The faint smell of burning alcohol hung in the air as the RCMP Vessel Mississauga trundled along through the Erie canal, belching ethanol fumes into the air as it went. Its deck buzzed with activity, men and women dressed in plate carriers and forest camouflage manning their posts. Oliver Adams, for his part, stood at his station, a small cannon with a large, cylindrical drum attached to the side, his lightweight body armour dragging down on his shoulders.

Some small part of him almost wished he'd get the chance to use it. For more hours than he could count, though, he'd been listening to the crazed - and entertaining - ramblings of the former Gunner on the radio.

[i]At least he can pick his music well,[/i] the Sergeant thought, [i]and he keeps his guns pointed in the right direction.[/i]

Bored, he placed his hands on the old cannon's grip, swivelling the gun around on its mount. he wasn't too worried about being caught offguard - after all, the ship he was on carried far more firepower than was necessary to deter raiders - and he was protected by several inches of armor, both the boat's 'railing' and his gun's shield. Raiders were garbage shots, and even if they weren't, he assumed some mortar fire, at least half a dozen Ma Deuce,  several twenty-millimeter cannons, and a handful of Bofors would do the job. Most of the hardware was old, and without point defense lasers, the boat was still vulnerable...

But for a wasteland riverboat, it was more than enough.

Every once in a while, though, some idiots hopped up on Psycho tried to jump them, or some Gunners showed up to cause trouble. It was only the latter that worried him, he thought, swivelling his mount across the treeline, firing imaginary shells at imaginary attackers.

Again... And again... And again. Nobody showed up. Nobody caused problems for the Foreign Affairs Minister, and that made his job all that much easier. Letting out a yawn, he finally released his grip on the gun mount, leaning back against the wall behind him.

[i] Can't see shit out there, anyways. Even if the Gunners showed up, they couldn't hit shit in this weather,[/i] he thought, briefly sticking out his gloved hand out from beneath cover, catching a handful of raindrops.

Turning to his left, toward the bow of the ship, he peered far into the distance, down the last stretch of the Erie canal toward the Albany docks. He could see the faint, blinking lights of the radio tower in the distance, a mostly useless relic of a time when civil aviation [i]existed[/i]. 

"Hey, Campbell! It's your turn to watch the gun!" He shouted, turning to head into the bowels of the ship, eager to change out of his body armour.

The people in town always loved their red sarges.


[hr][/hr]

Straightening out his beige Stetson, Oliver sucked in a deep breath, carefully making his way down the gangplank and onto the Almont docks. Fishermen and traders buzzed about the place, some hawking goods, others gawking at the comparatively massive gunboat, the pristine flag of Ronto flying below the Canadian flag on a second, smaller pole. It felt good, honestly, being at the center of attention, even if a good chunk of the townsfolk thought Oliver looked like a stuffy asshole in his carefully maintained uniform, a leather holster clasped shut at his hip.

Making his way down the gangplank, he couldn't help but remember stories his grandparents told him of when the first Canadian Army soldiers rolled into their village. He wondered how many of these people felt the same about him as he gently pushed his way through the teeming crowd, pausing only to glance back at his fellow officers, confirming his departure one last time.

Now, though, it was finally time to get a drink.