Navarro

Chapter 1: Welcome to Camp Navarro.

Camp Navarro. If I were a local, I would never have realized that there was a huge armed base behind a small and seemingly abandoned old gas station.

And if I were the "Chosen One," I would come here to steal the plans of vertybirds to give them to Brotherhood of Steel. But I come from another world, in which all that exists is a fat-feast and fun in every sense. And this world, especially considering that we, people from my world, are accustomed to seeing it as two-dimensional, was even more bizarre.

But I'm not at home, I'm here. In the middle of the world of Wasteland, mutants, radiation and other "delights". And looking at everything not through a screen, but in reality, all I could do was learn to grasp it all on the fly, just to survive. Escaped from slave traders a couple of times there, quickly ran away from robbers here. I had to learn to shoot with anything that could shoot, to patch up wounds using not the usual medicines, but stimpacks and med-X, I had to learn to run fast and hit hard if something. But... To my surprise, in many cases it was as if I was invisible - I was noticed less than others. Well, so much the better.

Although once the kid from the Hole tried to take my keys out of my pocket, and then threw them away with a cry of "GRENADE!!!" and ran away, far away.

Children from the Hole were painful to look at - dirty, hungry, with bulging eyes and hair infested with parasites. But I couldn't help them except with food. Many of them were either street children or already drug addicts. Although... After Metzger had heard enough from me, he grabbed his gang and left for Nevada, one premises became vacant.

Oh yes, why exactly did Metzger fled... I just met him in a bar while I was trying to figure out how to painlessly get money and food for myself. He came up and stared at me for a long time. Either he was estimating the price, or he was just looking at me. Unable to bear it, I turned to him, putting aside the map that Rebecca gave:

— What, seing a human first time?

— Wach your mouth, gal.

— Oh, i'm so-so scared. You know, after the war atrocities that I saw, you are no longer a scary, dude, sorry.

Metzger held his "war dog" Aidan and narrowed his eyes:

— Really? And what kind of atrocities did you see, kiddo?

— Have you ever seen a rocket fly into an apartment building? And not one? How does furniture and things fly out of a hole in a house? Pieces of some unfortunate person's life? Or maybe how people are trying to get out of a burning damaged tank, burning, screaming, how their skin bubbling and blisters bursting with bloody splashes? Have you ever seen a street littered with corpses of people who have no arms or legs, or whose brains are scattered on the asphalt out of smashed heads? And in the background of this street there is burnt military equipment? Have you seen how entire squads of people are scattered into pieces of bodies and bloody dust from artillery fire? Have you seen mass graves, felt the smell of decomposing bodies, seen graves right next to houses? In which are buried women and children who couldn't escape from the rockets? No, you didn't see it. Because you live after war. When you see this for two years, when you experience through yourself the atrocities of war, the slave trade is, although a disgusting thing, but not so terrible. Although no, there are worse ones. You should look for books about the Holocaust.

— What is it, Holocaust? — barked another of the slave trader's bouncers.

— Oh, I can't explain it right away...

— We're in no hurry. Becky! Beer for everyone. And for the gal too.

Rebecca was clearly not happy with them, but she obediently brought the drinks. While the men were discussing something, I whispered to her:

— Don't be afraid, I know how to interest them and force them to leave. I can promise them heavenly valleys, where milk rivers and jelly banks flow. They gobble it up like little ones, will lick their fingers and ask for more.

— Okay, try your best, darling, — the owner of the bar and casino whispered back to me, retreating behind the counter.

— So what is this Holocaust, girl?

— Murder. Mass murder.

— So what's wrong with that? — muttered Aidan, who sat down next to me.

— Have you ever starve?

— Yes. And?

— To death? Filling your stomach with bark, grass and leaves?

— Well... N-no...

— How many other people were starving with you?

— Only me and that's all...

— Were you locked at the same place with others starving people?

— No...

— Did someone beat you to a pulp? Forced you to work until exhaustion?

— No! — the guard had already roared, but Metzger held him back again.

