Lemon Frisk, current head of Vault 69, trotted carefully along a ditch leading to, of all place, the Cola factory where and his current wife had met, his mind still somewhat reeling from the news he been given two days ago, but had only just heard through the grapevine of the goings on from Equestria at large. Odd sightings, raider decimations, alicorn sighting, mutations, all standard affairs in his day. But lately, much more unsettling things had come about. Mass gatherings of slavers and raiders, movement in the night of who knows what, supplies amd ammo being set in place. War and rumor of war. He has heard it all a week ago through new associates who had made his aquaintance, the ponies of Equestria were in full civil war. And now it was all over the radio. After taking a advance from his beneficiaries, Lemon had armed and armored pretty much every able bodies pony there with laser pistols and rifles and a few other bits and bobs and managed to fill every available and cranny with every conventional type of ordinance and weapon, and once full, had sent to rest to the surround towns. He had put the more vulnerable in the care of the Slag for a time, and nearly pitched a fit when his mare dug in he heels and refused to leave his side, but knew any argument would get nowhere, so after situating her and familiarizing her with a safe room in case matters got to dangerous, he considered the flushed position of his allies and Vault 69.
They were fucked and left in the rain to cry was his estimate. While having access to enough combat barding to cover all the adults, he been flat out refused any power armor. They were well supplies, but outside the Vault, dependent of the other settlements, and while they claimed to be more then ready, he knew it couldn't hold up for long. And once the towns fell... Ranger, Enclave, slaver, raider, beset on sides in a held position, but for how long? He was two hundred past his prime, and none of the others were soldiers. And thus, he had contacted his benefactors: He would assess somepony named Horrigan and decide if he would be primed for immediate deployment.
Now the question was who of what the fuck was a Horrigan. Any attempts at elaboration were shot down, this pony was simply the recepient of his intel and for the foreseeable future his commanding officer. Sighing as he walked up to the double doors, he grumbled out his thoughts as he nudged the two means of ingress closed. Counting out the stones to the left up to twelve, he flipped the last stone over, revealing a key. Pick it up via his mouth, he pushed into the door lock, and turned it once, then again, then five more times. Realizing the key had disappeared from his mouth, he pushed of the door again, and rolled his eyes. The factory was of course gone, the inside a bare hallway leading to an empty desk. As he walked, Lemon noted his hoof steps made no echo. Finally reach the desk, he raised his single eye brow at the complimentary fruit basket complete with a rather pricey whiskey he hadn't drunk for two hundred years, and actual cigars and a note informing that two were for Horrigan when he woke and debriefed, the rest for his eventual victory.
Snorting at the absurdity of their self assuredness, Lemon picked up a cigar, running it under his nose. He wondered if... as he put the cigar back, he blinked, noticing a new colored note and a smile under the sentence of course you may! Their cuban and thankfully one of the few things of our transactions on that plane that does cause school fillies to spontaneously combust or corn gaining sapient levels of awareness and attempting coitus with the nearest shrubs.
Putting the cigar and whiskey in his saddlebag, he turned, and wasn't at all shocked to see no hallway but a door. And with a grunt of annoyance, Lemon pushed it open. And there he was.
At first lemon thought is a lesser troll or Minotaur, but this... thing was much more pale then dark green, its body covered in power armor. To what nation it was birth would be a waste of estimation, and it was time better spent wincing as he looked closer and saw the plates grafted to the poor bastard body, and under the skin, combat barding filaments were used along its musculature enhancin its strength. From his guess, this... Horrison would have had to stand a good seven foot. Minotaurs usually were much more top heavy and were hairy. It seemed its pallid complexion suggestion internment years ago. It head in an Enclave get up, albeit in RDE format.... and it was a bitch breach and mess with. And without further distraction, Lemon activated rhwe, and taking a hand watched his newest friend and comrade slowly turn its head towards him... and Lemon Frisk slid it practiced state of measured indifference, his years as an operative as easily worn today as his first talk with a suspect.
"Savage... do you understand me."
A slow nod. Lemon regarded himself in the helmets eyes, easily cover the creatures soul windows.
"I'm going to reach forward and tap into your com link creature, and we'll go from there. Am I understood that should you even attempt the thought of anything more than that sheep I porked my prom in terms of giving in to me, I will shut your pale ass down and leave you hear to rot. Clear?"
Another nod. Leaning forward, Lemon hmm as he searched... similar design and parameters to Enclave suits, different materials, but layout should... the helmet began whirring internally, and nodding, the ghoul pulled away.
"Lemon Frisk... Misty Cloud... Lemonade..."
A hoof shot out an inch from the helmet, and a growl echoed from the stallion.
"Son, you ain't got shit on my expired ass outside of names and dates. Don't pretend you know dick all about my."
Amazingly, the human chuckled, a rather pleasing sound in a a gravel kind of way. As the stallion pulled his hoof back, Horrison continued "Us soldiers know our own. Hmm... ghoul, I should think... relatively put together, but decay is point century and half. Perhaps longer given matters at hand. Certainly got more spine then your clique or trio did. Only reason you here now . War?"
Lemon Frisk gave a nod, then took a nip from the bottle, which he handed to the human... who was probably giving off the biggest strain of go fuck yourself wishing he'd ever felt from any soldier he'd ever seen of met... and as the human passed back the bottle and began to rise, Lemon began searching around his person after sticking a cigar in my muzzle... then pause as a hand still a spark of flame as a silver lighter opened. Sighing, Lemon Frisk leaned into the light, and took a deep inhale as the silver lighter close. Letting out a breath of annoyance and letting the smoke waft about, Lemon mulled a moment for his next words.
"The days of war are gone son. Mine... yours, although given your make, your more or less in your prime for good. But the only place us old battle gaits can find a home is with each other... and thats all we got. I can't talk to another ghoul about most stuff with the exception of my wife and a guard I met some time ago, or whatever you were once upon a time... No ones got the balls to really give anything of themselves nowadays."
The human paused in his sitting up, and said evenly "I'm a marine sir. And if I were to guess... black ops, correct?"
"Hole in one colt."
Sitting up fully, the human pulled the blanket away, revealing the black metal of his cybernetics. A slow breath, and with a depressingly time perfected freedom of motion, the marine easily swung the legs over the bed, and Lemon felt a surge of pity for it. Whatever did this... he hope their end was bad a slow and could have been done twice. The human gave a couple of leg shakes, and standing erect, smartly brought a salute.
"Commander Frisk, I am Francis Horrison. I got a bozar for a cock, and balls the size of your fucking head. Now you done with your gold bricking so we can get to work?"
What was left of Lemons brow nearly shot of his head as a crudeness he hadn't heard outside some Raider Warlords broodmare had been the last he had expected to come from grim determination if you manage to somehow stuff it into a power armor and just use the term gold bricks. Goddess... it had been decade since anyone came close to talking to him like that.
"Son... you an me are gonna be a house a flame in the coming months. Now stuff your giant into some camo and double it down the hall. Our good benefactors coming baring what I hope are prench whores, hoofball, and apple pie, but I'll be a big handsome hunk of a stud and downgrade to blow up wanda and pleasant thoughts of my days of being less ugly."
Author's Note
Before any of you say it... Yes, Horrison is taller. He's a good twelve game wise, so he'll be shorted, okay? Okay.
Lemon Frisk is the adorable brain child of our Nyurguds.
