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aaaaaaaagh_skyThree days after the Outcasts left, Initiate Reuben came to Paladin 101 and said that she'd found a body.
It wasn't an Outcast, mind. It was... well, it was a little hard to say what she had been; there wasn't really much body left. Between the automated laser fire, and the inevitable mole rats that had to be chased off, Reuben was lucky to find anything at all. But she'd been wearing patched-together leathers, and carrying a sawed-off shotgun in a sorry state of repair, and there were a couple of syringes of Med-X in a pouch on her belt. That pretty much spelled 'raider' in their books, so Reuben volunteered to haul the remains some distance away, out of sight and out of mind. 101 told her to do that, and then to accompany Scribe Thornburgh and the robots to the northern windmill construction site, which Reuben was only too happy to do. She didn't see 101 again for the rest of the day, and she thought nothing of it.
The problem with power armor- well, one problem, anyway- was the sweating. It was August in the Wasteland, and there was no shade for miles, and digging a grave was hard work. Ellen made a mental note that next time she did something like this, she needed to bring a towel and a bottle of water. She eyed the shallow ditch next to the body a moment as she leaned on the shovel, wondering if she needed to make it any deeper or-
"Need a hand?"
Ellen jerked upright at that, the shovel tumbling to the ground.
"Sorry! Sorry," said Scribe Cancio, holding up both hands like someone expecting to be shot. "I thought you saw me coming."
"I was a little distracted," said Ellen tartly. Being startled at a time like this didn't really do much for her mood. "Dogmeat usually barks when someone's coming." She threw a reproachful glance Dogmeat's way, but the heeler ignored her in favor of chewing at an itch on his flank.
"He likes me. Don't know why," said Cancio with a shrug. "I'm not a threat, anyway. Seriously, though, do you want a hand with this?"
Ellen eyed the Scribe a moment. The reinforced red robes he wore bulked out his frame a little, but he wasn't particularly physically impressive. On the other hand, he'd offered, so... "All right," she said, and held out the shovel to him. "Thank you."
"No problem," said Cancio, and stepped up to start digging. "I gotta say- if you hadn't done this, I would've had to come out here and handle it myself."
"Really?" Ellen couldn't keep the surprise out of her voice. "I didn't think anybody else on the project would bother."
"Yeah, no, nothing against any of them but none of them would've," said Cancio. "Don't get me wrong, they're all really stand-up guys and ladies, but, uh... they're Brotherhood."
"Um," began Ellen.
"I know I know I know-" Cancio shook his head. "So are you, so am I- I mean the attitude. You know. Raiders? Scum. Mutants? Scum. Ghouls? Targets, all of them. Shoot first, think about it later."
That... okay, yeah. Ellen had to admit, she'd seen that attitude before, plenty of times. The ghouls in Underworld had mentioned potshots being directed their way more than once. They tended to refer to the soldiers stationed at the Washington Monument as 'Brotherhood assholes', and that was on a good day.
"Even Reuben. I mean, she's an outsider, but she picked up the attitude like she was born in Lost Hills," said Cancio.
"Megaton's a walled city," Ellen felt obliged to point out. "They're not really fond of raiders there themselves."
"Point." Cancio wiped his forehead on his robe's sleeve briefly. "Anyway, the thing is, I'm here because it's my responsibility. Clean up after your own mess, you know?"
"And you built the turret," Ellen said. "That's... pretty impressive, actually. I don't know many people who would think that way."
Cancio flashed a smile in her direction, then dumped another shovelful of dirt to the side of the grave. "Yeah, well- I might be Order of the Sword, but I read my history. You get much of that in Vault 101?"
"A fair amount, why?"
"You know who invented dynamite?"
"Alfred Nobel," Ellen said promptly. "And that's all I know about it."
Cancio nodded. "Yeah. Nobel came up with the stuff to make mining easier. Not for warfare. Matter of fact? He thought it'd stop wars. Thought people wouldn't want to go to war if they knew the whole army could be exploded in a flash."
