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James nodded along, briefly turning to watch the man walk in and catching his gaze. "I see you have more important business to attend to, I'll be in town for a while, as well, I have an idea how to help with your sniper problem but it will be a bit before I can finish my thoughts on it." He turned and headed towards the door before stopping and turning back, "Nice ta meet you Hancock, hopefully we can start a decent agreement." He smiled and walked out. He fished into his pocket before removing a lighter before a courier walked up and asked him a few questions before handing him a letter. He walked a bit into the square and opened the letter and read it. He fished a small metallic object out of its envelope and pocketed it before lighting the papers on fire and then his cigarette. He reached down onto his vest and replaced the sunglasses on his face, silently smoking his cigarette, "Its a race of time before the enemy rounds and these things kill me." He silently waited for the Ranger who had been escorting him to come back, during such he was thinking on his first impressions of the man called Sykes, deep down he felt that he might see him again but not on the same side of company as just now.
 
I walked toward Hancock. I could tell he knew what I was after, and why I needed it. "Alright Hancock you and I both know you OWE me for what I did for you, and I know the vault dwellers are here, and you know everyone so tell me where are they, i don't have much time so please be quick about this." I knew he knew where they were, he's Hancock he knows who and where everyone.
 
(@Skrimps & @MarineSgt12 )

Gabi quietly left the mayor's office and trotted after James, when she caught up beside him she looked at him "So just wondering, would you consider joining the Texas rangers? The BOS helps us in extreme situations but we're still a bit undermanned." she explained as she walked with him "Also that guy that came in gives me the creeps and i need somewhere to go or something to do and i'd rather not be alone." she added "I'd ask my sister but she always seems to disappear, and any other ranger in my rank is either out patrolling, while the superiors run drills and inspections, they're not to fond of loitering." she added.

Hancock sighed "You're gonna have to be more specific, names, appearances, what vault they came from, so on and so forth. Because almost 4 to 8 vault dwellers come here every now and then, it could be any of those, also the rangers have a few dwellers in their ranks as does the brotherhood. Doubt they'll willingly give them up. Especially since Garvey and Titan are here to back them up." he explained and chugged down another glass of tequila, he then sat waiting for a response.
 
"There from vault 52, Jhon Walker, Eliza carter, and Gabriela carter, my jackass of a source didn't have pictures so I'm stuck with just their names, I know I told you I hate this type of work but Hancock I'm desperate at this point, I got no caps, no ammo, and no time. So you know or not Hancock!" I slam my fist on his desk, and look at him. "What do the rangers even want with vault dwellers anyway? They basically had everyone handed to them on a plate, and I'm out there picking at the scraps they left behind!
 
Hancock sighed "I can't just give them to you, but I can repay you in another way." he said and stood up "Lemme guess, raiders gave you this contract, if it's the legion, or the hans, or the institute then we have a problem, but raiders. I can have them dealt with, you'll get paid and no one will get hurt." he suggested "But if you wanna hunt down one of the top 10 snipers in the texas rangers, her sister who i swear is invisible or made up most of the time, and an ex wolfpack merc, on your own, with little to defend yourself with. Then be my guest, I want to help, but I'm not selling anyone out, especially for raiders." he explained and leaned back on his chair looking at him sternly "What's it gonna be?" he asked.
 
I slam my fist on his wall and yell "DAMMIT HANCOCK" I sigh " they want them alive, and their paying me a lot of caps they said 2500, that should be enough to last me for weeks, and I hope you didn't forget what I did for you, and your people Hancock. I'm not playing around, I need this money, and if you help me I won't rat you out, and when the jobs done I'll come back and give you a little extra. I respect you Hancock, but their vault dwellers their lucky they survived the rads, if it won't be the rads that kill em, it'll only be something worse, you and I both know that."
 
Hancock sighed and cracked his neck "I have a few ranger squads out there wiping out ranger strongholds, who's to say that even if you manage to find them, your employers will be alive to pay. Keep that in mind the next time you want me to hand you over any of my citizens." he pointed out, this wasn't the first time he screwed over kidnapping mercs or slavers in this particular fashion, he may have gone a bit soft to most but he wasn't stupid. "If you want help, we're doing it my way. You tell me who gave you contract, I cover their bounty 3 times over, that's 10,000 caps." he said looking at him waiting for an answer.
 
