The Face of Your Father [BWNN]

[Thaal Sinestro]

The valley that stretched alongside the Vault was flanked on either side by towering cliffs and lone crags that scratched the sky. Ample cover and a vast selection of higher ground made the basin a pathetic tactical choice to make a base in, and there was an absolute lack of countermeasures that might make the situation at least slightly more survivable in the case of an attack. The placement of the encampment was entirely based on Sledge’s obsession with the Vault, its massive gates still unmoved after all the years he had been there.

A huge black scar was still seen where the three thousand gallon tank of fuel had been blown up, a reminder of both the gang’s disgrace and of her mission. Her grip tightened on the wheel as she saw the alien’s red face, his sharp features burned in her memory like fire.

Disorderly lines of parked trucks, speeders and other transports were scattered all around the front of the encampment, the wretched hands of the unskilled engineers fumbling with parts made from half-drawn diagrams. In many ways she was unhappy that Caret had put hands on her beastly war-truck, but the care and craftsmanship she had put into the vehicle’s reconstruction was something the slack-jawed grease-heads of the Sledge gang couldn’t have matched, and something she could only ever be grateful for.

She pulled the M809 in front of the refueling pumps, a collection of angry looking bandits already beginning to gather outside. “Where the fuck’ve you been this time?” the lead mechanic shouted, banging on the door.

“Watch it, I just got all the dents out,” Caret sneered.

Shushing her with a hand, the woman threw upon the door and planted a foot on the step, glaring down on the man below her. “The hell does it matter to you, Crank?” she demanded, her brown eyes broiling in the sockets of the white skull on her face.

“Ya can’t just jack one of my trucks and ride off inta tha fuckin’ desert with it!” he spat back, brandishing the heavy metal wrench in his hand.

“Tch,” she spat, “It ain’t your truck, shithead, and I’ll do whatever the hell I want with her.” Her hand grabbed the AER9 laser rifle and it slid over her thigh, conveniently pointing it at his face. “What you gonna do about it, fucko?”

The group of bandits, slavers and psychopaths stared the woman and her companion down, a collective group of chuckles and guffaws calling out from the congregation. “Well, I got about a hundred hands that might rise in answer to that.” He patted the wrench in his hand, the gentle metal twanging as a soft reminder of its presence.

“Interesting counting,” she said, pulling a small metal tin from her pocket. He twisted the cap off and scooped her fingers into it, then wiping a broad swatch of white over her forehead.

The mechanic snorted and stared that the woman, a bit baffled by her actions. “Oh yeah? You got a better count?”

The broad strokes of her hand hastily covered her cheeks and looped around her eyes. Finally, three fingers swept down over her mouth. The skull-faced woman’s bone-streaked lips parted, “Yeah.” The can slipped back into her pocket. “I count ninety-nine.”

The AER9 erupted, blowing the man’s entire upper torso away in a swath of steam and red light. Before the group had a moment to counter-attack, a hail or red light flashed into it in angry pulses, the packed members of the crowd unable to effectively disperse as he rattle off shots. The manic woman came to her feet on the step of the truck below the door, her face twisted into a maniacal grin.

“Caret!” she screamed as the swarm of skin-headed brutes surged her, grubby hands and weapons reaching out desperately as she gunned them down, “Turret!”

The lithe, pink-haired girl scrambled from her seat between the rear of the cab, through the small rear window and into the bed of the truck. Grabbing hold of the mount, she hoisted herself up an d depressed the trigger.

A quick burst of laser pulses soared into the sky and another into the dirt to the far left of the ground as she wildly swung the turret about, attempt to gain control of its aim at the same time as she gained her balance. Finally the girl regained her equilibrium and swept a long, powerful arc of blasts along the peripheral edge of the fleeing mechanics and gearheads, clipping a few and perforating a few more.

It was at this time that the mobs of gun-toting marauders began to pour out of the nearby stones, brandishing an arsenal of weapons. The bandit slammed her hand on the roof a few times, shouting, “Caret! Enough!” The maniacal girl’s thumbs depressed the butterfly for just long enough to claim another life before she let the minigun power down.

“Who’s that at my door step, killing my men?” a thick, somewhat impaired voice echoed over the valley of sandstone and pillars of red rock. The massively broad, almost hilariously disproportionate man trundled down the metal catwalks from his office and onto the dry soil, a massive hammer propped on his shoulder.

The bandit grinned and depressed a button, the energy cartridge of her rifle flaying out with a trail of red steam. She slapped another in and hopped down from her perch, using her free hand to shove the remaining gear heads out of her way. “Well hey there,” she growled menacingly, “you hear anything about that fella who done blowed up our guzzaline?”

The hulking figure grunted and continued walking towards her, until the two met in the center of the carnage that she had wrought. “It’s about time we finally met face to face, don’t ya think,” her strong finger jabbed him in his exposed chest, “Sledge?”