Duck and Cover

One: Betrayal

The Red Claw fireteam leaped out of the Hummer,myself last. We ducked behind the rubble of a half-destroyed building next to where the Hummer was parked, and all took our last checks on our gear – nobody likes a jam in a firefight, after all, and this one would be a doozy.

Our team of assorted malcontents consisted of five humans. Our “feahluss leaduh� Max was a huge fellow, easily available for promotion to mutant at any time. He hefted an ancient Browning Automatic Rifle from long before the war – an antique, and I was surprised it still fired – and an endless supply of things that boom and sizzle: C4, frag grenades, thermite, and one of those cut-down Flambé 450 Flamer pistols. He was known in New Reno as “Mother,� presumably because anyone who tried to go any further than that was busy spitting teeth.

Sawboy was El Doctoroo, our chauffeur, and the man who could fix or “organize� (meaning break) anything that wasn't permanently bonded to something. And, as he was fond of saying, anything able to be knocked loose with a few shotgun blasts or a sledgehammer wasn't well affixed.

Anabelle could have qualified for Ms. Snipermodel of the Year, had there been a contest for that. She could pop a glow rat at about two hundred meters, too, and do the same to a man with a knife. Ouch. We couldn't figure out why she stayed working with us, because she had offers from three of the big Reno families to come work for them.

Kyle Macleton – where he got that last name I'll never know – was the official grunt. Slow and stupid, but absolutely fearless. He was a decent shot with an AK-47, and as tough as a deathclaw on Psycho.

And...well...then there was me, Adrian Cord. I was a fairly good crowd controller with a Saiga autoshotgun, and a decent medic as well. I had had some experience with technical stuff, working for the Mordinos for a while. That Myron – what a lunatic. Glad that someone finally knifed him. I was only sixteen at the time, leaving me called “kid� quite often.

Max went over our plan yet again. (Four times, apparently, wasn't enough.) This was a fair-sized slaver camp. Now, the official read was that we didn't care that they were slavers. We did care, however, that they were slavers without the tats. There was a pretty large reward out for the head of their leader: ten kilos of pure, refined gold. That translated to about eight thousand coins. Or a thousand each, barring expenses. Now, the plan was pretty simple. Crazy Bomber Max was going to go sneak up to the slaver camp and plant a brick of plastic explosive on part of the wall. When it blew, we were to charge in and do our stuff, with Anabelle hanging back and capping the guards. It might work. We hoped. While we charged in, Sawboy was going to go pull something I saw in an old pre-war western movie I saw once when the Golden Globes were low on their material. He was going to go stampede their brahmin, hopefully running the slavers down or out through the main gate or their soon-to-be new door, created by Red Claw Contracting, Inc.

On Max's hand signal, Anabelle took position behind a wall. She poked her head and DKS sniper rifle out, and began picking off targets. The other four of us belly-crawled out from behind the wrecked structure and began to advance towards the fort. Kyle noticed a small but deep channel going almost the entire length of the open field towards the fort, and jogged Max's elbow to point it out.

Max whispered, “The channel. Sawboy, take point, and go do your thing.�

Sawboy did as instructed. Once in the channel, we noticed it was large enough that we could stand upright and still be under cover, so we jogged the length of it instead of crawling. Sawboy kept going while we took a right and scrambled out of the trough, covered in mud and what may have been human waste. Good thing I had my gloves and helmet on.

We approached a corner of the square compound. Max had to kick a corpse toppled from the catwalk, a fist-sized hole punched through his upper chest – good shot, probably from Anabelle's fire. He pulled out a hand axe and swung a few times into one of the wooden support beams, leaving a fair-sized gouge in the beam. After stuffing a block of plastique in the hole, he joined us in ducking on the other side of the perpendicular wall. Holding up six fingers (one of those small random mutations, you know), he counted down to one, and triggered his detonator.

I was almost deafened by the concussion of the blast. When we looked around the corner, though, we were in much better shape than the wall. The C12 had cored a hole two and a half meters wide, and collapsed the walkway on top of the wall. The three of us climbed over the rubble of concrete and charcoal. Inside, there was a skin- and cloth-covered hut, leaving us with two avenues to go down. After strapping down my Saiga and drawing my .45 caliber Casull revolver, I made a third way, pulling out a switchblade, slashing through the skins, and bulling my way into the hut as Max and Kyle took the other two ways towards the open.

