[center][img]https://fontmeme.com/permalink/190711/d85b94130afb7c4900935f5ab212fa77.png [/img] [/center] [right][hr][color=white][b][b]Smith's Rest | HQ Tram Station[/b][/b][/color] January 16th, 2677[hr][/right] [I]Good and evil.[/i] That was a humorous thought indeed. Enough years in the wastes were enough to show anyone that when put into a horrible, deadly situation, good and evil are replaced with rationality and barbarism. And every idiot with a gun, an NC or a sharp enough stick thought they were sly enough to be as barbaric as they wanted. Those were the kinds of folks Graham mentioned; raiders who preyed on any kind of scrap they could get. But something else seemed odd; and in the pit of Alan's gut, he had a strong feeling that was why he was out here at the ass-end of the world. This guy was corporate through and through. His dress, his words, his stance. Everything reeked of [I]professionalism[/i]. Which was hilarious to Alan, who was about as professional as a dishcloth. [color=gray]"The fact that you're not promising us a share from every corpse we loot at least means you're less of an asshole than some of the job posters out there,"[/color] Alan smirked. [color=gray]"But then again, this all smells way too professional to be a rinky-dink out of the way settlement. The fact that they have someone like you-"[/color] Alan nodded to Graham, [color=gray]"trying to organize a bunch of mercs and scavvers into some kind of military is interesting."[/color] He looked around at the pilots. They all came from various walks of life, he could tell by the gear they wore, the dirt on some of their faces. [color=gray]"Is that what you want out here? A military to protect a bunch of snow and scrap?"[/color]