"If I tell you Hancock who my employer was, they'd kill us both. It's not raiders Hancock, I'll tell you that much, and the rangers won't stand a chance againsed them, besides that's bad business, if I keep up the work they have for me, they promised much more then caps. I'm sorry Hancock but I really need a hand here, at least gimme a description of them, then consider all favors you and your people owe me, done, and that's a lot. You'll be saving time and resources." I look at Hancock. "So what's it going to be?"
 
James nodded towards her, "I see, eh, I might join up, I might continue wandering, I honestly haven't found a place to call home just yet. I was hoping that Madison might be the place but we'll see, only way to escape the institute is to either run, hide or die. And honestly I like the first two, not the last." He sighed, "If you want, I could give you several tips on being a better shot or even if you want, I could train you into the sniper craft. But for now, let's get some food. I'm starving." He smiled over at her, "Besides, I don't like that guy either, something doesn't sit right on how he looked at either of us and a sniper always trust his or her gut." He then produced his carton of cigarettes and offered one towards her, not being one to not share. He walked over towards the market area, slowly looking at the shops before he stops and turns to her, "That and honestly, your a better shot than I have seen than most rangers back in NCR territory, I would be honored to teach you some of the trade if your willing."
 
78075840 RMA Mother board
78070920 RMA CPU







[glow=red]Azrael "Appolyon" Valdis [/glow]


[glow=red]-Somewhere along the Madison-Houston border-[/glow]


[glow=red]

Azrael sat upon a small boulder with one leg propped up on another; a few tools and creature comforts laid out next to him. Beneath the unforgiving New Mexico sun, the heat was sweltering, but it still wasn't enough for him to remove the bandages that heavily wrapped his face, hiding it in obscurity. Each bandage had been pulled taut, and every one layered over the next like 'bands'. This made the structure of his face recognizable but hid the heavy scarring. Only his eyes, nostrils, and lips were truly exposed at any given time, the rest had been carefully, if painstakingly, hidden away. Even his hair, which had prematurely turned silver couldn't poke from beneath such heavy wrapping. It both intimidated and intrigued folks.


Azrael puffed upon the San Francisco Sunlights like an old-time locomotive chugging along its rails, blowing thick gray smoke into the air and filling his taste buds with a heavy, rich flavor. The wrapper itself exhaled a barnyard aroma and only after cutting the pigtail, would one experience the pre-draw with notes of grass and hay. The resistance was perfect. The first pulls had brought a delicate spiciness with a sweet background to bear against his tongue in an initial assault on his senses. As he approached his first third of the cigar, the very ample smoke became creamier and creamier. It was considerably less sweet and began developing a leathery, woody texture, just as needed. At the halfway point, the bouquet was only somewhat complex. It wasn't until the last third did the cigar gain its full complexity; balanced flavors of earth, bitter chocolate and just a bit of leather filled the man's mouth, throat, and lungs.


Exhaling the glossy silver streams, they strode past his bandaged cheeks as his head bowed. The gauze absorbing some of the fragrance, soaking it up like a sponge as it rolled by. Azrael nonchalantly rolled the 'nub' between his fingers; in his lap a rectangular device with two metal prongs at the bottom. The casing was made of melted down plastic formed by a mold. The filling was a constructed shaped explosive, a sensor module, and a dozen or so large ball bearings 1/8" in circumference made of tungsten carbide. Taking one last heavy draw, he flung the cigar down to the ground where his pointed motorcycle boot crushed the burning remnants into the baked ground. He used wonderglue along the edges of the self-designed mine he called a "Claymore", which, once set and turned operational would spray the steel balls out in a directional path rather than exploding in an omnidirectional manner, and could be concealed between rocks such as these. It would maim and dismember and would highly possibly kill those who stood directly in its way. It was exactly what he needed for what was coming his way.


And what was coming his way? Only about a half a dozen of Caesar's finest. Praetorians. It seemed there was an ample bounty on his head for what went down at Hoover Dam and how many of their slaves he'd killed. How many was that again? 20? 50? 100? To be honest, he'd lost count. Yet, that wasn't so unusual, was it? In all the chaos of fighting; bullets whizzing by, screaming and illuminating, the heat that suspended the bullet in its trajectory having mine as well have been a meteorite falling to the ground. He could still smell the smoldering of concrete as it was blasted away leaving the walls of the dam a little less each time. With each hole, he could see more and more campfires that made up the Legion's camp.