I burst in on a bunch of obviously-mistreated tribal slaves. Fecal matter, blood, urine, sweat, and the stench of fruits, vegetables, and pseudo-humans rotting made up the olfactory attack that assaulted my nostrils, and it took a concerted effort not to gag. A slaver, probably a guard, was just exiting the flap of leather that served as a door as I went in. I took a potshot at him with my Casull, and was rewarded by a scream and a yelled curse. I figured I must have hit him, then.

I glanced around the squalid hut as I shouldered my way through the throng of tribals. It was about thirty feet by fifteen feet, and had about seventy people in it. The people looked pretty bad, with swollen stomachs, sunken eyes, listless movement – all pointing towards malnutrition. Which made little sense, as who would purchase slaves that were looking that bad? I exited the hut and almost ran into a wall of beef.

Yes, a wall of beef. Specifically, the entire herd of brahmin were charging at me. Joy. And of course, the horned males had to be in the front. Don't ask me how I got out of there in one piece. I can't tell you. I dodged, weaved, shot at least two, climbed on top of a slaver that was getting knocked down...you name it, it occurred. I survived mostly unscathed, though I had a piercing pain on my left hip. I didn't have time to check it then, though. The only casualties I cared about were my wits. The slavers hadn't made out so well. At least four that I could see were trampled by the onslaught of cow.

A voice behind me yelled, “Adrian!� I spun around. There was Kyle, grinning like a lunatic and firing his AK-47 off into the air. He should have known better than that. And he paid for it with his life; a slaver rose up onto his knees behind him and fired both barrels of his shotgun into Kyle's back.

Now, even with combat armor on, two shells of twelve-gauge shot hit approximately like a freight train, even if none of the pellets penetrate the armor. Some of them did, though, and Kyle's sternum and collarbone area erupted into a gory volcano of bits and pieces. Note to self: armor doesn't protect much when the shot's coming back out...

Forcing back vomit, I popped the slaver with my .45 dead in the ten-ring. He flopped back onto the dusty ground as I inspected my own wounds. I had gained a slash right across my rear, which would leave an amazing scar, and my helmet had a new ding on it. Must have absorbed a stray pellet or something. I pulled a stimpak out of my belt pouch and plunged it into my thigh, and I started to feel better almost immediately, the slash across my rear fading from a piercing-type pain to a dull throb. I whistled high and sharp and got a return whistle as Max came barreling by, extending an arm and taking me down in a clothesline.

A good thing, too. A gout of flame ripped into the air, accompanied by what sounded like a blast from God's own assault cannon. I looked questioningly over at Max as he rolled to his feet, and he grinned at me. “C4 and thermite bomb dumped in their ammo stash,� he explained.

I gave him my best pirate's smile. “Echo that. Let's get these fraggers,� I snarled, unlimbering my Saiga autoshotgun.

He nodded and began to move towards the back of the compound, weaving between slaver and brahmin corpses, spitting bursts of fire from his BAR. I followed more cautiously and spied an excellent shotgun lying in a slaver's hands. I was sure the guy wouldn't mind having his shotgun taken – after all, his head was smashed in with a hoofprint directly across his nose. As I examined the gun while wiping bits of the poor sap off it, I realized it was a Pancor Jackhammer. This made me think twice. A Jackhammer? In a slaver camp? I hadn't seen any weapons of worth here except this. Maybe a few AK-47s and AK-74s, but little else. Curious. I took it, tossing away my Saiga after verifying that that shotgun's clips would work with the Pancor, though at some point I'd need to get the full 12-round ones made specifically for the Pancor.

I looked up to a quite strange sight. Max ate a rifle butt, swung by...Sawboy? What exactly was going on here? He had to be a mole or plant of some kind. Thanks a lot, God, for sneaking him in here. You've got some sense of humor, I thought as I began charging towards the two of them.

Max rolled backward and pulled a pistol of some kind out. I saw him speaking, but it was too quiet for me to hear. Sawboy apparently did, though, and fired a full ten rounds into him, dropping him as a smoking corpse.

I trained my new shotgun on the traitorous rat. “Ice, jackanape!� I ordered through clenched teeth.

He dropped his rifle and looked at me, grinning. “How nice of you to join me.�

“Hands up.�

He complied, saying, “Oh, killing me won't matter. After all, you've got the Brotherhood of Steel after you, you know.�

I quirked an eyebrow. “Keep talking.�

“They want you alive for some reason. I think it was to do with genetic testing or some such.�

“Right. And my mother's a mutant.�

Sawboy shrugged and lifted his chin. “I think I can hear a vertibird now. What about you?�

Damn him, he was right. I could hear something. I triggered a blast, blowing his face off, then ran like hell. I scrabbled through the channel we had run through to get to the base to get a better vantage point. One of those Brotherhood vertibirds was indeed landing outside. I saw a figure – Anabelle, I assumed – running away from it, and watched as a rocket streamed from the side of the flying machine and made a crater of her and a six foot radius around her.

