By: Wolfen      The Saga Continues



        He woke up to see the angry red sky.  Kicking his fire out, he
recalls his grandfather telling him how the sky was once blue.  Crazy old coot,
about as stable as a Mad Medic.  Blue, he chuckles, you don't see much blue
nowadays.  Maybe in the well oiled sheen of his Herculean, maybe in the soon to
be severed veins of a Dreadvault.  He sighs, nope, not much blue.
        Striking camp, he checks over his equipment.  A little lower on Med
Kits than he'd like, but fingering the button on his Telegrasp he puts the
thought out of his mind.  Anyway, he feels strong, stronger than he ever has,
having tracked down the Oracle several times these past weeks.  He smiles as he
thinks of the torturing of several Bag Men.  He still wonders how they always
seem to know where the Oracle is at all times.  After "field stripping" a few
of them he knows that they don't have Trikorders surgically implanted.  A real
shame, that would have sure reduced the risk of poisoning.  Oh well, he'd just
have to take the next one out extra slow if he was ever going to get his
answer.
         Med Kits, Telegrasp, Rad Suit, his precious Trikorder, minus one
hastily choked down Ration, all there.  Though he knew it would be, he still
checks...... His green eyes turn grey when he recalls last week when some
traitor tried to sneak into his camp and steal his Trikorder.  Training his
herc on the slime and feigning sleep, he had watched the slime to see if he was
in desperate need.  He understood desperate need.  Once a cyclone had turned
him into a half-starved, weaponless, radiation crazed animal.  He had passed
out in the Wastelands, neither knowing or caring where he was, only expecting
the Wastelands to become his open grave.  His pain had woke him, or maybe it
had been the sound of the Herculean belonging to the recruit that had left him
two Med Kits and a ration.  No note, no message, only a pile of equipment and
the bodies of several Caturants and Vishnu to explain where his bounty had come
from.  Ever since that day he had been honor bound to help a recruit in
desperate need.  No note, no message.
        What had sneaked into his camp had not been any recruit in desperate
need.  It had been one of the slime that he'd heard about lately.  Rumors had
surfaced about renegade Humans, too insane from bloodlust or too foul to care
what they killed.  They had been assassinating all of the recruits that they
had run across.  Worse than Hydrites, because they had evolved from apes, then
they had given up or forgot our hopes and dreams of freedom.  As he had
continued to watch the slime, he had thought, "Touch the rations and live,
touch the"
-----BOOM----- the deafening roar of his Herc had rang out.  A gaping hole had
appeared in the traitor's Shezvarin.  The hole had quickly filled with several
no longer important internal organs.  As the lifeless corpse had hit the
ground, he had felt no anger or remorse.  Only shame that this creature had
been of the same species.  He had stripped the body.  He would not have used
anything fouled by the traitor, but he could not take the chance that the
Medics at the
Main Complex would accidently resurrect this slime with all his equipment.  He
had also reminded himself to have a very, VERY long talk with the Medics the
next time he was in the Complex.
        Inventory complete, weapons checked, Reflecto secured, he walks out
into the Wastelands.  He recalls a plaque that hangs in his grandfather's base.
 The plaque reads "The old world at it's sunset, was fair to see", written by
some forgotten patriot from some forgotten war.  He wonders if after he kills
Overkill if the new world will be fair to see and he wonders if his
grandchildren will know of blue?

Never let 'em see ya sweat! (512)658-8009 (1:387/617)

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