Few would understand what the shelling was like on the wall, fewer still would know the feeling of climbing the heaps of corpses and dismembered limbs and wading through what felt like a sea of blood only to end up at Hell's gates on the other side. The screams of the dead and dying would haunt him for the rest of his life, but it also impacted him in other ways as well. He'd become numb to the killing and the violence. Gone was his pursuit of seeking of glory and sense of noble aspirations. Replaced were they, with the sensation that something was missing. Always missing. Something crucial, something critical, something instrumentally human. He'd been meandering for days; hungry but nothing he ate satiated him, parched for thirst, yet, nothing could quench it. He'd had very little sleep in the days since leaving the NCR and that life of constant struggling, constantly giving up parts of himself so he could fight a little harder so he didn't have to see any more of his brothers or sisters tortured or to be inevitably crucified; behind himself.


All the same, the Brotherhood of Steel, led by one Jeremy Maxson, and their fanaticism about technology and “keeping it out of the wrong hands” except theirs, had been another enemy the NCR had to contend with. So, now they had enemies on both sides of the Colorado. What made matters worse, particularly worse for the NCR was the devaluing of the NCR Dollars. NCR dollars had all but taken over for ‘caps’ in the Mojave. Especially in places like Vault City, New Reno, and NCR territories; backed by actual gold, it made the symbolic bottle caps useless and the NCR Dollars the only real currency. That all changed, however, with the mounting tensions between the factions.


NCR bills were backed by gold, but due to the escalations between The Mojave Chapter of the Brotherhood and the NCR, The Brotherhood found a way to devalue The NCR bills dramatically: They would destroy the gold backing the NCR paper money and cents. By now 100 NCR dollars was worth only 40 Caps, not the original standard of 100.



But, as much as he tried to escape it, he couldn't. Not really. He could still taste the cinders in his mouth from each laser blast that seared his lungs each time he’d tried to inhale; boiled his tongue; the bright neon glow of a corporal body disintegrating into ashes around him as he passed through their writhing, glowing atomized crumbling forms that still smoldered. He could still remember the searing heat even through his ballistic weave duster and the ceramic plates woven against the Kevlar. It was as though passing your hand out from the shadows into the hot Nevada desert. With each fallen brother to their laser weaponry, he fought like a deathclaw; savage, unrelenting.



He’d even shot the fusion core in one Knight's armor causing him to go critical and explode, taking with him the surrounding initiates. That’s when he’d had enough. So, he ordered his men to secure the surrounding area outside, he caused a landslide. He’d quickly made for a ventilation shaft that was several yards away and went unnoticed from all the commotion at the caved-in entryway.



From there, he’d been on the road for a few years now; taking the occasional job most mercenaries would think twice about—hell, three times even. Still, Caesar’s Legion had a... special reputation. They hated the NCR and especially Rangers. Azrael walked entire roads with crucified victims which brought him full circle to the predicament he was in now. Azrael finished winding the trip wires around the outcropping of rock. Sure enough, the marching of sandaled feet came.


Gripping his M1 Garand, he took careful aim, placed his finger lightly on the smooth action trigger--and fired. The group of men was ripped to pieces as one mine went off after another sending large tungsten bearings plunging through flesh, shattering the bones. Once the explosions were done, he strapped to his shoulder and drew his one of a kind Sequoia. The .44 revolver was black with gold inlay engravings and a diamondback rattlesnake scale design on the grip. He stepped out from beyond the ledge, marching nonchalantly among the wounded. The spurs on the backs of his boots sounding like a death knell as his red visors scanned back and forth as he put a bullet into the head of each Legionnaire he deemed wasn't the one he was intent on finding. Five shots rang out, echoing the canyons and hills for miles.


He finally came upon his sole survivor; gun held up parallel with his helm, barrel smoking and gleaming all the same. His head looked down at the man, a deep mechanical voice.



"Bet that hurts," Azrael said sarcastically to the gaping hole where his knee joint used to be. "Let me make it better." Crouching down, he put the hot barrel onto the open wound of the Praetorian. Oh, it was agonizing and the smell of burning flesh, his flesh wouldn't soon be forgotten to him. However, while incredibly painful, it did stop the bleeding...for now. "So, what are you out here after little ole me for?" Bounty? Bet it's the bounty." Azrael said, remaining crouched his big iron hung between his bent quads. "How high is it now? 2-3000 Denarii?


"Why would I talk to NCR Trash like you!?" The man sputtered before he felt Azrael crammed the barrel of his sidearm into the gaping wound making the man cry out and writhe like a trapped snake.


"Because—I'm feeling generous." That mechanical voice growled at the Legionnaire. The red glow of his eyes set upon him.


"Fifty Aureus! F-fifty Aureus coins." The Praetorian clutched his leg with trembling hands as the revolver was pulled back out. Slowly.