Ellen glanced out over the Wasteland landscape a moment, and said nothing.
"Yeah. I know. Believe me, I know," said Cancio. "Nobel was kind of horrified when he realized it didn't work that way. So when he died? He left orders that they distribute his money every year to people who'd done the most in the cause of lasting peace. He couldn't change what people did with his invention, so he made up for what they were doing instead."
"Huh," said Ellen. "I don't remember ever hearing that about him."
"Yeah, well, we have more books than you ever did," said Cancio. "No offense."
"None taken," said Ellen. "So that's what you're doing now? Making up for the laser?"
"As best I can," said Cancio. "It's not much, I know. But it's something."
Ellen shook her head, eyeing the remains of the raider. "I don't know," she said. "I mean- I kind of understand, but-"
Cancio paused in his digging a moment, both shaggy eyebrows lifting in curiosity. "Go on, I'm listening."
"You design and build weapons. A lot of them," Ellen said. "You built Mjolnir. That's not a repurposed mining tool. That's a weapon."
"Okay," said Cancio, holding up a finger. "First of all? I didn't build it entirely myself. I just worked on it. There were five other Scribes on the team, all more senior than me. Not dodging responsibility here, you understand, I'm just trying not to take more credit than I deserve. Second? Yeah. It's a weapon. It's a hell of a weapon. But let me ask you this. You've been in the field a while. What's the best weapon, in your opinion?"
"Uh-"
"Just in general. You don't have to say Mojo. I'm trying to make a point here, not get compliments," said Cancio.
"Um. Well," said Ellen. "I don't- I don't know that there's one best weapon, just- most of the time I tend to favor my Gauss rifle. It's got a lot of punch, it's got a lot of accuracy, it's great from a distance. Sometimes I'd rather use my plasma rifle, especially for close-in combat where I don't have time to line up shots, but... why do you ask?"
"Like I said. Trying to make a point," said Cancio. "Now ask me the same question."
"All right," said Ellen slowly. "What's the best weapon?"
"The one that ends the fight the fastest."
Ellen opened her mouth, closed it again; she didn't know how to answer that.
"That's all there is to it, if you ask me," said Cancio as he dug. "There are going to be wars. There's going to be fighting. Always. People are just like that. People are always going to want what the other guy has. There's always going to be somebody who just won't abide by the rules, and there's always going to be people who want to tear down what other people build to get what they want. When I was a little kid, I thought I was gonna be Order of the Quill. I spent a lot of time in the archives. I read all the history I could get my hands on. And, you know, you read that much history, you can't miss that pattern. People are like that."
He gestured towards the dead woman. "Case in point," he said. "There's always going to be people like her. But there's always going to be good people, too. You can't miss that, either. Nobel? Invents dynamite, rewards the peacemakers. Cincinnatus? Leads Rome to victory, turns around and goes back to his farm. People like that? Need a lot of help. Either in the form of somebody fighting for them, or in the form of being able to fight themselves. And they need the fighting to end. Fast. Nobody wins when battles go on forever. It uses up resources, it uses up lives, it poisons everything around- nobody wins."
"What about the people who make the weapons and armor?" Ellen couldn't help but ask.
"Please." Cancio made a rude noise. "Yeah, okay, they wind up with caps in their pocket or promotion up the ranks. Fine. But it comes back to bite them in the ass in the end. The fight goes on long enough? They wind up targets. Back when anybody cared about the difference between civilians and soldiers, it was still okay to attack weapons factories. You make war go on longer? Congratulations. You made yourself a target. And you have all that blood on your hands."
"So. Yeah. That's my thing. A good weapon is a weapon that takes out exactly what it's supposed to take out. No more. No less. Killing's going to happen, so don't drag it out. Get it over with. Fewer good people die, fewer resources get used up, and there's less to make up for in the end."
He glanced around at the grave, and then set the shovel aside on the freshly overturned pile of sandy soil. "Give me a hand getting out of here?" he said. "I don't think I can climb up on my own."