— Now imagine yourself the picture. Some poeple burst into your home and grab you, your family, your children in the middle of the night, or on the street, or for no reason at all. They grab you, forcefully shove you into a vehicle and take you to an isolated part of the city. High brick walls, if you try to leave they will beat you, and as punishment they will kill all your neighbors, friends, and no matter who. Or they'll just shoot you. You live there from hand to mouth, every day you see your neighbors and acquaintances dying of starving right on the streets. And this lasts not a day, not a week, but months. And so, almost all of you, hungry and dirty, are grabbed again and taken to the station. There is a train. You are separated from your family and stuffed into cattle cars. No food, no water, there is only a bucket for a toilet, and there are so many of people in the carriage that you can't even sit down. And they taking you somewhere. Train traveled for a long time. In summer time you would die only from the heat and lack of air, and in winter you would easily get sick and freeze. And now, after several days of traveling, they brought you somewhere. You spill out onto station, corpses, half-corpses, alive. There are armed people around, angry dogs, you are blinded by the spotlights, all you see around you is a fence with barbed wire. You feel a strange smell, as if meat is being fried somewhere, and you also feel a terrifying stench from unwashed bodies, corpses, dirt, feces and other joys. You are lined up and examined. Doctor wave his hand to the left, and the women and children obediently go there. He wave to the right for you, and now you are already wading with other people after people in black uniforms. They shave your head, and in such a way that wounds remain on your head. They make a number on your hand, literally using a needle to make wounds in shape of a numbers, and they also rub black ink into these wounds. You twitching? You resisting? They will beat you up and make everything even worse. Then they give you clothes, taking away all your stuff. A thin striped shirt and striped pants. After this you are not human any longer. You are a number. You have no rights. No freedoms. You are nobody. They can kill you just like that, just because you, say, blinked. Or scratched yourself.
In the barracks you sleep in extremely cramped conditions. On the shelf next to you, which is only the size of a double bed, are six more people. You are all smelly and dirty, and lice, ticks, fleas and other parasites are falling on top of you. The stench in the barracks is hellish.
In the morning you are unceremoniously woken up and driven out to the parade ground. They stand there and count people. Then they give you a job. And you will be very lucky if you work indoors. But if you're working on the street, you can forget about the chance of survival.
You're all working your ass off. Death, death, death, it's everywhere. You see death in the morning when you wake up - your friend has already died next to you. Just in a sleep. From hunger. Or beatings. Or illness. Death during the day - many cannot withstand the pace of work, or they are killed just like for nothing. You are not people for your tormentors. Death in the evening - someone could not stand it and threw himself onto the energized barbed wire. And either you would see him being shot, or he would run up, grab himself, and then die in convulsions, releasing black blood from his mouth, nose and ears. Death at night. Someone died in their sleep again.
And like this, if you are lucky, you live for several years. There is death, stench, hunger and deprivation all around. By the end of the third month, you are so hungry and exhausted that you can count your own bones. You are fed only thin soup and water, without salt or spices, and are also given a tiny piece of bread. You are all bald, skinny, dirty, smelly, you work until exhaustion, there is nothing human in you anymore, only the desire to eat and survive.
And then suddenly they give you a job. The work indoors. Well, isn't is a paradise after everything? You and other prisoners are brought into some kind of room that resembles a shower. Others are herded, you are taken aside with others. They are there like sardines in a barrel, standing right next to each other. They are all new. They were recently delivered. Not skinny yet, still normal. The room is locked, there is only a small round window in the armored door. You see people looking up and around in confusion. And then you hear rustling and knocking, as if small pebbles were being poured into an iron pipe. And then the people in the cell start screaming. They knock on the door, scream, cough, scratch the walls, sob, beg, they grab their throats, cough, tears flow from their eyes. Fifteen minutes later, their screams begin to fade.They no longer knock or kick, they just wheeze and cry. Twenty minutes later you and the others are given a gas masks. The door opens. There are corpses in front of you. All the people who were driven here died. They are blue-black, scary and dead. These are all women, old people, children, sick and disabled people. And they were all killed. Almost a thousand people in just twenty minutes. They were killed in the gas chamber, and not only these. This conveyor worked twenty-four by seven, seven days a week, thirty a month, three hundred and sixty-five days a year. No holidays, stops, breaks. Thousands, tens, hundreds of thousands of people. And they all died here.
And you are now part of this factory. Tiny cog in the huge machine, the Factory of Death. They force you to cut dead people's hair, collect their hair in bags, pull out their gold teeth, examine them in case they hid something? When it's all over, you take the corpses upstairs and take them to another building. It's gloomy, with pipes rising above it. It's hot inside and smells of smoke. This is a crematorium. The living were sent here to die as well. Only in your presence will they push a screaming man into the oven, from which jets of flame are escaping. And not just one. Corpses and living. You are deafened by the screams, sickened by the smell, but you have to work, otherwise you're next. And when this cannonade subsides, you are forced to collect the ashes. Human ashes. The only thing that remain of human after this factory of Death.
And now your time comes. You are sick, weak, even a child could easily grab your legs and arms anywhere, you are so depleted. You are dying. And dying slowly. You no longer have the strength to stand up, don't even have the strength to raise your own hand. They are taking you to the crematorium. But you won't feel the heat of the stove - you die on the way there next to others like you, while you and the others are dumped in a wheelbarrow like logs, and not still living people. Your body turns to ashes in the crematorium, and your ashes fly out into the chimney like whitish smoke. You've finally died. Your ashes and smoke from you flies upward along with others. But this is not the end. It was just your story, one grain in this hell. After all, new people come to the camp, just like you, every day. And the death factory continues its work while the smoke of killed and burned people swirls above it.

