick and bite and cheat until I win."
“That’s how people like us survive— corporate, waster, raider… we’re all the same at the end of the day, and those who can’t don’t.” He flicked the holoboard in front of his monitor. “The information on your squad has been sent on over to your datatool. Take a look.”
Alan scanned the list. "Ryn. She's a good sniper. I've worked with her on a few jobs. I trust her." He flicked down. "The soldier boy is a good man. His loadout is useful in a close firefight." And finally, "Commander. Are you kidding?" He looked at Madison's file. "She's already been through the grinder!"
“She’ll need you when she is operational again and she will be.”
"I feel like you want me to work miracles here."
“No. I want you to get the job done and lead by example. I sincerely doubt Stein Kalfox is thrilled with ‘guiding’ Percy Moore, but she’s expected to.”
"Percy and Ordent aren't that cracked, if you pardon my bluntness commander."
“You haven’t even read her dossier yet and are making judgements. Heh. I thought you cared about people, Fouren.”
"I care to an extent. I'm not interested in making friends. You hired me for my work as a pilot, not a social butterfly. I'll keep them in line and keep them alive, but I'm not gonna start throwing them birthday parties."
“Indeed. However, if I wanted you to throw them such occasions you will, but of course you know such things as you signed the digital contract. Unless you wish to lose your insurance and benefits from the position the contract allows.” Graham replied, though the words seemed unnecessary it was times like this he felt he had to assert control. “I’d familiarize yourself with your team now.”
“You’re dismissed.”
Alan left the office more pissed off than he’d been in a while. That fire burnt deep in his stomach. He wasn’t a leader. He’d never led a squad; just picked up the slack when others died. He didn’t have what it took to suddenly lead an entire team when shit hit the fan. He knew he’d freeze up and lose it when things got bad.
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Alan was busy prying the cover off the vent. “Ryn, Stein-” he called to the women. “You two can crawl through here.” It was funny. Here he was, doing everything to try and protect these people. Was it simply his own survival instincts kicking in? Was Graham right?