Some time before Space body discovered ARCHIMEDES II.
“We are coming up on the 188 Trading post. Not the shiniest water hole in the Mojave, but it's the last real stop before New Vegas,” Cass said.
“There is water and food in the chest in the back. Unless you got to pee, I don’t think we should need to stop,” Franklin said, looking at the road ahead.
“No offense doc, but that food is just paste. I’ve had MREs with more flavor,” Boone said.
“Fuck I’ve had toilet moonshine with better taste. Stop and let us get something more edible pleaaase,” Cass begged.
“Fine, we can stop for some two-hundred-year-old stale cereal or maybe some roasted squirrel on a stick,” Franklin said sarcastically.
“Don’t knock it till you try it, doc. We wastelanders have survived off cactus fruits and ant meat for our entire lives. They got all the nutrients we need and plenty tasty too,” Cass said.
Franklin chuckled and continued to the 188. It was the intersection of Highways 95 and 93, hence 188. Cass said a man and his daughter created their trade shop here after the Powder Ganger prison break—the traffic from people going around the mountains and the soldiers from the Hoover Dam.
He pulled over under the bridges from the 93, passing over the 95, and let Cass, Boone, and ED-E out to explore. Franklin stayed in the van to read one of the many prewar novels he managed to scavenge. The current reading topic was a philosophical journal on how communism was evil and only capitalism would save the world and blah blah blah. Franklin didn’t like its messaging and found the propaganda to be so heinous a pigeon wouldn’t shit on it because it would be an insult to shit.
“Hey, mister! Hey, mister.”
Franklin looked out of the window and saw a camp under the bridge on the other side of the road. It was a simple encampment with toys, cereal boxes, and comics lining the wall behind it. A child was sitting on a ledge waving at Franklin. He wore ragged clothing and had brown buzz-cut hair. He also wore some kind of harness on his head.
“Whatcha need, kid?” Franklin asked.
“Want to hear a forecast?” He said.
“Forecast? Not to be rude, but I don’t think you are a meteorologist,” Franklin joked.
“Nah, I don’t know about meteors. I sell thoughts. See, I take off my medicine, and I think thoughts. People tell me that my thoughts are interesting or scary. Some people get mad, but then they leave. Want to buy some thoughts?” The child said.
“Hehe, sure kid. How much?”
“A hundred caps a group. I sell them here, everywhere, and you. I can tell you about around here, everywhere, or about you,” he said.
“I’ll take all three then,” Franklin said, humoring the kid. He obviously didn’t have any parents, so the money would help him survive for a while longer. He must have been a scrappy little boy if he was alone out here.
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“Alright, let me get ready,” He said, removing the head harness.
“You're far from home. Very far. The deck has always been stacked against you, but you know better than to play fair. They watch you. See what you can do. One wants what you can give them. The other wants to see what you can make. They are both ready to flip the board. Forecast: A full hand of jacks.”
Franklin froze. He should have known the kid was a lot more than he seemed. He didn’t think he would meet one out here, though. The kid’s kind was rare. You would have better odds of winning the lottery than meeting one of them. Franklin was lucky that he ran in some influential circles and got to meet them a few times. Each one was dangerous.
“Go ahead and give me the everywhere forecast,” Franklin said.
“The Bear and the Bull are coming to a head. Hoover Dam will be dyed red and then clouds of crimson from the east. Bugs of metal and flesh from the south. Burrowers from the west. And grey. Lots of greys that will consume all of it. Forecast: cloudy with a chance of metal rain.”
That wasn’t good. Franklin wasn’t worried about the unknown threats. He specialized in dealing with conflict on multiple fronts. It was the mention of greys and metal rain. That was obviously referencing him, or at least his nanites. Did the prediction of consuming it all mean he would fix all the problems, or would he destroy everything?
“And here?”
“Someone is missing. She is usually here, but she isn’t here anymore. Her home was taken, and she is lost. Her family is shattered and angry, and she doesn’t know what to do. The soldiers are liars. They are hunting dangerous game. Their quarry is distracted, and he is usually so perceptive.”
“What?”
BOOOM
“FOR CAESAR!”
An explosive detonated behind the mailvan, throwing it a few feet forward. The Forecaster dove out of the way, scrambling to cover. Franklin heard gunshots and screaming.
“The Caesar has marked you for death, and the Legion OBEYS!”
Legion soldiers armed with explosives and automatic rifles unleashed a barrage on Franklin’s position.
“I hate when psychics are correct. There is always some prophecy of doom and gloom and never lottery numbers or who wins the Super Bowl. Just once, I would like a foretelling of me saving a dozen orphan kittens from an active volcano while also finding the cure for super cancer. Is that too much?”
Franklin’s complaints fell on deaf ears as the Forecaster had run to a safe location away from the Legion assassins.
The Legionnaires put up a good fight. Five stood on the road behind Franklin, firing their automatic weapons into his van. One was off to the side of the road, footy feet back, reloading his rocket launcher. A dozen more Legion foot soldiers armed with only machetes and their Roman cosplay outfits charged the top of the bridge to attack the traders and NCR soldiers. Franklin had to admire their competence, even if their strategy was throwing bodies at the problem and trying to drown the enemy in blood.
It was too bad Franklin was immune to typical wars of attrition.
Franklin activated the speakers on his van, “Cass, Boone, ED-E! I am sending a drone up to help. Don’t worry about me down here.” Franklin then activated the railgun in his right arm and aimed it. His first shot hit the Legion soldier with the rocket launcher. It tore through his left shoulder and backflipped him on his face. He would probably die within the next minute.
He then moved his arm a few inches to the right and fired two more shots into the firing squad. Each shot hit center mass, piercing through their guts and severing their spines. They will die within the next few seconds.
It took 4.49 seconds to line up each shot and fire, but it would take another 15 seconds for his arm to cool down. His body's solid components were weak to heat warping, so firing the railgun too quickly would reduce accuracy, damage, or worse. The last thing he needed was a miss fire when his friends' lives were at stake.
The Legionnaires had emptied their magazines, so Franklin charged forward to engage them in melee combat. Hand-to-hand combat was a skill he acquired from the Darwin OS. Before the completion of the full-body conversion, he mainly relied on shells to do his fighting. Now, Darwin highlighted where he should step to avoid damage, how tall he should stand, where his arms should be, and when to attack.
It felt like cheating. It's a good thing it was fun playing unfair.
Back at the van, two shells flowed from storage containers stored in the van's undercarriage. They climbed the broken concrete walls up the overpass to help the few NCR soldiers deal with the Legion.
The dozen Legion foot soldiers wore only light leather armor with the occasional metal plate to protect vital organs.
Another consistency among the soldiers was that they were well-fed. Franklin had seen no shortage of hungry, starving, and malnourished Mojave citizens. It wasn’t just that most food was irradiated; the people of the Mojave were also poor. Which is why seeing almost two dozen Legion soldiers with full bellies surprised Franklin. He had to hand it to Caesar; his army had a handle on their logistics.
Too bad they didn’t have better armor.
Even with six times the numbers, the two shells stabbed and slashed their way through Legion flesh unimpeded. The only mercy Franklin gave them was a quick death. The NCR or the traders would most certainly give them less. Cass, Boone, and ED-E took cover inside an old bus. From there, they fired at the soldiers before they could reach the shells.
The Legion ambush was squashed in less than one minute with no casualties.
Franklin stood over the body of a dying Legion soldier. He was choking on his own blood, but he managed to get one last thing out.
“Unleash the dogs of war.”