There was a terrible silence in the bar. Women were crying with their hands to their mouths, the men were no longer drinking beer, but whiskey, some were also crying, putting their hands to their mouths or covering their faces. The homeless children at the entrance were also quietly crying and clutching homemade toys. Looking around at everyone, I growled:

— Did you like the story? And I haven't yet gone into detail about what else was there. And there was slavery, human experimentation, bleeding of children, torture, violence, rape and many other "joys" and "delights" of the Holocaust.

Aidan sat paler than plaster. He literally drank whiskey right off the bottle in big gulps. Metzger gloomily drank the moonshine, his guys just sat and stared blankly at the wall. Snorting, I said, turning to the head of the Den's slave traders:

— And you think that after this I will be afraid of you?

Metzger stared blankly ahead. It is strange that in their such an inhuman world, they were so frightened by the story about the life of the concentration camps. One woman muttered quietly, standing at the gambling table:

— How many died?...

— In total? In all camps? I'll tell you now. So, there were six million of killed Jews, — gasp of horror swept through the hall. — There are about six million Soviet people murdered. One and a half million gypsies. There are about one million eight hundred thousand Poles. The rest are disabled, mentally ill, blacks, homosexuals, priests, political prisoners, about a little over a million. Let's count. Six plus six is twelve, plus one and five, thirteen and a half, plus one and eight, fifteen and three, plus one and two, sixteen and a half. Sixteen and a half million people.

Deathly silence fell. Taking a sip of beer from bottle throat, I muttered:

— If you want to honor their memory, then do it every year on the twenty-seventh of January.

In general, that evening Metzger and his gang went off, apparently to think about it. But the next day they came back. Behind the stories. And this would have continued until the donkey's Hanukkah if I hadn't told him that here - isn't the best place of slavehunters. I can't handle them in battle, so I'll use cunning to sent them out. 

That's how the awesome story was born, that in the Mojave and New Vegas, it's good there. It's all a buzz there, you can grab whoever you want, before the NCR gets there. At first, guys didn't believe it. But after a couple of days of brainwashing, they, like any dummies susceptible to propaganda, "ate" it. Especially when I said that they have no competitors there. In my memory, no one has ever collected their stuff so quickly. Apparently they decided to be the first to "take the market". Other Den's gangs followed them. 

So it went out like this. Slaves we were released by breaking down the door together with citizens of the Den, and they fled in all directions. And the merchant Vic solemnly handed me several working radios and also left. I didn't want to take him as a partner. So I simply said:

— Bro, I'm not a slave trader. Therefore you are free. No, I don't need money, go, you will need it yourself. Yes, yes, you're welcome.

Well, after that, I transparently hinted to Rebecca that it would be nice to find a home for the homeless children. Now there is a room, so Holy Moly, make normal people out of them. And they even started to do something with this kids. Yeah... Everyday life in the Wastelands. But everything is better when you are a good-talker.

***

But I decided to myself that this can't be goin on like that anymore. I'm tired of wandering around cities. Redding, Den, Modoc, Klamath, Gekko, no, there is no feeling of safety anywhere, everywhere is kind of crap. And although I was able to help in many places, simply resolving conflicts and disputes, I was unable to find a place to settle. 