"Sure," said Ellen, and reached down to pull him up.
It wasn't an Outcast, mind. It was... well, it was a little hard to say what she had been; there wasn't really much body left. Between the automated laser fire, and the inevitable mole rats that had to be chased off, Reuben was lucky to find anything at all. But she'd been wearing patched-together leathers, and carrying a sawed-off shotgun in a sorry state of repair, and there were a couple of syringes of Med-X in a pouch on her belt. That pretty much spelled 'raider' in their books, so Reuben volunteered to haul the remains some distance away, out of sight and out of mind. 101 told her to do that, and then to accompany Scribe Thornburgh and the robots to the northern windmill construction site, which Reuben was only too happy to do. She didn't see 101 again for the rest of the day, and she thought nothing of it.
The problem with power armor- well, one problem, anyway- was the sweating. It was August in the Wasteland, and there was no shade for miles, and digging a grave was hard work. Ellen made a mental note that next time she did something like this, she needed to bring a towel and a bottle of water. She eyed the shallow ditch next to the body a moment as she leaned on the shovel, wondering if she needed to make it any deeper or-
"Need a hand?"
Ellen jerked upright at that, the shovel tumbling to the ground.
"Sorry! Sorry," said Scribe Cancio, holding up both hands like someone expecting to be shot. "I thought you saw me coming."
"I was a little distracted," said Ellen tartly. Being startled at a time like this didn't really do much for her mood. "Dogmeat usually barks when someone's coming." She threw a reproachful glance Dogmeat's way, but the heeler ignored her in favor of chewing at an itch on his flank.
"He likes me. Don't know why," said Cancio with a shrug. "I'm not a threat, anyway. Seriously, though, do you want a hand with this?"
Ellen eyed the Scribe a moment. The reinforced red robes he wore bulked out his frame a little, but he wasn't particularly physically impressive. On the other hand, he'd offered, so... "All right," she said, and held out the shovel to him. "Thank you."
"No problem," said Cancio, and stepped up to start digging. "I gotta say- if you hadn't done this, I would've had to come out here and handle it myself."
"Really?" Ellen couldn't keep the surprise out of her voice. "I didn't think anybody else on the project would bother."
"Yeah, no, nothing against any of them but none of them would've," said Cancio. "Don't get me wrong, they're all really stand-up guys and ladies, but, uh... they're Brotherhood."
"Um," began Ellen.
"I know I know I know-" Cancio shook his head. "So are you, so am I- I mean the attitude. You know. Raiders? Scum. Mutants? Scum. Ghouls? Targets, all of them. Shoot first, think about it later."
That... okay, yeah. Ellen had to admit, she'd seen that attitude before, plenty of times. The ghouls in Underworld had mentioned potshots being directed their way more than once. They tended to refer to the soldiers stationed at the Washington Monument as 'Brotherhood assholes', and that was on a good day.
"Even Reuben. I mean, she's an outsider, but she picked up the attitude like she was born in Lost Hills," said Cancio.
"Megaton's a walled city," Ellen felt obliged to point out. "They're not really fond of raiders there themselves."
"Point." Cancio wiped his forehead on his robe's sleeve briefly. "Anyway, the thing is, I'm here because it's my responsibility. Clean up after your own mess, you know?"
"And you built the turret," Ellen said. "That's... pretty impressive, actually. I don't know many people who would think that way."
Cancio flashed a smile in her direction, then dumped another shovelful of dirt to the side of the grave. "Yeah, well- I might be Order of the Sword, but I read my history. You get much of that in Vault 101?"
"A fair amount, why?"
"You know who invented dynamite?"
"Alfred Nobel," Ellen said promptly. "And that's all I know about it."
Cancio nodded. "Yeah. Nobel came up with the stuff to make mining easier. Not for warfare. Matter of fact? He thought it'd stop wars. Thought people wouldn't want to go to war if they knew the whole army could be exploded in a flash."
Ellen glanced out over the Wasteland landscape a moment, and said nothing.