Staying low, I began crawling through the channel again. It didn't look like they had hit our Hummer. A good thing, too. Not only had we spent a fortune to get enough fusion cells for it, I could use it to get out. Wait, reverse those two priorities. Anyway, I kept going to the channel's end, where I was almost parallel to the wrecked building. After three seconds to prepare myself, I rose out of it and began running towards it.

They spotted me immediately. Unlike what they did to Anabelle – damn them! - they didn't fire at me. The six soldiers in combat armor began chasing, though. Crap. I pulled one of my three frag grenades from my belt and threw it. The soldiers hit dirt, and I think I winged one of them. The others rose and kept coming after the detonation, about fifteen meters behind me. I put on a burst of speed, only twenty meters away from the Hummer! The commanding officer in the Iron Maiden – power armor – stood in my path. He yelled through his shoulder speaker, “Freeze, dirtbag!�

I didn't listen. I exploited the one weakness in power armor, speed. I darted to the side, just barely missed by the guy's fist - I could feel the tips of the metal gloves brush my shoulder, and that was just way too close. I gave the Steel boys a parting gift, a grenade thrown with all my strength towards the vertibird sitting less than fifteen meters from me, swiveling weapons towards me.

And be damned if it didn't explode right on top of a rotor! The blades of the now-quite-disabled vertibird streamed in all directions. One impaled the boy in the tin suit, shearing him in half at the waist. Yeah! Score one for me! I hopped into the Hummer and gunned the fusion-powered engine and roared off into the wastes. They didn't follow.

Two minutes later, I was suddenly shaking like I had rad-sickness. Adrenaline, I figured, and kept driving. Then it hit me: it wasn't just adrenaline dropout. My three best friends in the whole damned world – Sawboy excluded from that list, thank you very much – were dead. Grimly looking at the road ahead, I swore then and there that the Brotherhood would regret trying that little trick on Adrian Cord...

(Feel free to post comments - this is the first fanfic I've done in a while. And if anyone knows how to add paragraph tabs to a post, please tell me.)

Two: Recruitments

I wandered around the wastes outside New Reno for almost a week before I worked up the nerve to go back into the City of Minor Sins. This was a new mindset for me; never before had I run scared like that. I didn't like it.

My thoughts wandered often during those six days. Once I get into New Reno, I've gotta ditch the Hummer. Maybe I can fake my own death with it. Wait, that gives me an idea. Why don't I just fake my death and keep the truck? Damn, I hate those Brotherhood boys. I should go look up Big Jesus. And on and on. Sometimes they repeated; more often they didn't.

I hid the Hummer in a ravine north of the city. I piled a bit of brush on top of it, hoping that some inconsiderate soul wouldn't come across it and try to steal it. I made my way to town leisurely over the next hour, the sun beating down on me – though I really didn't notice all that much. Nobody paid me any attention once I got to the city, doing my best to exude a “don't touch me� aura. I guessed I was successful.

New Reno hadn't been the same since that schmuck that took out the Enclave – he always kept calling himself the “Chosen One� - had rolled through. The guy whacked Boss Salvatore – how much skill does that take? The guy could barely breathe! He did then take out all of Salvatore's men, but that's besides the point. It wouldn't be beside the point, however, if the greedy little freak hadn't taken all the laser pistols, too. What a shame. Angela Bishop was getting seriously preggers, and John Bishop was almost dead. It was rumored to be poison, administered by his wife. Of course, nobody could point fingers at her, because a hit operation by the Wrights capped her a few months before. And the guy took out Myron! I mean, the guy was a snake, sure, but he really didn't deserve to have half his face blown off. Wait, this was the Jet guy. Yeah, he did deserve it. Pardon my digression.

I wandered into the Mordinos' casino. The Desperado was showing some signs of decay, even more than it used to. I guess since Myron's death and the way the Stables got blown to bits, the Mordinos weren't making the money they used to. And out of them all, I liked them the most. They had hired us for a few jobs, mostly ambushes of other families outside the city and a couple of deathclaw extermination jobs. We had also given them a hand when some assassin sent by Bishop came trying to cap both Big and Little Jesus.