I need to seek a protection. In New Reno under the wing of the mafia? Ha, excuse me, it's still unknown what kind of showdown there is between the Wrights, Mordinos, Bishops and Salvatores. Or rather, what kind of showdown is known, another thing is that after I will help to one of the "families" I don't want to end up on Golgotha. 

Under the warm raking paws of the NKR? I won't go there, and the main reason is because there is a gang of slave traders operating at the entrance, and I could barely deal with Metzger. 

I don't want to go to Vault City at all; slavery, xenophobia and human trafficking are encouraged there. 

To the Brotherhood? Well, they won't accept outsiders, their xenophobia has never benefited them at all, and only Elder Lyons will decide this in forty years. The rest may not even be considered. 

Only the Enclave remained. I would rather be calmer next to these armored guys than the rest of the rabble of the California Wasteland.

That's why one morning I got into my car, filled up with gas, grabbed some food, and left Modoc.

Car got quite hot during the day's journey, but this was a small thing compared to the pleasure of not hike and earn new calluses on my feet during wandering on the wastelands.

I still couldn't get enough of fixing this Chrysler. Yes, in theory this car is called "Highwayman", like a "man of trouble", but since they were produced by Chryslus Motors, a funny parody of Chrysler, the name was taken from a company more familiar to me. Although the non-canonical name "Chrysalis" sounds good either.

There's so much stuffed into this babe that I don't even remember when I ran on errands for the idiots from this wastelands on other matters than to get a new tchotchke for Chrysler. And it was completely justified.

With the advent of the car, life became easier, more fun and more comfortable. Raiders, slave traders, just bandits? Pedal to the floor and that's it, muddy types either under the wheels or on the windshield. Animals? The horn, pedal to the floor and that's it, they'll run away on their own.

The car in the game could be tuned only four times. Or rather, three, if you don't count the main task of getting the fuel cell controller. But now this is no longer a game.

I managed to earn money for a car by always finding all kinds of weapons, generously packaged in boxes in pre-war buildings. Well, some caps were also found there. I even pocketed a couple of good gunbarrels along with the cartridges - a very powerful assault carbine XL70E3 and Bozar. The amount accumulated was quite large after selling everything I had brought in, almost three times more than was needed.

I exchanged the fuel controller for a super repair kit, which was simply given to me by Smiley, who was rescued from the Toxic caves. Then i had to hitch a ride with the caravan to Gekko. Skeeter gave me the spare part there. And as soon as the spare part was in Smitty's tenacious paws, the mechanic and I got carried away, as they say. Firstly, I took him with me, and we drove around in repaired car to all possible landfills in search of the necessary junk. Secondly, we both were earning money to buy the necessary batteries for this monster. Smitty was fixing, I was doing a simple job and small tasks, like, go, talk, or kill. I didn't have to kill, i was a good-talker.

And so, each time the machine acquired new parts. First a fuel cell controller, then a fuel cell regulator, then a turbocharger, then we found an almost not rusty five-speed three-shaft gearbox, and then its analogue, but with a four-shaft and six-speed gearbox.Then we managed to find a warehouse of glass at a junkyard of old cars, which, apparently, was removed from written-off cars. And among them there were even reinforced ones, the whole set - Windshield, backshield, and side body windows!

Then we drove around some more and found the same four retro wheels a la "bent spokes" in the same landfills. This type of disc was very popular in the fifties in my world. A wheel covered with a picket fence of thin chrome-plated spokes twisted in a spiral.

The last thing we did was find new fenders, a trunk lid, and were even able to fix the front and rear lights on the poor Chrysler.
By the way, Smitty also got a good deal out of this - he found five more car frames with a not completely rusty and dead engine, and when I brought parts for him in several passes, we said goodbye to each other. I have a car, he has new projects. Everything is in plus.

And then I made my contribution. I bought leather and covered the seats. I had to throw out the old ones, they were terribly worn out, and driving with a spring in my ass didn't suit me. Therefore, we had to dig around in landfills, but i found the necessary car seats. And then new skin and bang! Awesome car with awesome interior.