"Yeah. I know. Believe me, I know," said Cancio. "Nobel was kind of horrified when he realized it didn't work that way. So when he died? He left orders that they distribute his money every year to people who'd done the most in the cause of lasting peace. He couldn't change what people did with his invention, so he made up for what they were doing instead."
"Huh," said Ellen. "I don't remember ever hearing that about him."
"Yeah, well, we have more books than you ever did," said Cancio. "No offense."
"None taken," said Ellen. "So that's what you're doing now? Making up for the laser?"
"As best I can," said Cancio. "It's not much, I know. But it's something."
Ellen shook her head, eyeing the remains of the raider. "I don't know," she said. "I mean- I kind of understand, but-"
Cancio paused in his digging a moment, both shaggy eyebrows lifting in curiosity. "Go on, I'm listening."
"You design and build weapons. A lot of them," Ellen said. "You built Mjolnir. That's not a repurposed mining tool. That's a weapon."
"Okay," said Cancio, holding up a finger. "First of all? I didn't build it entirely myself. I just worked on it. There were five other Scribes on the team, all more senior than me. Not dodging responsibility here, you understand, I'm just trying not to take more credit than I deserve. Second? Yeah. It's a weapon. It's a hell of a weapon. But let me ask you this. You've been in the field a while. What's the best weapon, in your opinion?"
"Uh-"
"Just in general. You don't have to say Mojo. I'm trying to make a point here, not get compliments," said Cancio.
"Um. Well," said Ellen. "I don't- I don't know that there's one best weapon, just- most of the time I tend to favor my Gauss rifle. It's got a lot of punch, it's got a lot of accuracy, it's great from a distance. Sometimes I'd rather use my plasma rifle, especially for close-in combat where I don't have time to line up shots, but... why do you ask?"
"Like I said. Trying to make a point," said Cancio. "Now ask me the same question."
"All right," said Ellen slowly. "What's the best weapon?"
"The one that ends the fight the fastest."
Ellen opened her mouth, closed it again; she didn't know how to answer that.
"That's all there is to it, if you ask me," said Cancio as he dug. "There are going to be wars. There's going to be fighting. Always. People are just like that. People are always going to want what the other guy has. There's always going to be somebody who just won't abide by the rules, and there's always going to be people who want to tear down what other people build to get what they want. When I was a little kid, I thought I was gonna be Order of the Quill. I spent a lot of time in the archives. I read all the history I could get my hands on. And, you know, you read that much history, you can't miss that pattern. People are like that."
He gestured towards the dead woman. "Case in point," he said. "There's always going to be people like her. But there's always going to be good people, too. You can't miss that, either. Nobel? Invents dynamite, rewards the peacemakers. Cincinnatus? Leads Rome to victory, turns around and goes back to his farm. People like that? Need a lot of help. Either in the form of somebody fighting for them, or in the form of being able to fight themselves. And they need the fighting to end. Fast. Nobody wins when battles go on forever. It uses up resources, it uses up lives, it poisons everything around- nobody wins."
"What about the people who make the weapons and armor?" Ellen couldn't help but ask.
"Please." Cancio made a rude noise. "Yeah, okay, they wind up with caps in their pocket or promotion up the ranks. Fine. But it comes back to bite them in the ass in the end. The fight goes on long enough? They wind up targets. Back when anybody cared about the difference between civilians and soldiers, it was still okay to attack weapons factories. You make war go on longer? Congratulations. You made yourself a target. And you have all that blood on your hands."
"So. Yeah. That's my thing. A good weapon is a weapon that takes out exactly what it's supposed to take out. No more. No less. Killing's going to happen, so don't drag it out. Get it over with. Fewer good people die, fewer resources get used up, and there's less to make up for in the end."
He glanced around at the grave, and then set the shovel aside on the freshly overturned pile of sandy soil. "Give me a hand getting out of here?" he said. "I don't think I can climb up on my own."
"Sure," said Ellen, and reached down to pull him up.