Louie, Big Jesus's new bartender – they never lasted, always the first to get shot – was in the middle of pouring a patron a beer when I walked in. He was a fairly nice guy for a Reno boy, and I liked him. He looked up and mimed giving me a toast. “Good to see you, Adrian. We all thought you was dead. We heard Sawboy shot up your team,� he said to me as I leaned against the rotting wood of the bartop.

“Yeah, yeah. I got him good though. Seems I'm going to need some help on this. Jesus around?� I asked.

“Which one?� he asked.

“Either.�

He nodded. “Upstairs, both of them. Big J's a bit busy, though. I wouldn't bother him if I were you.�

“Check. Thanks, Louie.� I started up the stairs.

At the top, one of the ubiquitous Mordino guards gave me a mock salute, and I returned it with a salute of the middle finger. “Hey, Cord. Who you lookin' for today?�

I grinned. “Lil' Jesus around?�

He nodded and pointed down the hall. “Last door on the right.�

I jandered on down and pounded a fist on the door.

A voice from behind it yelled, “Who the frag is it? I'm busy!�

I groaned. “Jesus, open up. It's Adrian Cord.�

The door opened promptly. I went in. I was struck, as always, by the incredible filth this guy could live in. Then I remembered I had went wading through a privy channel. I nodded to him as he sent one of his girls off somewhere. “Been a bit, Lil' J. How's business?�

He scowled. “Bad as ever. That little bastard that killed Myron screwed us good. We ain't gonna be recovering soon.�

I winced sympathetically. “I remember. Listen, I need a favor.�

“Yeah?�

I nodded again. “Yeah. A big favor.�

He sighed. “Sure, shoot. We owe you a bit, but don't ask too much or I'll cut you good.�

“You're so charming, Jesus. Listen, I'm in trouble. You know what happened to Max and the others.�

He nodded. “Tough break there, man.�

“Well, the ones who had us hit were the Brotherhood of Steel.�

He started laughing. “You're bullin' me.�

I shook my head. “They aced Anabelle and Max. Well, Sawboy popped Max. I got him, though. And put a hurting on one of those vertibirds they've got.�

He chuckled. “How?�

“Grenade.�

“Ahh. So what's your favor?�

I shrugged. “Oh, I need a few people to give me a hand. I'm going east, towards Las Vegas, at first at least. Going to go there 'till the Steel boys aren't so interested in me. And I want some extra firepower.�

Little Jesus smirked. “Is that it?�

“Yeah.�

He nodded. “Okay, I think I can clear it with Father. Stay the day in one of the spare rooms, and we'll see if we can get you some gunmen.�

I mock-bowed. “Thank you, Lil' J. You're all heart.�





I had to hand it to him. Little Jesus and his father had come through in spades. They got me three hotshot mercs, who they swore up and down couldn't be bought off by anyone.

Marco Andreas carried a HK G11 and an attitude far larger. He was well known as having been a former NCR Ranger and being kicked out from blasting apart a superior with a misplaced grenade. Oops. I liked the guy. He also was supposedly a tech wizard. I doubted that, as he seemed a bit slow, but I decided to keep that to myself.

Little Jesus's perverse sense of humor showed in his second choice. Karo, no last name given, was a ghoul. And one that needed a bath. Really, really bad. He wasn't well known, but he seemed to be competent with a sniper rifle.

The last one I knew well. Her name was Alicia Hartnett, and boy, was she scary. I never knew anyone so good at absolutely everything. She toted around a Vindicator, she knew more about computers than God himself, possibly, and was pretty nice. She worked with the Red Claw a few times on big jobs, including one nasty raider camp that probably could have hurt us a lot worse if she wasn't around.

I met them all upstairs under the watchful eye of a few Mordino guards. I extended a hand to each of them in turn (even Karo...one must make sacrifices...) and introduced myself. I told them our general plan. “We're going to head east, towards the Glow Lands. Not only is it a safer area to be – I don't mean radiation-safe, I mean not-getting-killed-by-nasty-people-safe – but Big Jesus wants us to check out a possible vault somewhere near old Las Vegas – have any of you ever heard of that place or been there?�

They had all heard of it, but none had ever been there. Couldn't expect that, I supposed. It was a long, arduous trip, and I doubted any of them had vehicles that could speed it up. Mentally, I evaluated them all. Alicia was one I couldn't figure out, and doubted I ever would. Karo seemed to be a twitchy type; I never once saw him stop fidgeting. Marco was definitely the most calm of the three, though. I felt, against my best intentions, that this was a somewhat-trustworthy guy.