And the paint. I managed to buy it in NCR from one merchant. He watched with interest for half a day as I, wearing a gas mask, painted a car with a homemade spray gun. The Chrysler turned completely black, and the paint, among other things, turned out to be matte. And only then did I read on the cans that it was durable military paint for metal structures. Great, huh. And so I drove it to the old gas station post.

But before that, I was in Gekko, where I was lucky enough to come with GECK. It turned out to be VERY difficult to find it, but I needed it like an air. And the reason was simple - connection. Only with this suitcase can you get in touch with the Enclave. This suitcase was found in almost the most interesting place - the old West Tech laboratory, one of three in these wastelands. Oh, and then I ran around with a heavy case in my hand away from rats in that place. But the result was a GEСK and a couple more kilos of weapons in the trunk.

In the evening I went to NPP. Naturally, I was in a hazmat suit, the level of radiation here is no worse than at Chernobyl, dammit! But the point was to get to the station's main computer without prying eyes. And since it was evening, only old man Hank was on duty. But he happily agreed to at least go eat while I monitor the indicators. Ghoul quickly explained to me what to do, what not to do, and just left to have dinner.

So. Gone. Yeah, and he closed the door, great. So, let's touch, what we have here. Here it is! A list of commands flashed on the main computer screen. Now the main thing is to not screw it up. Enter, 9X7299, 70Y644, 008Z21... Voice came from the speakers, and an image of a man in power armor appeared on the screen:

— ENCLAVE here. Why isn't your video feed working?

— Ouch... Fuck me, — I accidentally hit the frame of the computer with my knees in surprise. — I'm sorry. Video isn't working, it seems that cam is screwed.

— Who the hell is this?

— Can you even hear me? Hey?

— Interference, try the gain.

— That's better?

— Yes, I hear perfectly, who is it? Why is there no video feed?

— Um... Phew, okay... So, first of all, good evening. I contacted you from Gekko, more precisely from the Poseidon Energy nuclear power plant. There was no other way to shout to the Enclave without getting my ass kicked.

Enclave communications officer froze a little, and then began to click on the keys, which was audible even to me. He nodded, continuing to type something:

— Yes I see. The signal is coming from Gekko. Why did you need the Enclave, pal?

— I want to join in. I'm tired of running around in this muddy, dusty place, tired of constantly running away from raiders and other trash. It will be quieter among the soldiers. And if in exchange for housing, food and protection you only need dedication to the cause, then this isn't such a high price.

— Just a sec.

Signalman continued typing something. Then he straightened up and said a little thoughtfully:

— This is the first time I've heard of someone looking for a way to communicate in order to simply declare their intention to enlist.

— What? You don't have recruiting stations, my friend, and your patrols would rather throw me out of the way by the scruff of the neck than tell me where to go.

— That's true. Well, that's a laudable decision. You need to go to Navarro base, pal.

— In Navarro? Is it off the coast? Or should I go to Argentina?

— Excuse me, what? Where?

— To Argentina, there was such a country in South America. And there was also the town of Navarro. No, well, there is something closer, in Colombia, not far from Venezuela.

Signalman suddenly grinned a little, although according to the game he is an extremely suspicious and serious guy:

— No, you don't need to go that far. You need to go to Navarro, which is near San Francisco. You will be met at the Poseidon gas station.

— What about the documents, medical card?

Again there were clicks on the keyboard and... I again hit the computer with my knees in surprise - a couple of forms flew out of something resembling a photocopier.

— Here you go. Fill it out yourself and find the folder.

— Anything else needed?

— Apparently not.

Looking at the guy in power armor, I muttered, looking at the forms:

— Poor guy... Sitting like that all day in armor and talking constantly, you could go crazy...

— Huh, ain't it the truth, — man sighed, stretching tiredly, which was quite spectacular in the power armor. — But that's the kind of service.

— Just a second... Uh-huh... Uh-huh... Oh, it's a long way from Gekko. Okay, to hell with it. Tomorrow to Modoc, and from there I'll get to Navarro in a day.

— You run fast, considering the distance.

— I have a car.

— For real? And why not a vetibird?

— Urgh, you fucked me all up. Everyone who see or hear about it starts hooting, as if the car is something out of the ordinary. Although more complex designs such as your vetibirds don't make anyone snort skeptically.

Signalman grinned again:

— This is probably because not everyone can restore a rusty junk.