"Fifteen, huh? What's that—5000 caps equivalent?" The Ranger stood up grunting. "Seems about right," He said sounding satisfied. "Guess kicking those five Legates into a trash compactor really got his attention, huh? Hahahaha." He laughed almost like a lunatic laughing at the rain, if there was any.




"You're laughing? Not all of us got hit by the mines you know, some I had sent some around." The Praetorian began to sound nervous now, he'd heard of The Sins and right now he fully understood why the Caesar told them not to underestimate them. Just one had taken out 10 Praetorians and 20 Centurions.


The former ranger turned to the wounded man, arms splayed out at arm's length. "Let them come for me, I'll enjoy a good hunt," Azrael responded. He then turned, rotating the handgun; spinning faster and faster almost like a nervous habit until the movement was fluid, a blur before it halted immediately. His gloved hand, rather than gripping the pistol's handgrip, held the barrel instead. Torquing his right shoulder, he shoved it into the chest, throwing the Centurion's aim off his knife thrust towards Azrael's kidney. Gripping the Centurion's wrist, he yanked it, painfully the man groaning and nearly falling to his knees as his arm was pulled outwards exposing the ribs which Azrael promptly struck, cracking the bones before smashing the wrist which clutched the knife, just barely now, crushing it causing him to release his bladed weapon rather he wished to or not. Twirling the weapon again, Azrael then lashed out. The pistols grip accelerating to more than 25 miles per hour before it struck the man's skull causing massive internal injury from a depressed fracture.


The Centurion finally was allowed to fall into a heap. Eyeing the man, a moment longer he looked back over at the Praetorian. "Oh yeah," Azrael suddenly said, as if a light bulb illuminating above his head gave the notion that he suddenly had an idea--which wasn't very good for the man with the wounded knee. "I said I'd be generous," He continued, taking aim at the man's face with the .44 magnum Sequoia. "This is as generous as I can be." He argued, pulling the trigger and expelling the last round. The bullet carried itself with lethal efficiency through both the hard bone and soft tissue matter of the man's brain, snapping his head back before he too fell back.


Now, where to next...?



[glow=red]-Madisonville-[/glow]





[glow=red] The solemn jingle of boots, the sangfroid nonchalance of his stride and the glowing red eyeshades of his well-worn, but well taken care of helmet that glanced around the shanty little town, cowering behind battered walls to break the winds bearing down, all seemed to tell the singular story of a man who’d seen too much danger, lived through one too many fights he should have died in. The scratches, the scrapes, and abrasions of the rough leather duster that flapped at his feet as zephyrs swirled on past him, and the scorch marks and gouges in the plates all spoke more words that could be said about the level of danger this man presented--if not the assortment of weapon--a 14.5mm anti-tank rifle that made a .50 cal seems like it was only shooting the somewhat smaller, .308 round.


If had the velocity to pierce tank armor, it was dreadful to think what it could do to a human being--or several. The other weapon he had carried, barrel directed downwards was a nearly pristine cherrywood M1 Garand, a Pre-War weapon used in WWII on the side of the Americans. It was a semi-automatic weapon; highly accurate up to 500 yards and had an 8-round clip., he also had a highly detailed Cowboy Repeater; classic American scroll pattern is duplicated on both sides of the brass frame; cut, not molded, and hand chased. It fired 13 .44-40 WCF or .357 rounds. Of which he had criss-crossing bandoliers going from one shoulder to the opposite hip in an 'x' fashion over a kevlar SWAT vest.


For all his firepower capable of dealing copious amounts of death he did have one thing not related to survivability, a trinket really. A gold cross dangled from around his neck. Glimmering, gleaming it was a calling card to every thief but they were better off dead than trying to take it. Azrael sauntered, worn boots jingling stepping into a casino and bar; a rowdy place. His kind of place. Gamblers calling each other cheats and liars, buxom women in burlesque dresses, slit thigh high. Just enough to catch the eyes attention.

He slapped two Denarii onto the old red oak counter.

“A large bottle of Wasteland Tequila and a couple Sunlights’.” The gruff voice being the mask said. The bartender just nodded, taking the coins; they were more than worth their weight in caps.

That's he did it; gripping the helmet on both sides, sliding it from his head to reveal a heavily bandaged face with only his nose, eyes and mouth stick out. His eyes were a shark, dark steel grey and his face appeared somewhat narrow and angular, He then took a seat quietly, all eyes upon him momentarily as he cut the pigtail off, lit up the cigar and started smoking as nothing was wrong--nothing he was worried about any rate.


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