Roger Maxson, Fallout universe, Somewhere that is *not* southern California

[mm_cam]

One of these days Roger's going to learn to read the manual first before running the quarterly mandatory system updates on that ding-dang robot. One day. Today's not that day. Tomorrow's not looking good either. He's got to get through Chapter 3 (Troubleshooting) first, before-

Wait, whoa whoa whoa, what. What. What happened to the lighting

Comments

[cantdiequiteyet]

To some people, he looks nothing like a soldier at all.

But then, to other people, soldiers aren't supposed to sport long waves of white blonde hair flowing free. But her white and grey outfit contains enough polished armor plating that she certainly doesn't look like anything else.

And then there's the sword, stuck into the floor behind her, which she's using as a back rest as she sits.

She looks up and regards him with mild interest.

[first_of_steel]

The armor, at least, is something he recognizes. If only because it's armor. No suit he's ever seen, no design he's ever heard of, but his clearance isn't enough to cover every-

Okay. The sword's new. That thing's the size of some of the next-gen supersledge prototypes. Damn.

"Ma'am," he says, largely because she's looking at him and it's better than gaping like a fish at his surroundings. "I wonder if you could tell me what's going on?"

[cantdiequiteyet]

It had only been a semi-casual glance, one that would have gone away as Teresa became bored, but now she stays with him, her mouth turning ever so faintly upwards, silver eyes shining.

"Are you dead?"

This will help her frame her answer.

[first_of_steel]

"Only if I can't figure out what's wrong with Orson's thrust control software before the warranty expires," says Roger.

"... no. Not dead. Why do you ask?"

[first_of_steel]

"You could say that, I- whoa."

Not only is there a bar where the kitchen was supposed to be, but apparently one of the locals is professionally employed by the circus. Or possibly a very, very, very specialized form of theater. Because there's just no other reason for that many visible body modifications.

(We're so sorry. The man's a product of his time, and his time is a 1955 that never ended.)

He clears his throat. "My apologies, miss," he manages, doing a credible job of pulling himself together. "I hadn't seen you there. What's going on here?"

[first_of_steel]

"A what, now?" The word's not ringing any bells, and he's still a little off his pace anyway, so he more or less winds up shaking her hand almost entirely out of reflex. "Sorry, miss. Changing the old mental gears is a little tricky just now..."

Even if he'd just run into Yvonne asking about buying a new Corvega instead, he'd still have a hard time shifting out of 'fix the robot' and into 'examine the household finances'. He was a little caught up in his reading. "Can I ask where 'here' is, exactly?"

[mm_iii]

It's all old looking things to Danenein. Honestly, the book is the most interesting thing, if only because such things are so damn hard to find in her own world. She, herself, is a somewhat dusty woman with a mild sunburn, dressed in old clothing which last saw better days a half decade or so ago. Her rifle is a basic bolt-action thing, slung casually over her back. Really the only impressive things about her are the size of her nose (much better suited to someone with six inches or so on her) and the delicate point of her ears.

...Or possibly the cat/spider mix on the floor beside her, two tails swaying absently as it chews on a lump of something vaguely meaty.

Danenein looks up at regular intervals and offers a companionable nod, in the yup, been there vein of things, to the confused looking human. (Someday she thinks she'll become used to seeing healthy looking humans. It hasn't happened yet.)

[first_of_steel]

Noses are something one can usually safely ignore, and ears aren't something Roger pays much attention to unless he suspects his wife is trying to get him to notice he got a haircut. He's been stationed in a particularly hot and desert-like part of California, though, and that means looking out for local wildlife. The thing on the floor has a lot of his attention.

It doesn't look like it's going to bite, at least. That's... something?

[mm_iii]

"Speeat." Danenein assures him, "Juvenile, about four years old. You can tell by the wrinkling on his mandibles. He's quite domesticated." Blithely ignoring the fact that "domesticated" when it comes to Speeat means "usually doesn't engage in threatening behaviour without provocation". "His name is Slepnir."

[first_of_steel]

"I don't think I've ever heard of such a thing," says Roger, whose world up until now had never included the possibility of mandibles on anything that large. "Is he experimental?"

Good Lord, just what clearance does he have, anyway?