— Yeah, but vetibirds aren't rusty junk as you assemble them from scratch in factories, right?

Lost in thought, man said:

— Well, no... We have old, pre-war vetibirds here... Fuck me, I give up.

— That's it. Okay, I won't distract you from work or stress you out over trifles. See you later, officer... But wait, what's your name?

— My name? — signalman was sincerely surprised and, a little embarrassed, muttered. — Tyler. Tyler Johnson.

— Well, good luck, Tyler and thank you. Thanks for the info.

— Have a nice day, pal.

When the screen went dark, I looked at the papers again. Super. All that's left to do is fill it out.

***

The trip from Modoc turned out to be longer than I thought, but in the evening I finally arrived at the right gas station. The base should be here, but first of all we need to discuss everything with one guy. And, here he is, the withered figure of an old man in a simple robe.

Standing under the roof next to the gas pumps, I was finally able to stop and park the car. A whole day on the road. At ten AM I left the territory of Modoc, where I helped with the Slags, and now it's already seven o'clock in the evening, my eyes were already watering after this. Like, I was still running around in circles while I was looking for the right place. This is not a game where you need to poke a circle and the you character will walk there himself or drive there.

The old man asked sympathetically, approaching me:

— Are you lost, my dear? Oh, what a beautiful car you have! Check out that set of wheels. Ain't seen one of those in years. What can old Chris do for you, honey?

— Hello, I need to go to the Navarro military base.

— Oh, why...

— Don't make me fool Chris, I know perfectly well that the Enclave is in charge there. No, I didn't make the wrong address, I'm going there purposefully. I want to enliste.

— Oh, is that so? — old man's face instantly changed to a more serious one. — Well then, I apologize. Sorry for the hassles. I'm supposed to clear a bunch of newbies coming through here but I got to weed out the trash. Anyway, just go up to the gate, through the woods there, and give 'em the password. It's "sheepshead". Oh, and stay on the path!

— I know. But I won't leave the car here, there have already been precedents with attempts for strealing it. How to get there on wheels? There are options?

— Oh, I can watch after it, i asure you!

— My dear, thank you, but no, I'm too much of a paranoid, and I won't leave my car here.

Sighing, Chris shook his head, and after wandering back and forth a little, muttering something, he turned to me, nodding:

— Yes, I think there is a detour. So, now from the place you've parked, you'll ride front, then turn left, about a hundred yards, then another left and there you'll get to the road.

— And can you use the metric system? — I interrupted him, already beginning to boil from the heat of the heated frame of Chryslus. — Meters, kilometers?

— Yes, I can, my dear, — the old man nodded a little. — One hundred yards is about the same hundred meters, well, maybe a little less. But you won't get lost, this is the only path without trees.

— Any mines?

— No, no, they are not there.

— Great, thanks Chris. Maybe you need something before I leave?

After thinking, the old man shrugged:

— Well, only if you don't have magazines and drinks. It can be a bit boring to keep the guard post here you know.

Taking out from the back seat the magazines "Cat's Paw", "Guns and Bullets", "Hot Rod", "Groknak the Barbarian" and other creations of the pre-war publishing house Hubris Comics, I handed the entire stack that tied with a rope, to the old man. I had collected so many of them that they no longer fit in the glove compartment.

And I also gave away all the bottles of different mash were sent from the trunk into the tenacious hands. Moreover, he had to run twenty times there and back again to carry away all the bottles of assorted whiskey, bourbon, scotch, moonshine, homemade brews, rum, and even vodka was found. I gave him everything without regrets. Except beer. I won't give away the beer.

And I won't give away a couple of bottles of pre-war and very expensive whiskey either. I have them tucked away for special occasions.

With that we said our goodbyes, I drove along the indicated route, and a satisfied Chris wandered off to his place to drink whiskey and read.

The road really was, apparently still old, in this rocky ground only a tank would leave such a rut, and even that's not a fact. Following the instructions, I managed to get onto the asphalt and finally drive as much as eight hundred meters to the checkpoint, where the headlights, and it was already getting dark, were snatched by three massive figures in a power X-01.

***

Boys froze like deers and didn't even move when I blinked my headlights a couple of times and sounded the horn. As a result, I had to drive up close and snap my fingers:

— Hey, soldier, you are what? Sleeping on post?

— I, uh... I...