Karo spoke up. “Uh...what about payment?� he asked in a high, reedy voice that faltered every few syllables.

I nodded at him. “The Mordinos will cover the first four months of pay. Four thousand each. After that, we'll negotiate.�

They all agreed; it was a pretty fair deal. I smiled at them all. “We leave in three days. Be here, and I'll have your payment ready.�

They nodded and exited.





About midnight that night, I was woken up by a pounding on my door. “What?� I yelled.

It was Little Jesus. “Fight downstairs! Get down and help!� he ordered.

I groaned. My butt still hurt from getting gored, I hadn't slept in three days, and I had to go fight? It was ridiculous. But I guess I owed them, since they fixed me up with some backup, and I put on my new gray and light brown desert camouflage combat armor and headed downstairs with my Pancor.

It was already chaos. Ten soldiers, all of them in dark gray and green armor, were near the entrance to the Desperado, guns blazing. About thirty of Mordino's men were arrayed behind tables and the bar, firing blindly over it. Three Mordinos were down, and the soldiers – Brotherhood types, I guessed, probably coming after me – were unhurt.

Well, this was a fine pickle, wasn't it? I made my way over to where Little Jesus was taking cover and firing off an M16. “Well, these guys are just great party crashers,� I quipped.

He looked at me. “Shut up.�

“What do you want me to do? I don't have any rifle. Just a shotgun.�

He sighed and thought a moment, spending it leisurely emptying a clip over the roulette table. “Do you think these are those Brotherhood boys after you?�

“Probably.�

He cast me a disapproving look. “Go through the window, then. Get the Bishops, and tell them the Brotherhood is coming to burn all of Reno. And it might not be a lie, either, because one of my boys saw another thirty or so coming up a bit slower."

I complied. Taking a running jump, I crashed through the weak window. I didn't land well at all, and hit pavement with a loud whoosh. I took no time to indulge the pain, though, and stumbled up the street to the Shark Club. The bouncers stood in front of the door, snarling at me. “No Mordinos here, Cord. You ain't welcome here,� one of the goons said.

I looked at them. “The Brotherhood or NCR or someone's coming to burn Reno! Now get me John Bishop, so I can get about saving you sorry monkeys!� I shouted in their faces.

They looked at each other, and wordlessly parted. I tore through the casino, earning disapproving looks from a few patrons, and went up the stairs to the second level. I had only been here once, but there was only one place Bishop would be: the top. I went to the bottom of the second stairwell and spoke to the guards. “The Brotherhood is attacking New Reno, intent on burning the city. The Mordinos humbly request that the Bishops assist them in repelling them, and also asks that the Bishops send a messenger to the Wrights to tell them as well.�

They looked at each other, obviously disgusted at what they thought was a lie.

That was when the stray rocket hit. We could hear a huge explosion just above our heads, and the concussion knocked us all to the floor. The guards rushed up the stairs, me just behind, to where John Bishop lay, leg sheared off by shrapnel and almost unconscious.

The guards looked back at me. “The Brotherhood?� they asked me.

I nodded.

Bishop stirred. “The...Brotherhood...?� he asked.

One of his guards related the short version of the short version of the story. Bishop nodded. “Go help them,� he said. “This threatens all of Reno. Kill them all, and bring me the heads of the attackers.�

They came.





Myself, forty Bishops, twenty Wrights, and about thirty assorted citizens charged down towards the Desperado. The other thirty Brotherhood soldiers had arrived, and were indeed firing indiscriminately. Some of the other citizens, notably Jules and Jagged Jimmy, were in the Desperado helping Mordino's men. Everyone, regardless of family affiliation, was here to assist.

It wasn't helping matters any. The unarmored citizens were torn down in seconds by machine gun fire. The family guards were doing better, and at least a few Brotherhood soldiers were down, but they were definitely winning. And that was before I saw flashes of red and green fire coming out and melting Reno townsfolk.

I tapped one of the Wrights on the shoulder. “Go down to New Reno Arms. That guy's probably got some of those weapons,� I said to him. He nodded and went off.

I liberated an H&K MP9 off one of the bodies nearby, and began firing towards the Brotherhood soldiers. One burst took a soldier in the helmet, leaving him staggered but on his feet. Just in time for a blast from a Barret sniper rifle nearby to blow a hole in him. The crowd cheered, and the fighting intensified.

Alicia dropped down beside me, minigun in hand. “Howdy, Adrian. Having fun?�

I looked at her. “Lots,� I said dryly.

