07-21-2015, 07:31 PM
A gentle stirring formed in her breast, the heat of her fury stoked at its mere mention. “Revenge,” she uttered, her eyes narrowing briefly, “Yeah.”
The rage that churned through her veins burned hotter than guzzaline in her eight-cylinder heart. The flames only grew as she reached her hand out and made contact with the fresh paneling of her war truck. She slowly made her way around the beast, her fingers tracing along the harsh angles and rough paint. Her war was still waiting for her and every moment wasted felt like a tiny defeat.
“All the bullet holes are gone,” she said, almost wistfully.
“Yup,” Caret said proudly, seemingly oblivious to the woman’s mournful tone, “it’s all new plating, all new coating. It’s fresh now, right?”
The clean surface of the M809 almost looked unfamiliar to her as she admired the fine craftsmanship of the repairs. Many of the old, crappy repair jobs had been cut out and replaced, neat, beaded welds replacing the, drunken lines that once scarred its surface. The bandit nodded, “Sure is.” Her steps suddenly stopped and she turned to the mechanic. “This truck has survived a lot, you know that?”
Chewing, Caret nodded and stepped on the bumper and hopped up onto the hood. “Yeah, there was some serious damage to the exterior. A few cracks to the frame, too. You’re lucky I got to it.” She blew another bubbled and popped it, chewing it back into her mouth.
“Yeah, I guess so.” The woman’s fists clenched and unclenched as she searched for the right words, her dreadlocks hanging down and hiding her face. “Back at the camp, near the Vault, the grease-heads used to just make the damn things drive again. They never really ‘fixed’ anything. They just patched it up good enough to get it rolling again and sent it on its way. Same with the bonesaws; they just plugged the hole where the blood was coming out and sent you on your way.”
Caret’s eyebrow perked and she shrugged, “Sounds like they sucked.
“You got to keep your scars, though, you know what I’m saying?” The bandit’s words, for once, sounded as though she was looking for something from the ears they fell on. They wanted to be heard and truly understood.
Her hand drifted to her blood-soaked garment, balling it up between her fingers. “You don’t wash the dirt out of your shirt. You don’t ever clean the blood away. You leave the bullet holes and only stitch something if the tear is so bad you can’t wear it anymore. You take your battles with you, because your battles are what make you.” She released her top and flipped her hair out of the way. “You battles are who you are, because your battles are what you survived.”
“And I took the scars?” Caret asked, for the first time displaying some semblance of empathy.
With a short sigh of relief, the woman nodded. “Yeah, I think that’s what I’m trying to say. I’m not trying to be ungrateful, or say you did a damn thing wrong, I just, I dunno, I wanted you to understand.”
“Nah,” Caret said with a wave of the hand. She dismounted the hood and fell to her feet. “I think I get what you’re saying.”
The skull-faced killer offered a small smile, “Thanks.”
She quickly wiped any illusion of softness from her face and slapped the hard plates on the rear cab and thrust her thumb at the giant automatic weapon now mounted to the rear of the vehicle. “So what the fuck is that thing?”
“Oh, you know, this and that.” Caret quickly climbed into the bed of the truck and took the weapon’s grip in her hand. She leaned back and swiveled the weapon back and forth, sweeping an imaginary horizon for imaginary enemies. “It’s mostly a chain gun I picked up out of a fight,” she squinted and looked down the sights, chewing her gum quickly. “No survivors,” she added quickly.
The bandit laughed in approval, “To hold is to own, kid.”
“Tch, yeah it is,” she released her grip on the handle and ran her hand down the barrel. “Made a lot of my own ‘modifications’ though. This heap of crap barely worked when I first put my hands on it. Now?” She allowed a wild grin to grow on her face, “A thousand rounds per minute of three-point-five-ounce ammunition.”
“Damn kid, that’s no fucking joke,” the skull faced bandit said with utter sincerity. “Ever shot anything like that before?”
“What’s to know? You pull the trigger and point it at the bad guys,” Caret scoffed.
The bandit rolled her eyes, “Maybe flip that order.”
With a grunt, she grabbed the top rail of the bed’s short walls, her chest instantly reminding her that it was a bad idea. She ignored the pain and pulled herself up, the fractured bone of her sternum screaming in complaint. Sweat once again beaded on her forehead, but she blamed it on the heat.
“Yeah, you can walk it in,” the bandit took command of the weapon, squatting down with bent knees and a straight back, allowing the weapon mount to support her, “but you really wanna be blasting this baby in bursts. Forty to fifty rounds at a time. Conserves ammo and you’ll be counting more kills. Even though this fucker is mounted, there’s gonna be some recoil, so putting it on-target and then when the bullets start hitting dirt you just walk it in. You just put it in their general area and do the fine-tuned aiming with the bullets themselves telling you where to move.”
“Good to know,” the girl nodded. “It’ll come in handy when we’ve gotta blast some raiders or scavs or whatever.”
