I really need to pee.
The most annoying part about winter scouting jobs was that it was always a pain to relieve yourself. Wearing six layers certainly kept out the cold and snow, but when you needed to take a leak, peeling it all back was just a hassle. Of course, you could play the waiting game and hold it, but after fifteen hours of patrol, you had to deal with it eventually. Either you took the time to unlayer, or you let it go in your drawers.
And Garrett Hudson wasn't one to deal with an enemy after having just recently pissed his pants.
Sighing, he leaned his rifle on the wall beside him, took the time to unzip, and took care of business, careful to keep hidden in a small foxhole while doing so, still keeping a relative eye on his surroundings. Not that there had been anything nearby recently, of course, but you never knew out here in the wastes.
Hudson was tall, a little over six foot, with the strong build of someone who spent his days dealing with the dangers of the wastes face-to-face. He was lean, with large arms and broad shoulders, but with a litheness to his movements that betrayed a past of discipline and training.
Well, aside from his current activity, of course.
He looked over the weapon, a little over half as tall as he was, with a long barrel and a black finish, tipped with the angled edges a flash suppresor right on the muzzle. The weapon had gotten him through plenty of scrapes, especially on these little freelance scouting missions. The long gun had definitely seen her share of action over the years.
This little mission had seemed simple enough. The Empire had been hiring freelancers to patrol the outer edges of BC, keeping an eye on coming threats. Ever since that damnable beam in the sky had fired off, wiping out Tsing Sha, things had been pretty tense out here. Whispers said that some of the big boys from down south were making their way up to investigate, which spun up Hudson's insides with a mix of dread and excitement.
He and the NCR had tangled plenty of times over the years, and he had the scars to prove it. He'd even taken on one of the Brotherhood Paladins a while back, and though the damnable armor had proven too hardy, he'd escaped with only a few scars, which he considered a win. So either of the groups making their way up here seemed like par for the course.
Let's see 'em shiver up here with us, then.
Hudson had been hired, along with several other freelance scouts, to patrol in the southern outlands, and relay anything unusual back to IC. So far, the days had been pretty dull, with the occasional mole rat popping its head out to investigate, which had made his rations go a little further, meat on the cooking fire.
He'd been given a transmitter, but it was back at his camp - No need to carry that damn box around with him on patrol. It was almost forty pounds, and thankfully had a backpack to it, but he didn't want to have that kind of weight slowing him down.
The air was cold, and the ice was turning to steam. He gazed around pointedly, his eyes noticing movement on the horizon.
"Shit!" He softly cursed himself. Things always seemed to happen just when he wasn't quite ready for it. "Shit, shit, shit!"
He quickly hurried things along, unreasonably cursing himself for having dared to drink water in the first place, especially mid-patrol. He willed himself to hurry, despite his bladder refusing to cooperate.
Finally, he finished up and buttoned up, relayering quickly and snatching up his rifle. He pressed against the wall, and peered through the scope, trying to get a bead. He was too low, and only got a few glimpses.
The soldiers were wearing winter suits and breathing masks, and moved with military precision, but Hudson didn't recognize the uniform. They had a symbol stitched on their arms, of the letter "E" surrounded by stars. If he didn't know any better, it looked like a variation on the Imperial symbol, with the letter in the middle instead.
Some new group of specialists?
No, that didn't make any sense. Imperial specialists used characters for their variant symbols, not English letters. Besides, he probably would have been told if they had a group operating out in the area. He stepped back, and for a split second, realized that he'd leaned against the wall exactly where he'd just finished up his little break.
Rolling his eyes and cursing again, he stealthily made his way out of the foxhole, keeping low as he climbed up a nearby building, gaining a better vantage point. He continued to crouch forward, and could finally see the group clearly through his rifle scope.
About fifty or so.
They were organized, and quiet, moving along with precision, though those masks kept their identities shrouded. Still, they seemed to be slowly making their way northward, and that was worth reporting, especially considering the weapons in their arms and the surely loaded packs on their backs.
Hudson climbed backwards, and made his way slowly out of the building. Sure he was out of eyesight, he hustled back towards his camp. He'd secluded himself into an old bunker, hidden under the snow and relatively unnoticed. The only way in was by twenty feet of tunnel, so he'd considered the location secure for his gear. He rushed into the impromptu snowcave, leaned his rifle against the table, and and immediately switched on the transmitter. It flickered to life with a subtle hum.
"This is Blue Tiger, Code 5665. We've got movement in the southlands, about three-hundred miles south of IC."
The response took a moment, the words coming with a sharp accent. "Confirmed, Blue Tiger. How many?"
"About fifty, I'd wager. Armed, with a weird "E" symbol on their uniforms. Don't know who they are."
"Understood, Blue Tiger. Do you need to be extracted?"
"No," replied Hudson. "I'll track them for a while. I don't think they've seen me. I'll pack up and follow, and report in later."
"Confirmed, Blue Tiger. We will communicate with you at that time."
Hudson switched off the transmitter, and stood quiet for a moment, listening. He could have sworn he heard something, but he wasn't sure. Reaching to his shoulder holster, he pulled out Fiona, his trusty 12.7mm pistol, holding it warily before him and glancing about.
He approached the tunnel, listening intently, and yet again, silently cursed himself.
I probably should have taken the extraction.