— Well, it's extremely informative, — I chuckled, leaning my elbow on the door with the glass down.

Fortunately, the second soldier quickly realized and covered up his comrade's stupor:

— Halt! This is federal property - no admittance without proper authorization.

— Since when did the States become a federation? USA was divided into Commonwealths, no?

All three looked at each other in surprise, to which I sighed:

— Well shit, it's clear that the matter is dark... Guys, not federal, but state property or, more precisely in your case, the Property of the US CMF - US Combined Military Forces. Federal property were state reserves, private reservations, and other property of Congress. They became federal after the reform in nineteen sixty-nine. So after that, federal military bases disappeared from the maps, leaving only the united service of the US Army.

Guys looked at each other in surprise, and I said:

— So, will you let the new recruit in?

— Fine. Password?

— The password is "sheepshead." And remove your improvised barrier, I won't leave my car here.

— B-but...

— According to military regulations, strangers and animals are not allowed into the territory of the military base, but personal vehicles are. So let me in. And one more thing - if I leave my vehicle here, anyone can use it as cover, and you can't park at the gate of the base, it's illegal.

Boys were completely fell into a silent stupor... They just sighed and nevertheless moved the bump stops, allowing me to drive inside. There was no problem with parking - the mechanics from the second hangar, where there was already an old fuel truck, motioned to me with gestures to drove to their way. Only here out of the two, only I have a car running. Having turned off the engine and securely locked the car, I turned to one of the specialists, whose eyes were already glittering in a bad way:

— Touch only with your eyes.

But the second technician so compassionately asked to at least make a circle on my car, so I, sighing, handed him the keys:

— Dude, if something will happen, you will pay. There is no need to disassemble and assemble it. If you need to understand how it works, here is the second key in the bunch, you can use it to unlock the glove compartment, such a locker in the passenger seat in the front. There are plans of my car.

That's it, delight. But I'm facing, perhaps, the most difficult thing, and I haven't really eaten or slept properly. Eh, i need to go to the sergeant.

Man in power armor was in his office and was leisurely digging through the papers, without even taking off his helmet. Having knocked politely, I stood up straight and extended my arms at my sides when the massive figure in X-01 turned his head towards me:

— Reporting my arrival, sergeant!

Sergeant stood up, but I barely resisted the urge to shrink into a shrunken watermelon tail. Damn he's a scary and huge SOB, i feel myself so tiny near him now...

— Welcome to Camp Navarro. So, you're the replacement.

— Sergeant?... Would you allow me the report in proper?

Phew, I made it... Surprised by this treatment on my part, man unexpectedly nodded conciliatoryly, without even starting to shout:

— Report, rookie!

— Sir! Private Ann Becker, arrived as an enlisted to serve in the Enclave! The uniform and rank are ordered to be received from you and report upon arrival, sir! I was also ordered to give you a transfer report and a folder with a personal file, sergeant!

Dornan chuckled, taking the folder from me.

I chose a fictitious name for myself, close to my native one, but not my original one. Still, with my Central Asian surname, they will break their tongues. So Ann Becker. 

Thanks to Enclave communications officer, there were forms, so there was no problem with filling them out. In order for everything to be orderly and according to the rules, I also had to go to Vault City. Because only in that place there were working printing presses available.

Having completed everything as required by the army regulations, I double checked everything. Well, there, in the Vault City, I also had a medical examination. Conclusion was also attached. Well, I also had to buy a folder there. So in theory, everything should be filled out correctly.

Sergeant read it and, to my immense surprise, chuckled:

— For once they sent me not a moron, but a normal soldier. Outstanding. You will receive the form from the quartermaster at the armory tomorrow morning.

— Sir, may I ask a permission?

— Ask, private.

I wonder what's wrong with him today? Why is he so... calm? Usually Dornan screams like crazy, as if his armor is squeezing him like a vice. And here you go. Although the question is different:

— Permitte to get acquainted with the camp before lights out?

— Permitted. Dismissed!

Well here ou go, now it's the usual sergeant. He has barked so loudly that all my pelvic organs were in the Adam's apple area. After saluting, I left his office and when the door closed behind me, I holded for the first thing I came across as support, and bent slightly, evening out my breathing. Although it turned out that it was not "what", but "who". I grabbed onto the sentry, who with amazing regret and even resentment boomed over my head:

— Lucky girl. At least he didn't yell at you.

