"I see how it is..." Markas nodds, leering at the guard, "Following the Apocalypse so closley you can't see past the ideals? Ever tried helping someone who can help you back? Or is that too far for you to go? After all what have we Remenants ever done for you? Won't you let me in because I didn't fight at Hoover Dam? Or is it because unlike your precious Arcade I've got blood on my hands?"
Setting his jaw, the Remenant looks up, fighting down a few choice words before hissing.
"I'll be waiting here unless you let me in, just tell Arcade when you've got the chance: 'Amicum obses conscienta est. Fratum Militum obses praeterium tempus est. Amicum in ostium maneat.'"
Taking the defender, Markas goes to lean against the wall, hoping his mangled Latin would suffice.

OOC: I knew those Latin lessons would come in handy.

As Olson approached the front guards of the Old Fort, he noticed the man in the "Mechanics" Uniform that Rotface had kindly warned him about. His hand resting within his coat, firmly atop the grip of Faith, as was his typical doctoral way of walking; he proceeded towards the guards just as the man said something in Latin and walked away towards a nearby wall. As a Follower Olson had been educated in what shreds of old Language the FoA had access too. It was apparent the stranger was looking for someone.. Perhaps an old brother in arms, or a fellow soldier. It seemed the guards weren't about to let him pass however.

Olson approached the fellow guards, and nodded in respect. "Good Morning brothers. It's been awhile, but I've returned to pay my respects to my family, the teachings of Nicole, perhaps catch up with current events. "

The guard blinked, stunned speechless as Markas walked away to lean against the Fort's walls. Drawn back to attention at Olsen's words, he stood up straight, suddenly.

"You're a Follower? Sorry to say I only recently arrived at this Fort, and wouldn't know. But you bear the insignia, and know of our founder, so we welcome you, brother. Indeed, if you're offering it, we could use all the help we could get. Come in, brother."

The guard turned, talking to the second guard who still held the gate open.

"That 'remnant' is persistent. I'll pass on his message to Julie. Take over until I get back, and, obviously, don't let him through the gate."

The guard waved Olsen through as he lifted and moved a duffle bag that was just behind him at his feet, clearly filled with confiscated weaponry, giving it to the second guard.

Looking at Julie Farkas, his attention barely able to keep focus as the ruckus inside the Follower's camp was quite distracting, he smiled and nodded.

" Why yes ma'am, that'd be me, Gus. I've always loved this place and what you fellows been doin', and I'd be glad tah' help anyway I can. Plus, makin' a few caps is always somethin' tah' look forward too."

He kept his hands in the pockets of his tight fitting suspenders, and rocked slightly back and forth as he spoke.

"So, what's with all the calamity 'round here? Hope nothin' too big happened 'round here, don't wanna see many people hurtin' 'n all."

Julie's smile was more sorrowful than anything else.

"Just been busy. Since the NCR moved out, the squatters of Freeside have needed us more than ever. And in the past few weeks, now we find Followers in our own infirmaries. We have a steady supply of caps now, though, but our medical supplies are running dangerously low. Stimpacks and Med-X we can create consistently enough, and Fixers are thankfully not our primary concern, but we don't have enough basic doctors equipment to deal with so many injuries."

Julie stopped for a moment, opening the clasp of a small bag hung around her waist. Reaching in, she brought out a folded piece of paper and handed it to Gus.

"We know exactly what we need, and in enough quantity. The Crimson Caravan Company is still operating, and would be able to procure the required supplies. Unfortunately, by our estimate, the 600 caps we can spare is rather under the margin of payment they'll be looking for, and we can't spare any Followers anyway. I thought I'd give you this opportunity, considering you have history in such business. If you're interested, of course. I'm not sure what reward we can spare for now, though, besides our thanks and whatever caps you may have left over from the transaction."

As Julie awaited Gus' reply, her attention was briefly diverted by a man whom approached her. Gus recognized him as the guard who'd confiscated his weaponry beforehand at the gate.

"Julie, there's a man outside. He's insisting to see-" The guard cut himself off, glancing at Gus standing beside them, "- you-know-who. He wanted this message given to him: Amicum obses conscienta est. Fratum Militum obses praeterium tempus est. Amicum in ostium maneat."

Julie frowned.

"You don't have to hide his name in front of Gus. He's no more NCR than we are, nor is it much of a secret. I'll speak to Arcade myself when I can." Julie replied, turning back to Gus.

Olson nodded towards the guard that bid him pass. He made his way into the compound of the Old Mormon Fort, anxious to see what would come from his return.

Olsen Macdonald
From his viewpoint at the entrance, Olsen saw how much things had changed since both the NCR and Mr. House had withdrawn from Freeside entirely. Olsen's keen, trained eyes quickly took in as much as he could.

Besides the guards at the doors, there were at least twice the number on duty behind the sandbag encampments inside. Tents and other makeshift coverings covered much of the inner Fort, and doctors walked or ran between each, checking on various patients. Some of the patients could be seen from his angle, too, and it seemed that drug addicts were a minority unlike it had been previously. Instead, there were broken bones, amputated limbs, infections, fractures, gunshot wounds, burns... These were the injuries of violence.

