Exhaustion overcame Owen halfway up the stairs. Physically, he was spent. When a squad left the Prydwen their work remained. Projects might be delayed or temporarily transferred until the original scribe returned. But Artemis had not returned and little of what Scribe Faris handled was considered ‘low priority’. Owen took on the lion’s share of the new work. Spent long nights pouring over work well outside of his own specialties, trying to divine whether Faris was insane or simply attuned to another way of thinking. He must have given a third of his sleeping hours to the extra work. At first in an effort to do his duty, then to avoid the nightmares. They always started with an anxious thought. In this case, [i]what if Faris doesn’t come back?[/i] Then the dreams became more vivid. He saw the fields of wheat waving in the breeze outside their cottage. A great and gentle golden sea below the crisp blue sky. Beauty and satisfaction and the overwhelming feeling of a life he’d never thought attainable. Night after night, these perfect dreams. And then the anxious thoughts returned. [i]What if you don’t come back?[/i] The dreams feel just as real as they turn grim. Calming blues flash to horrifying reds. Rich golds to putrid grey. All of the world changes to those simple colors: red and grey. Fire and steel. Blood and ash. Owen laid in his bunk, restless. Despite all of the comforts and luxuries that the Prydwen guaranteed, he still found himself wanting. The night sky most of all. Real, honest to God darkness and maybe even a flash of a star. At least, he thought they were stars. He heard once any glimmers in the sky were just small radiation storms. That nuclear war choked the light from stars in most places. And yet Owen swore he had seen stars while lying on the rooftops in Olympia. Again on a mountain in California where he’d gone so far as to name one after his son. Maybe he was being romantic. [hr] While most shuffled or stumbled their way out of their bunks, a few managed to collect their things and leave with some semblance of subtlety. Owen waited for the last member of the squad before signing off of the shared terminal. One last message for Oliver. One message for the scribe who would cover his duties. One draft in case, like Faris before him, he did not return. Owen stepped onto the flight deck and took a deep breath. Most of the squad waited near or inside the vertibird. The irony of knights with their power armor, all polished, repaired, and ready for war, standing patiently for the mission to begin. He might laugh if not for their weaponry. Hell, he thought twice before making light of anyone in the squad. A strange tension loomed behind the familiarity already beginning to form. Owen knew the feeling, saw it on their faces as well. They had questions. Some might’ve even worked it out. “Helmets on,” ordered Paladin Moss. His voice barely audible over the beating wind and the vertibird’s engines. As the squad complied, the paladin descended the stairs from the main deck. “Coms are now live. Welcome to Recon Squad Zero. Mount up.” Whatever shred of resistance Owen felt against Moss melted. The paladin stood inches taller than anyone on the squad [i]without armor[/i]. That was no small feat considering they had McDowell. Add a bulky set of T-60 and Moss made Grognak the Barbarian look like the common rabble. When the paladin approached, Owen could only think to rush toward the vertibird. Moss waited for the others to board before climbing in last. “Lancer Brown take the co-pilot chair. Grimshaw’s on the right minigun. Esteves on the left. You will not open fire without my permission.” Turning toward Owen in the back of the vertibird, the paladin pointed to a window. “Rest of you try to make yourselves useful.” “Cleared to launch.” Grinning, the pilot gave Lancer Brown a thumbs up. “Watch how it’s done, kid.” “By the Will of the Elder and God, take us away!” Moss declared, grabbing a rail to stabilize himself. The vertibird shifted and lowered as a metal arm extended from the docking bay, putting distance between the chopper and the airship. Anyone not already strapped into the ship did so quickly. All except for the initiate, too green to know any better until the paladin took it upon himself to drop the harness over her shoulder. Methodically, he ensured the rest of the squad was prepared by scanning them one-by-one until satisfied. His check completed moments before the engines shifted into place. The dull hum came alive suddenly, erupting into a roar as the vertibird left the safety of the Prydwen for pre-dawn skies. Nobody spoke at first. It took awhile for the engine’s noise to fade into the background and one glance around the vertibird revealed most everyone was enraptured by the view. He even found Moss gazing out into the early morning darkness. While the magic of flight did not fade, the anxiety of a mission ill-understood grew too powerful to ignore. Owen felt around the left ear of his helmet until he found a small button. “Paladin Moss, a question.” Owen looked around, confirming that the rest of the squad could in fact hear him. “I wonder if now is a