— Sorry bro, but he yelled so loudly at the end that my heart now in my throat.

— Well, that's luck, I'll tell you, usually he would scream like that for about fifteen minutes.

— Really? Well, okay then, — well, I'll have to play the silly fool, like it's my first time here. — Well, then I'll go, so that he wouldn't chop your head off for chatting at the post.

— That's right. See ya later.

***

Having quickly examined the necessary places, namely the canteen, the hangar and the barracks, I finally returned to the canteen.

There were enough people, although not very crowded. Guys were having supper, chatting quietly, I could hear the technicians even from where I was, they were so excitedly discussing my Chrysler. From here it was clear that the car was intact and parked in the hangar, but not backwards, as I parked, but with its front bamper towards the exit. Well, okay. They didn't beat my car and that's good.

But when sergeant entered the canteen, holding the helmet of his power armor under his arm, guys and technicians seemed to be blown away by the wind! I just looked around in surprise. Honestly, as if in a cartoon, with a characteristic wistle, the crowd instantly scattered like cockroaches in all directions.

And then Dornan came and sat down right in front of me. Cookie, the canteen cook, quickly put dinner on the table for sergeant and disappeared just as quickly as everyone else. True not far - to the kitchen.

Man looked at me and grumbled:

— Why don't you running away, private?

— War is war, but lunch is on schedule, sir, — I champed in response, calmly eating the cook's concoction.

Dornan just snorted irritably, but when he brought the spoon of soup to his mouth, I somehow mechanically blurted out:

— Bon appetit, sir.

— What?

— Bon appetit, I say. Or do you... Come on, do you always have dinner alone, sir?

— I always eat alone, — the sergeant growled in response, but still muttered. — Thanks, private.

We had supper together. Dornan ate with wincing, which didn't escape my attention. Doesn't he like the soup? It seems rather delicious to me.
But judging by the way he grimaces, the cook clearly doesn't like him, just like the others. Sighing, I simply took the sergeant's tray and exchanged it with mine, ignoring the commander's hard look.

Let's see, if my portion causes a similar reaction, I'll talk to cook and decide what to feed him so that he yells less. And if not, then i still have to talk.

But with my portion, sergeant suddenly somehow stopped frowning and began to absorb the food much more calmly, even with an appetite. So here it is. Clear enough. Having tasted what was in hos bowl, even I warped:

— Ugh, how did you eat it? It's so sour.

— Eat what is given to you, — Dornan growled in response.

— Yeah. As I changed our portions, can't pull you back by the ears. No, that will no do.

Sergeant looked at me in surprise. Cook just hissed something irritably, but in front of me he poured and put out new portions, soup, puree of something and a steak, apparently the same pre-war Salisbury. And when everything was on the tray, I went back.

Taking my tray away again, I put a new one for him. The food that I brought back to sergeant was much hotter, it was steaming, but nothing was added there, just to take secret revenge on sergeant:

— Napoleon used to said that a soldier fights than better, than better he eats. And he fights even better if the food is delicious!

Dornan, who had calmly finished the normal soup from the new portion, looked at me, narrowing his eyes a little:

— And what do you propose, private? We can't waste Vertibirds and fuel on stupid things like hunting.

— That's not nessessary, sergeant. I have personal car. Let's ask the authorities for permission, I will go for food. I have a large trunk, and I can add a couple of boxes to the roof, or make a trailer.

— A car?! Really? And on the go? Or maybe you have also a personal Vertibird?

His exclamation made me accidentally hit my knees on the table. Wincing, I rubbed my knees, muttering:

— Yes sir, the car is running, in a hangar with a fuel tanker. Personal transport. Look, you can see from here.

Sergeant turned around, looked at how the technicians were inspecting something near the wheels of my black Chrysler and chuckled:

— You know, private... Good idea. IF your basin with bolts is running.

— Sir? Eat, or it will get cold.

Dornan fixed his gray eyes on me, but no longer yelled or made sarcastic remarks. Maybe in the evenings he no longer have strenghs for drill? But after finishing, he suddenly escorted me to the barracks, although I didn't even stutter. He responded to the wish of good night with the same snorting. Oh well. Let's see what happens tomorrow when he gets some sleep...