Julie Farkas stood within the minute central courtyard, far smaller than it had ever been, handing out a small leather bag to the wastelander Olsen had briefly glimpsed entering the camp earlier. The wastelander nodded, replying to something Julie had said, before flashing a good-natured smile, and walking off towards the entrance, just passing Olsen on the way out. Even as he walked off, still Julie was in the middle of conversation, now exchanging words with the door guard from before. She sighed suddenly, motioning him to get back to his post before turning and walking away, towards the small watchtower to the rear of the Fort. She hadn't noticed Olsen's presence.

A shout broke Olsen's concentration in taking in the current status of the Fort. It came from outside the gate, still only meters away from him.


----------


Markas Jaden
As Markas waited, he eyed a group that approached the Fort slowly. 7 of them. Freesiders. Each carried some form of weapon - a sledgehammer, a short knife, a lead pipe... Markas wasn't sure what, but he caught a glimpse of dull metal being carried near the back of the tight-knit group, suspiciously looking like a firearm of some kind. The group spoke amongst themselves, with two nearest the front sporting scarred faces, obviously trying to hide the fact that his left hand was behind his back, reaching for - or grasping, his back-mounted sledgehammer. The Follower, the gate guard, noticed the group as well, and stepped away from the pack of confiscated weaponry, carefully reaching for the rifle on his back, shouting out a warning...to both the incoming group and the Fort itself, Markas suspected.

"Hey! If you're visiting someone, you can't bring weapons in and you'll be checked individually, sirs."

The scarred Freesider, seeming to act as a leader of sorts among the group, glared at the guard, still slowly approaching.

"We're not looking to visit, we're looking for my friend you keep from us. He just came in here for a leg injury weeks ago, and you've refused to let him out!"

Gus looked at Julie, and smiled. He felt bad that all of the Followers were having such trouble, but if it swings some caps his way, then why not help then?

" 'Course I can Julie, you know I'ma good ol' reliable fella. This is somethin' diff'rent than scavengin', an' I love ta' give't a try. An' I'll try my best to do some convincin' on tha' Crimson Caravan, to get ya's much as ya need."


He looked down and looked at the paper, and read it over quickly. He looked back up and nodded, more so out of habit than anything.

"Well, I'll be needin' some extra hands, an' guards an' such if I'm'n gonna be bringin' such high qual'ty goods back an' forth. The extra caps can go to their pay, I might'n be able to help too, and as for my payment, just'n make sure to keep my name on the top of the lists when it comes down ta' gettin' some work."

he smiled and tried to give her a more reassuring feel, hopefully making her not worry so much.

Markas straightened, drawing his Plasma defender slowly, delibaratley, whilst reaching for the pulse grenade concealed amongst his equipment. He hadn't survived this long after Raven's Rock to be brained by a mob of irradiated thugs or trade pleasantries in latin with a degenerate charity...looking at the bag of weapons he wondered, idly, whether they had a Gattling Laser spare.

Snapping his eyes back to the group he grinned, focusing on the potential firearm, he would have to deal with him swiftly if violence broke out...which he was sure it would.

"Haven't you heard?" He called out to the men, making sure the grenade was ready to be primed and thrown at a moment's notice. "The Fort's not safe anymore...they're only letting in old guards other men who've caught bowel-rot...apparently it's an epidemic around Prim...and now it's here. Word has it some poor guy with a leg wound developed it and now it's running through the patients there like yellow fever."
He pauses, licking his lips.
"Wouldn't like to have known the guy who got it though...damned contagious."

Markas didn't care how poor the bluff was, either scaring the gorup off or aggrivating them was all he needed to do...the pulse grenade would do the rest.

Olson took in the remnants of the once much larger courtyard of the Old Fort. His eyes fell upon the familiar form of Julie Farkas as she spoke to some good-natured sod, who turned and made his way past him smile wide and parcel in hand. Olson had thought about approaching Julie, even as she spoke to the other Follower-guard, likely about the mechanic outfit clad stranger out front when a call from behind him roused his attention.

If a guard had found the need to yell out his standard greeting / protocol that loud, it only meant there was either a larger group than he alone could process, or he suspected trouble.

Olson unslung Elsa from his back, his weathered hands caressing the cool steel as he traced it from barrel plug to custom grip. "Perhaps Nicole shall have to wait but a little longer my love" He said as he patted the nameplate lovingly.

Turning around, he moved back towards the gate he had entered, using the corner of the gate/wall as cover and to simply take stock of those approaching.

(Not utilizing Rapid Trigger, simply aiming and adjusting, waiting to see what happens. First Freesider to attempt a violent action against the guard, or Markas, and Olson will Target their leg (if it's a melee weapon) (or their shoulder area if they are holding a firearm. If no clear-non-lethal shot can be made on a firearm wielding Freesider, Olson will go for a head/kill shot though he's trying not to kill)

Markas Jaden
"Haven't you heard? The Fort's not safe anymore...they're only letting in old guards other men who've caught bowel-rot...apparently it's an epidemic around Prim...and now it's here. Word has it some poor guy with a leg wound developed it and now it's running through the patients there like yellow fever. Wouldn't like to have known the guy who got it though...damned contagious."

