[b]Peace Force Away Team[/b]
Anderson looked back east—any sign of civilisation swallowed by the darkness of the night. They were only one day into enemy territory, with another week to go before they reached some place called Sin-Sinaty. Warrick, the lead of the County Patrol fireteam, had built something called a Dakotafire; it was some kind of stealth fire that was “something you wouldn’t need in the Urban Patrol”.

It was hard not to be nostalgic, sat around a campfire again so far away from everything which had become the new normal. Out here it was like the old days of the Capital Wasteland; before checkpoint stamps and ID papers, before the Party and the Peace Force, before the Enclave and the surety of a clean water. 

Looking back, he wished that Sonora and the bosses had joined the majority in moving over to the Peace Force; the Enclave’s concept of justice was the same as their own, and even most of their crimes were. There had been scattered reports and rumours about the conduct of Enclave soldiers in those first few weeks since they’d emerged—from where-ever. But in retrospect, they didn’t make any sense. Most of the people they’d killed for the Enclave were genuinely bad, though others (like Father Clifford and some Rivet City civilians) who’d been vanished admittedly made less sense. 

Anderson watched Warrick, sleeping soundly and spooning a .50 cal rifle he’d been issued for this mission—he had never let go of it since it was issued, even to eat. He’d known of Warrick by reputation for nearly twenty years now, since the Regulators. But now here he was, guarding someone whose finger he’d have taken the last time he’d ever taken watch-shift around a campsite whist Sonora and the one’s who’d stayed had eventually been declared as “Enemies of the Peace” like any other common raider. 
[hr]They met few people as they moved forward, but then that was the plan. Warrick and his “posse” of County Patrol on point; they were good at this kind of thing, being out on the range. But they had relatively little in the way of major combat experience as Anderson delighted in reminding him. He could tell that Warrick was chomping to use that rifle he’d been given—almost certainly for use against a Brotherhood soldier in his fighting suit. As the days went on, and the numbers on the signs saying “Cincinnati” got smaller, his chance to blow their cover would only become more and more prevalent.