Simple Unicycle@OrdureCarson smoked his cigar in silence, listening as the Order captain told his story. Once finished Carson tapped ash from the end of his cigar.
"Well, Captain, enchante (Pleased to meet you). I am Tom Carson." He took another long drag on his smoke. "I am sorry to see you wounded. Malheuresement (unfortunately) your story doesn't strike me as unique. I've seen many people baying for la Revolution in my travels. Sometimes justified, more often not. Rebels and insurgents use their fanaticism as a shield to hide the moral decrepitude that lies just under the surface." Carson shook his head wearily. "And it's always the ordinary people who pay the price."
Carson experimentally flexed his leg. Didn't hurt too much. Neither did his arm. The stimpak plus wine had done their job.
"I, too, know what it feels like to be lauded as something I am not. I was the sole survivor of a gun battle in the Capital Wasteland and people told me I was a hero. All I felt was inadequate. How was it fair that I, a single man with no children, survived whilst others with families were cold in the ground?" Carson chewed on his cigar butt, remembering. He could tell by Cade's expression that he too was thinking back.
Carson took a deep drag of his cigar, pushing his maudlin thoughts away. The Mister Handy offered him more wine, which he accepted. "Anyway, Captain, thank you for rescuing me. I would have bled out if you hadn't helped me."
He ground out his cigar before lighting another. "But I don't want to impose on you any longer than necessary. So let me be brief. I am here to volunteer as a freelancer for the Order. I have seen from your buildings and settlements that you are not oppressing the people of the wastes. That makes the Revolution and it's followers terrorists in my book." He thought for a moment. "Do you think that the Revolution has widespread support in the lower classes? Or are they being coerced into helping Napoleon V?" As Carson spoke he stood, limping over to the window and staring out.
Fires flickered in the near distance, and the Enclave officer could hear the sounds of massed small-arms fire now that Vivaldi was no longer playing. He eased open the window slightly. He could hear the growl of a crowd somewhere close by. A big crowd.
He turned back to mention this to Cade when a bullet snapped past his head, shattering the window. Carson whipped round, PPK appearing in his hand as if by magic. Another bullet buried itself in the brickwork as a group of unkempt men and women burst from the alleyways around the imposing building. Carson fired a quick double-tap into the torso of a woman wielding a submachine gun. The explosive rounds the little Walther was loaded with ripped her left arm clear off her body. She fell, cartwheeling to the cobbles like a puppet with its'' strings cut.
Carson sprang away from the window as a hail of return fire chipped slivers of wood and shards of broken glass from the window.
"Vive la Revolution! Vive Napoleon! A mort le Roi et son larbin Cade!" (Long live the Revolution! Long live Napoleon! Death to the King and his lackey Cade!) The huge shout rose above the chattering of small arms fire.
"Mister Handy!" Carson yelled. "Bring me my weapon! It's propped up beside my chair!"
Here we go again, he thought, hoping that Noel Cade's wound wouldn't prevent him from fighting back.
"Well, Captain, enchante (Pleased to meet you). I am Tom Carson." He took another long drag on his smoke. "I am sorry to see you wounded. Malheuresement (unfortunately) your story doesn't strike me as unique. I've seen many people baying for la Revolution in my travels. Sometimes justified, more often not. Rebels and insurgents use their fanaticism as a shield to hide the moral decrepitude that lies just under the surface." Carson shook his head wearily. "And it's always the ordinary people who pay the price."
Carson experimentally flexed his leg. Didn't hurt too much. Neither did his arm. The stimpak plus wine had done their job.
"I, too, know what it feels like to be lauded as something I am not. I was the sole survivor of a gun battle in the Capital Wasteland and people told me I was a hero. All I felt was inadequate. How was it fair that I, a single man with no children, survived whilst others with families were cold in the ground?" Carson chewed on his cigar butt, remembering. He could tell by Cade's expression that he too was thinking back.
Carson took a deep drag of his cigar, pushing his maudlin thoughts away. The Mister Handy offered him more wine, which he accepted. "Anyway, Captain, thank you for rescuing me. I would have bled out if you hadn't helped me."
He ground out his cigar before lighting another. "But I don't want to impose on you any longer than necessary. So let me be brief. I am here to volunteer as a freelancer for the Order. I have seen from your buildings and settlements that you are not oppressing the people of the wastes. That makes the Revolution and it's followers terrorists in my book." He thought for a moment. "Do you think that the Revolution has widespread support in the lower classes? Or are they being coerced into helping Napoleon V?" As Carson spoke he stood, limping over to the window and staring out.
Fires flickered in the near distance, and the Enclave officer could hear the sounds of massed small-arms fire now that Vivaldi was no longer playing. He eased open the window slightly. He could hear the growl of a crowd somewhere close by. A big crowd.
He turned back to mention this to Cade when a bullet snapped past his head, shattering the window. Carson whipped round, PPK appearing in his hand as if by magic. Another bullet buried itself in the brickwork as a group of unkempt men and women burst from the alleyways around the imposing building. Carson fired a quick double-tap into the torso of a woman wielding a submachine gun. The explosive rounds the little Walther was loaded with ripped her left arm clear off her body. She fell, cartwheeling to the cobbles like a puppet with its'' strings cut.
Carson sprang away from the window as a hail of return fire chipped slivers of wood and shards of broken glass from the window.
"Vive la Revolution! Vive Napoleon! A mort le Roi et son larbin Cade!" (Long live the Revolution! Long live Napoleon! Death to the King and his lackey Cade!) The huge shout rose above the chattering of small arms fire.
"Mister Handy!" Carson yelled. "Bring me my weapon! It's propped up beside my chair!"
Here we go again, he thought, hoping that Noel Cade's wound wouldn't prevent him from fighting back.