She giggled and began firing the big gun. She stitched the crowd, drawing blood occaisonally but mostly just forcing them to take cover. “We aren't going to win this this way, Adrian! These weapons aren't going to cut it!� she yelled towards me. And she was right: we weren't.

The fighting raged back and forth for a while. The Brotherhood had superior armor, firepower, and tactics; we had superior amounts of fire to throw at them, and a lot more people. More and more people were pouring out to help, and we didn't have a half second without bullets whizzing around us. Feels like it must have during the Great War, I thought. Every few seconds, that huge rifle behind me went off, and every time, I almost messed myself. That was a small price to pay, though; the Brotherhood boys that got shot usually didn't get back up.

The Wright boy I sent off to get the arms dealer returned, with the man himself in tow. “I've got some,� the arms dealer shouted, and handed me one.

I turned it over in my hands. “How do I fire it?� I yelled back. He looked at me, not comprehending, and I mimed firing it.

“Oh! Pull the trigger, and to reload, slide in a new one of these!� He handed me a small battery. I nodded at him, and he went to distribute the weapons to others.

I took a few shots with the weapon. It was amazing. No recoil, perfect accuracy, and massive lethality. My first shot darted across and holed one of the soldiers in the stomach. A few others took him down for good. I realized I really, really, really liked that gun.

Of course, that would have been too easy. The boys in combat gear fell back, shrouded in darkness as they retreated. And then the guys in the tin cans started approaching. At least ten had Vindicators, blowing smoking holes in everything they touched. Our little laser pistols didn't have enough power to punch through the armor, though that Barret behind me certainly wasn't having any trouble.

Marco dropped down on my left and poured out a clip from his G11. “Boss, this ain't gonna work!� he yelled, and I was forced to concur.

Then I saw Karo sneaking up behind the enemy soldiers. I pointed him out to Marco and Alicia, and they both gaped. The little ghoul scuttled in amongst the boys in their fancy-schmancy power armor, and wherever he went, the guy collapsed. I grasped what he was doing before anybody else. “He's using a Ripper!� I shouted, and was right.

Unfortunately for Mr. Smelly, one of the Brotherhood boys figured it out rather fast. The plasma bolt melted him into a little puddle. Ouch.

I finally made up my mind. Good luck, Reno, I thought as I hauled Marco to his feet and Alicia stood too. “Okay, we're leaving! The Hummer's outside Reno! Let's go!�

We scrambled out and down a side street, leaving the sounds of the explosions behind.

Two things
ONE
Good story overall
TWO
A couple of minor spelling errors but nothing serious (Its either that or my comps fucked up again)

More Ego bashing will come soon as soon as i find my sledge 8)

Spelling errors? Can you show me where? (My spellchecker's screwed up - doesn't like most of the Fallout terms - so I just said to hell with it and went over it myself.)

More to come later.

*Takes out his chapter 1 sledge and begins knocking holes in the compounds of the story*

Right to get things out of the way either my spellcheck is screwed or that it somehow got garbled in the translation from webpage to word document no spelling errors. Good job on that part. The story is a bit confusing until you reach halfway through chapter one and then resumes being confusing until you read chapter two. But a good job all over if this is your first one in a while a bit of gore is all well and good.
*Bashes it to bits and throws away chapter one sledge and picks up number two*

Relating to old events in the fallout all well and good but sometimes it can get a bit overactive but you melded it together pretty well untill you had all the other people coming along what were they doing forming an army? Just kidding but don't try to get overcreative half the time it backfires on you when people read it. They look and go "uhh whats happening?"

Army? Nah. You see, I operate under the consideration that people, on the whole, are not utter idiots. If you've got a hundred guys decked out in heavy armor busting in, I doubt that people would say, "I'm not gonna help and possibly let the town get burned out." Rather, they'd probably give some assistance.

(And part 3 is coming in a few days. That and the last two will tie it together rather nicely.)

You haven't seen that much of stupid idiots yet have you? But your probably right though, but tying it together nicel well... let the public be the judge of that.

The proud. The few. The good fanfics.

Not bad. Not bad at all. Good, even. I'm eagerly anticipating chapter 3.

This is one of the better fan fics I have read. It made sense and I felt like it was not a waste of my time to read like so many others I have read. Good job Blacken. I look forward to the rest of the story.

HD crash, so I've got to rewrite it again. Probably up by the end of the weekend.

Oh, and whoever selected "poor", could you please tell me why you believe that? I want to improve it, if you think it's bad. Of course, if you're the_chosen_one, who seemed to take offense at my labeling of his "story" illiterate, go back to your hole.