good time to go over the mission details.” If the question annoyed the paladin, he knew better than to show it. “The sole purpose of Recon Squad Zero is to locate and, if needed, rescue our lost brothers and sisters. Recon Squad Artemis went dark three months ago. They were tasked with surveying [i]the Commonwealth[/i], what was formerly known as [i]Boston[/i]. We have intel saying there are settlements there. We have also have word the area is infested with super mutants, ghouls, and desperate wasters. We do not know is who or what is responsible for our missing brothers and sisters. The only people you will trust are on this chopper. Anyone else is a potential hostile. We will find our comrades. We will make anyone involves pay. Failure is not an option.” Moss performed the salute. “Ad victoriam!” “Ad victoriam!” the squad repeated. Nodding in approval, the paladin continued. “The last message received from Artemis came moments before entering the target area. We believe there is a trading hub in the area. Our search begins there.” Moss paused, before handing a bulky, handheld screen around the group. It displayed the names of the missing squad with photos from their dossier. “We have a couple hours until we arrive. Get familiar. Ready your weapons. Talk. Whatever you need to prepare... Go on!” Grunting, the paladin turned to Grimshaw and Esteves. Without looking, he gestured for McDowell to approach as well. Once they collected, each one quicker than the last to meet the paladin’s gaze, Moss awarded their eagerness with silence. And nothing else. He said and did nothing. Not so much as a nod of approval. Either it was a test or Moss was just woefully inept at small talk. [hr] The two hours passed in a blur. Outside the grey-and-green rubble signature of the Capital Wasteland changed. Conversation changed with it. First, as the eerie glow poured in from the red sky, the conversation stopped. They stared out into an impenetrable haze the color of fresh blood. It seemed as if the world itself threatened to consume them. And then, like that very thought occurred to them all at once, the conversation restarted. Loud and frantic. Short and afraid. Light shot through the left rotor. The vertibird jerked counterclockwise, then dipped forward and barrelled. Shouting, so much shouting. The lead pilot pulled back, levelling off the vertibird suddenly and stumbling the passengers. Some fell. Others held themselves in place. Then nothing. [hr] Red clouds hung in the distance. South, assuming the T-60’s compass was functioning properly. Moss wondered. The geiger counter flared during the flight. Before the light. Quiet as a Sunday morning afterward. Didn’t matter. There was work to be done — God’s work. He rose from beneath a warped sheet of metal, which appeared to have been part of a shack before he came barrelling through. He stared at the collapsed structure a while until lifting a large piece of aluminum. It was Esteves. Wrapped in the arms of his power armor, Grimshaw. Both breathing. Neither appeared injured. The paladin split the area into sections. Lifted every bit of scrap from the old shack dutifully. Found McDowell partially sunken into the ground, as if he’d fallen straight down while the others were flung and skid to a stop. At least the knight-sergeant was stirring. He returned to Esteves and Grimshaw, dragging them one-by-one to larger building, then did the same with McDowell. It was a sort of warehouse. Assumed the shack had been related. An old cabin, maybe. Didn’t notice the piercing the searing headache until the work was done. Until realizing that half of the squad and the vertibird were missing. [hr] “Oh thank God,” the pilot whispered, his voice hoarse. He was bathed in red light shining from the top of the cockpit. “You’re a knight, right?” Owen stumbled to his feet, uneasy. “Scribe, actually.” “Shhh!” Disappointment washed over the pilot’s face as he pointed out the window. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust. The light outside looked strange, almost tinted pink, and not too far from them blood red clouds loomed high above. Like they sat in the doorway between Hell and Earth. Owen glanced back at the pilot, who again jabbed his finger outside. That’s when he saw them. Owen’s mouth fell open as he peered out of the cockpit. He tried the doors of the vertibird immediately, but neither would open. Scanned the interior with a panicked expression, hoping for a sign of what to do next. Barely noticing as the others slowly came to. “Put us down in a ravine. Probably why we’re still alive,” the pilot groaned. “Don’t think those ferals have spotted us yet. Counted... maybe fifty.” “Why didn’t you try to wake us up?” the scribe scolded, approaching the pilot’s chair then abruptly stopping. He saw the jagged tip of the tree protruding from the back of the pilot’s chair. It was a wonder the pilot was even alive, let alone speaking. Owen pursed his lips, then confirmed the co-pilot was alright. He looked to the back of the vertibird and found Kinsley and Patty getting their bearings. “We’ve got a situation, guys.” Owen unholstered his tactical pistol.