With a wide grin, the bandit slapped the mechanic’s narrow shoulder, jolting her forward. “Damn straight.”
The rage that churned through her veins burned hotter than guzzaline in her eight-cylinder heart. The flames only grew as she reached her hand out and made contact with the fresh paneling of her war truck. She slowly made her way around the beast, her fingers tracing along the harsh angles and rough paint. Her war was still waiting for her and every moment wasted felt like a tiny defeat.
“All the bullet holes are gone,” she said, almost wistfully.
“Yup,” Caret said proudly, seemingly oblivious to the woman’s mournful tone, “it’s all new plating, all new coating. It’s fresh now, right?”
The clean surface of the M809 almost looked unfamiliar to her as she admired the fine craftsmanship of the repairs. Many of the old, crappy repair jobs had been cut out and replaced, neat, beaded welds replacing the, drunken lines that once scarred its surface. The bandit nodded, “Sure is.” Her steps suddenly stopped and she turned to the mechanic. “This truck has survived a lot, you know that?”
Chewing, Caret nodded and stepped on the bumper and hopped up onto the hood. “Yeah, there was some serious damage to the exterior. A few cracks to the frame, too. You’re lucky I got to it.” She blew another bubbled and popped it, chewing it back into her mouth.
“Yeah, I guess so.” The woman’s fists clenched and unclenched as she searched for the right words, her dreadlocks hanging down and hiding her face. “Back at the camp, near the Vault, the grease-heads used to just make the damn things drive again. They never really ‘fixed’ anything. They just patched it up good enough to get it rolling again and sent it on its way. Same with the bonesaws; they just plugged the hole where the blood was coming out and sent you on your way.”
Caret’s eyebrow perked and she shrugged, “Sounds like they sucked.
“You got to keep your scars, though, you know what I’m saying?” The bandit’s words, for once, sounded as though she was looking for something from the ears they fell on. They wanted to be heard and truly understood.
Her hand drifted to her blood-soaked garment, balling it up between her fingers. “You don’t wash the dirt out of your shirt. You don’t ever clean the blood away. You leave the bullet holes and only stitch something if the tear is so bad you can’t wear it anymore. You take your battles with you, because your battles are what make you.” She released her top and flipped her hair out of the way. “You battles are who you are, because your battles are what you survived.”
“And I took the scars?” Caret asked, for the first time displaying some semblance of empathy.
With a short sigh of relief, the woman nodded. “Yeah, I think that’s what I’m trying to say. I’m not trying to be ungrateful, or say you did a damn thing wrong, I just, I dunno, I wanted you to understand.”
“Nah,” Caret said with a wave of the hand. She dismounted the hood and fell to her feet. “I think I get what you’re saying.”
The skull-faced killer offered a small smile, “Thanks.”
She quickly wiped any illusion of softness from her face and slapped the hard plates on the rear cab and thrust her thumb at the giant automatic weapon now mounted to the rear of the vehicle. “So what the fuck is that thing?”
“Oh, you know, this and that.” Caret quickly climbed into the bed of the truck and took the weapon’s grip in her hand. She leaned back and swiveled the weapon back and forth, sweeping an imaginary horizon for imaginary enemies. “It’s mostly a chain gun I picked up out of a fight,” she squinted and looked down the sights, chewing her gum quickly. “No survivors,” she added quickly.
The bandit laughed in approval, “To hold is to own, kid.”
“Tch, yeah it is,” she released her grip on the handle and ran her hand down the barrel. “Made a lot of my own ‘modifications’ though. This heap of crap barely worked when I first put my hands on it. Now?” She allowed a wild grin to grow on her face, “A thousand rounds per minute of three-point-five-ounce ammunition.”
“Damn kid, that’s no fucking joke,” the skull faced bandit said with utter sincerity. “Ever shot anything like that before?”
“What’s to know? You pull the trigger and point it at the bad guys,” Caret scoffed.
The bandit rolled her eyes, “Maybe flip that order.”
With a grunt, she grabbed the top rail of the bed’s short walls, her chest instantly reminding her that it was a bad idea. She ignored the pain and pulled herself up, the fractured bone of her sternum screaming in complaint. Sweat once again beaded on her forehead, but she blamed it on the heat.
“Yeah, you can walk it in,” the bandit took command of the weapon, squatting down with bent knees and a straight back, allowing the weapon mount to support her, “but you really wanna be blasting this baby in bursts. Forty to fifty rounds at a time. Conserves ammo and you’ll be counting more kills. Even though this fucker is mounted, there’s gonna be some recoil, so putting it on-target and then when the bullets start hitting dirt you just walk it in. You just put it in their general area and do the fine-tuned aiming with the bullets themselves telling you where to move.”
“Good to know,” the girl nodded. “It’ll come in handy when we’ve gotta blast some raiders or scavs or whatever.”
With a wide grin, the bandit slapped the mechanic’s narrow shoulder, jolting her forward. “Damn straight.”
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