A single man stands alone in the Mojave Wasteland. He has decided that a near-by gas-station would be his roof for tonight. It's a bit run down, though it still gets electricity thanks to the power provided by HELIOS One. The station has a few morsels of food that have been left behind by scavengers who decided it wasn't worth the trouble trying to carry more than they could get away with had they accidentally run into a raiding party, corrupt NCR soldiers, members of Caesar's Legion, or worse yet, the abominations of the waste, Death Claw or Cazador. They would make it much difficult to run away had they been over-encumbered.
The man himself adorned a black desert-duster, faded along the shoulders and upper back by the sand storms that plagued the deserts of the Mojave. His Elite Riot helmet/gas-mask allowed him to see in the dark with the help of it's built in night-vision. It also came with an air-filter. It helped with the stench of some of the places he's been as well as kept the sand out of his mouth. Along the entire surface of the helmet there were etchings of tally marks. One for each kill. Seeing as from a distance the surface of the helmet was nothing but scratch marks, observers wouldn't dare try to count them all.
Under his Duster was his reinforced combat-armor, an inch of heat-treated steel and polyester with a few centimeters of a bullet/plasma/laser/ballistic proof vest. Along the metal shell of his vest...were more tally-marks. As well as a number on his right breast-plate. It read: 1666 though the 1 was weathered away, either on purpose or by complete coincidence, so all that was visible were the glowing white numbers: 666.
Along the Rangers belt on his left side was a water canteen, a leather satchel for his caps, alongside it were a couple magazines for his anti-material rifle, and the next couple mags over were a few magazines for his brush-gun.
On the right side were a few dangling D.O.G-Tags, some were rusted and others had speckles of blood on their surface. Next to that were a few cylinders for his Ranger Seqoia. A black revolver with decorated gold designs on it's surface. Myth has it that this gun struck fear into the hearts of even the most battle-hardened Death Claw. Then again, the only way to find out was to shove it in the abominations face and pull the trigger. Could the dead still fear death? The answer is no. Which is why Cpt. Oberon had done just that on many occasions. Death Claws were just another wild animal that needed to be put down. If it was by his own hands, then so be it.
Next to that was a sheath for his trusted Bowie knife. This was his weapon of choice, for the only reason that ammunition was hard to come by. he would have to craft his own or pick it up off of a corpse. Returning to HQ was not an option for this ranger, he was sick of the softies that hid behind the walls of Camp McCarran.
Along with this was that he held no patience for the weak. Because of this, he traveled alone, exceptions were the occasional stray dog that would inevitably die.
He then continued to set up a bed for himself away from the windows and he placed the metal shopping shelves in front of the windows to reinforce them, while also still allowing him to peer outside due to the tiny circular machine-crafted holes that were manufactured into the shelves long ago. There was no back entrance so he locked and barricaded the front door for the night. Shutting off the lights before placing his weapons by his side whilst he slept. (Time: 11:00pm)
 Commander Verrik · Tue Jun 16, 2015 @ 12:12pm · 0 Comments |