Skill-Assisted Dialogue used: Speech (Persuasion), Medicine
[02/??] = Failure
[17/??] = Failure
The sledgehammer-carrying Freesider turned his head to look towards Markas strangely, as if thinking, before being interrupted by the guard by the gate.

"Look, I don't know who you're talking about, but we're not keeping anyone here against their will. Either relinquish your weapons or keep moving, because you are not allowed in like that."

The Freesider turned back, before stepping slightly to the side...

BANG

----------


Olsen Macdonald
Perception check PASS: [8/7]
Olsen saw the eyes of a Freesider at the back of the group flick down towards where he assumed the hands of the sledgehammer-wielding thug was, predicting it to mean that the thug was making some signal behind his back. As he stepped to the side to reveal the Freesider at the back of the group raise a pistol and take aim, Olsen was already ready to act.

Agility check PASS: [5/4]
Olsen fired, his well-placed bullet flying past the group to hit the would-be shooter precisely. However, between the sway of the weapon, the moderate-distance shot was slightly off-target, and instead hit to the left and down of the shoulder, piercing his stomach area easily. A non-lethal shot with the same outcome, though, as the man dropped the gun in reflex, doubling over with a scream of pain.

Agility check PASS: [4/4]
Markas threw the grenade he'd prepared, the Pulse-charged weapon flung through the air. His less-than trained arm caught him out, though, and he'd underestimated the grenade's weight as it fell short of the target, still rolling within the explosive radius of a few. Between glancing at their screaming companion, and identifying where the shot came from, only a couple of the Freesiders recognized the threat of the explosive, but before they could shout a warning one suddenly grabbed his leg and fell as the sound of a second, more distant, shot rang out.

Perception check PASS: [6/8]
Both Markas and Olsen recognized the shot as having come from inside - or above - the Fort's walls, possibly a watchtower.

Finally, as the gate guard and Markas drew their weapons, the grenade lit up and detonated, the useless containment for the powerful electromagnet charge flung away as sparks of semi-transparant light criss-crossed through the air around the Freesiders like dulled lightning, the magnetic disruption doing little, but the force of its release causing them all to stagger if they were still standing.

All five of the unharmed Freesiders, including their 'leader' immediately turned and ran, heading away from the Mormon Fort as fast as they could, one of them dropping his weapon, a lead pipe, in the process. The last two lay on the floor, one trying to drag himself upright while clutching a wound on his leg, the blood starting to soak through his clothes, as the other coughed, writhing in agony as the stomach wound.

Markas grimaces at the writhing men, holstering his pistol delicatley.
"So much for 'no weapons inside the fort' unless a high velocity sniper rifle doesn't count as a weapon." Finishing the sentence with a few muttered curses the remenant folds his arms once again, glaring at the ground. "Might as well try reasoning with a wall, at least it's got it's priorities right..."

Olson smirked an unmistakable grin as he patted Elsa once more, slinging her over his shoulder and setting her once more into the position he took comfort in her being. At his back, and watching his rear. As he strolled back out of the gate he approached the two wounded Freesiders; stopping about 10 feet away, one hand resting on Faith, the other on his doctor's bag.

"Looks like you two boys could use some medical assistance. As luck would have it I happen to know a doctor. If you've got the caps to make a kindly donation to the Followers Cause, I'd be more than happy to see you receive medical treatment right away."

The leg-wounded Freesider looked up towards the Follower, gritting his teeth. His glare hid his fear behind a mask of hatred, as he swung out with a small knife at Olsen threateningly, despite being well out of reach.

"We know what you've been doing; poisoning or murdering those you claim to 'save', stay away from me!"

Even as the one Freesider spoke, the other coughed again, blood now soaking throughout his shirt. Olsen's bullet had done its job, and must have caused quite some internal damage. The blood loss was surprisingly great.

Medicine Check: [41/30]
Olsen predicted, through the amount of blood, that the bulet must have splintered, possibly having nicked the lowest part of the ribs. The fragmentation had caused some internal damage. Death by exsanguination - blood loss - would probably occur without medical aid within an hour, possibly longer.

Behind Olsen the other guard had returned, but said not a word before running back inside, assumedly to grab a Doctor.

Olson looked at the Freesider's and raised a brow.

"Look, I just arrived here myself, been off for quite awhile now. Either way there's two ways I see this going down. First, you put that pig sticker away and let me treat you and your friend, and we can talk about what you believe to be going on once you're feeling a bit better, or two, your buddy over there bleeds out and you try to carry him outta here on that bum-leg you're sporting and no-one's even given the chance to perhaps give a damn about your convoluted proclamations."

Olson took one step forward, his visage stern.

"So, what's it gonna be. Spare what caps and weapons you have for contribution to your aid and I'll do my best to get you two back in shape? Or die in this god-forsaken place and let the vulture's man and beast alike pick their fill from your sun bleached irradiated bones."